You wake up before I do – you always did, and by the time that I’m blinking away the night’s dreams, you already have your heavy paw on my chest. But like me you’re not so awake yet, either. You might grumble and growl and try to call me back to bed but you’re not so tough – yet. I get an hour or two before I start to feel the fluttering in the cavity behind my ribs; or the lump in the back of my throat.
An hour or two to get the house in order, to feed the animals and to snuff at the day. It’s not enough but it has to do. You and me, we can make this work.
Me and my dog. If you look out for me, you know I’ll always be here for you.
I remember why I hate SSRI’s – specifically, and completely.*
I thought it might be a good idea to double-up on my sertraline dose. It’s okay, I’d been weaning myself down for nine months or so anyway, so there was no chance of it being a danger.
But oh.mi.god. This twitching, shaking, bone-clacking almost-coming-up like the worst batch of MDMA you’ve never had in your life; coupled with the mongy, dopey, confusion is the actual worst.
*apart from my previous drug-wife: Escitalopram. You were sweet and clean and never tried to set fire to my central nervous system.
In some senses, then – your life doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to the things that pull you, it belongs to the Work. The soul creates itself through accumulation and salvage, and it will perform this industry tirelessly, with or without your aid.