Emily said I am inebriate of air. Exactly.
I do not want to give up the Savella. It works for the fibro pain (yes that too). I do not want to go back on Depakote. I want the Lamictal to work. I want the steady flowing girl to keep riding the smooth current to make her way through the mountains and onto the plains the soft grass no pollen to smart smack clog stupid up her head. But.
I am not sleeping, not really sleeping. I have dreams, too many, too vivid, too stupidly symbolic. I lie in twilight sleep, sometimes so lucid I can almost see the thing my brain is glitching on--going back going back again again throwing it up on the screen of my eyelids. It is a dress? A purple dress? A purple prototype for a purple dress? A purple behind glass prototype of an outfit a purple outfit like a Barbie outfit behind plastic? Why is my brain fixated on it and insisting that I fixate on it when I'm trying to rest? Yes, yes, tonight I may need my rescue drug. I may take the tiny scary teeny brown pill--Seroquel.
The good news is that usually one does it. Usually I take one and I sleep dead like Ophelia and no one lifts me no one awakens me, no static playback from my interfering rattling gas guzzling brain. Then I wake up and all the pieces of me that where flying apart have congealed and I am as whole as a scrim as a wheel of Swiss cheese as a sieve for the gods can possibly be.
I saw the therapist today. I was scattered and shifty-eyed. I said when I don't look you in the eyes it's a bad sign. She said you have been looking me in the eyes. I said oh. I said what about seeing faces in things everywhere in things? She said that sounds obsessive like mania like fixation. I said this just happens, always has, but sometimes it goes away for months at a time. I said I just realized this a few weeks ago. No faces. Then
I looked down at the rug, every square was a face, sometimes two faces and in class that night the curtains the valance full of faces mostly smiling or dull no one screaming. When I sat in church when I was little the walls were knotty pine and full of faces. The face staring down at the choir at me was a very angry demon. Of course, I never believed those things were real. Not so crazy as all that. No.
Just last month I saw the Man in the Moon for the first time. I, who see faces everywhere, had never seen the man in the moon. And pow! There he was, there he had been all along. Not a very good looking man which may be why I never noticed him before, because he has acne, because he is missing his front tooth. His girlfriend told me she didn't care. Ugh. He kicked me in the shin when he was wearing heavy brogans. The bruise was terrifically black. Turns out his life didn't turn out so good. So there. Kick me again.
Going to take James for his flu shot. Then Dale and I are going to church, our EFM (education for ministry) class. We are Episcopalians.
If I don't write down all these stories and poems and books in my head the face on the wall will open up and devour me, God will scoop me up and then she was not.