High/Low

I’m sorry to disappoint you guys. Well, that’s not true at all. I’m not sorry to disappoint you guys. If anything, I feel sorry that I felt that I was disappointing all of you, and I feel sorry that I felt I had to apologize for that disappointment that wasn’t. I should feel sorry that I was going to take some steps to make myself feel less sorry in general, but I am not sorry that I didn’t take those steps. Although, I am a little sorry that I have the means to take those steps, and may end up taking those steps, not because I am feeling sorry about life, but because I need the experience. But I am not sorry to have not disappointed you guys, and I think I am sorry for wording that wrong. If you remove the negatives, it comes out “But I am sorry to have disappointed you.” And I am sorry I screwed that up.

I recently procured a supply of acetaminophen, for pain killing. I did not come by this supply under the most legal of pretexts. Hell, you might even say that my actions were illicit. And I got it because I was undergoing what (to me) was a crushing despair, like the weight of the world were sitting on my lungs, and each breath was a struggle against a vacuum. And I just wanted to feel better.

Now, in my altered state, I wanted to make sure that whenever I took the acetaminophen, I got the maximum effect. This I calculated at four hours duration, a number arrived at by pointing and guessing. Since I generally sleep at ten at the latest, this meant that I would have to try to alleviate the pain around six. Due to events within my control, but beyond my planning, I was never in a position where I’d have four straight hours to relax, because I was taking care of business or writing or working or something. And each day passed, and I felt a little better, until we come to now. Am I fully recovered? No. Am I a lot better, and only slightly bitter? Sure.

Much of my life, I’ve debated whether I might benefit from the use of medication to make me feel “happy.” Most of the time, one of two things happen. The sadness passes for whatever reason, or I hold onto it to fuel my writing. I know people aren’t supposed to be happy all the time, because it then loses meaning. And really, this past week has taught me to appreciate the good times all the more, and (hopefully) will spur me to make some changes in my life. (And yes, I am afraid of asking people for help, and I don’t know why. Is it because I think I have to do it all on my own? Maybe. At any rate, I’m going to start asking for help more, but don’t be surprised if it’s not what you think. Or maybe it is, because I’m just that transparent, like an apparition.)

At the same time, I fear medication. I’ve read about how mood elevators curtail creative drive. I have to publish a novel before I die. There is no debate on that point. If K.T. fails on that, K.T.’s life is wasted. Plain and simple. I think that is the main thrust of my existence, and that is why I’m never as happy with my life as I could be. The choices that have scattered through my life do not directly contribute to me achieving that goal. Some even take away from it. L-school taught me how to become a much better technical writer, at the expense of my freestyling, pinwheeling, paren-studded (and really, I only go overboard on the parens while blogging, not when writing fiction. There are still asides, but not as free and wild as there are here.) scribblings. If I use unnatural methods to get happy, and find that it makes me less of a writer, I think I’d go a little nuts (moreso than now).

Now, I’ve already done a not so good thing, and I can go one of two directions from here. One part of me says stop and cut your losses. The other says you’ve already done one thing wrong in getting it, and you may as well just take the other step. Sadly, it may come down to, as always, if I can find four straight hours to appreciate it. And I don’t think I can. So, for all of you that were hoping to read the ramblings of an altered K.T., well, I’ll work on becoming a laudanum (opium dissolved in alcohol) addict. Laudanum puts you to sleep, so I can just quaff a draught before nighty-night. At least that will send me tripping into such crazy dreams, there will really be something to write about.