tavie.com

I don't remember what life was like before medication. I think it was pretty bad. What wounds us so much that we need chemicals to bring us up to a level where we'll choose cake instead of death? (Or an apple instead of cake, which for some of us is leading to death. Fuck this metaphor.)

It is these lonely, contemplative nights talking only to my blog that I can do without, I think.

Okay: it would not help me to know when it was that I lost any shred of confidence in my ability to create things to please myself. If I'd rather be dead than live a life without art (a bold statement indeed, a bold admission to myself, don't underestimate that please), but I don't have any confidence in my ability to create art (art, in this sense, meaning anything new that wasn't there before, that I made myself, and blogging does not count but other writing may, although I was never a writer, but I used to draw, dammit) then where does it leave me? Here at 3:30 am. (Not the physical here but this dry-eyed, squinty brand of hopelessness and restless foot digging a groove in the carpet)

The key to this is that I have not yet taken my nightly Effexor.

Before Effexor I used to draw a lot more.

Before Effexor I used to want to be dead a lot more.

It doesn't matter if you're not as good as other people, you hobo eating a rat. You used to do it for you. So do it again. How about it?

How about taking your book, taking your pill, going upstairs, puffing up the air mattress, climbing into bed, and being in Margaret Atwood's head for awhile.

Even when I hate you, I love you.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:33 AM | shower me with attention