the purloined pad.
since i was 17, i’ve usually been taking one SSRI or another. it’s been the unmarked state. when i didn’t take one, it was usually because i was too depressed to get my prescription filled. or i was in another country where prescriptions were an expensive or logistical hassle. anyway, unmedicated was never any kind of affirmative choice. and it might just be the sheer novelty of feeling emotions again, imaginary reader—maybe the novelty will wear off—but i am enjoying the life unmedicated. i’m getting a particularly big kick out of anger! i’ve never been distinguished for anger but it feels so good.
isn’t that a piece of psychofolk wisdom, though, that anger always underlies depression? or is it actually a “fact”? i know it’s something i’ve heard before. maybe it can be my afternoon topic of investigation. (hey, yesterday i investigated whether or not h. p. lovecraft was horny.*) (actual text from the BFF: ‘do you think h. p. lovecraft was a horny guy?/ worst text i ever sent, be honored.’)
anyway. the weirdest thing about being SSRI-less is experiencing [what i think of as] obsession. example: the notebook i inadvertently** left at LP’s house—it’s definitely in the fore-courts of my mind—last night i was actually sleepless over it for a while. in part this is because i have been actively seeking advice on How to Make a Guy Send Your Shit Back (When He Has Said Twice Already That He Was Sending It Back But Was Obviously Lying) and, well, i am beginning to fear that the outlook is not so good, as the magic 8 ball says. apparently Guys throughout history have not sent shit back. and though usually there is a punitive reason or a thing gone sour—sometimes there is not. sometimes adult men simply act in mysteriously loathsome ways. honestly, i always thought this was a myth, from sitcoms. (my longest relationship ever was with an off-the-charts-egocentric drug addict who obviously did thoughtless and inconsiderate stuff all the time—and sometimes disappeared—but often he would apologize for it.)
i hate trying to compel another person to do something. i’m like—i don’t know—an anti-manipulative person. (unmanipulative? that looks weird.) i have no capacity to nag. i wish i could give up on the notebook—i would have already given up on it—but it’s an irreplaceable thing. and thus: my wits’ end. today i am going to try mailing LP an SASE. if that does not work, i don’t know what, but i am more than crazy enough to drive out there.
* seems like he was not, especially.
** i did leave a book there advertently. (probably a word at some point.) random prescriptive anthology of the Best Poems in English type—from 1910 or something like that—for fun for random reading aloud. for the record. and yes it would be nice to have this back so i could have more fun with a man who was better at reading aloud, but. i could probably turn this up again and i could also completely forget about it.