[amicus_curiae]

I’ve enumerated my ailments elsewhere (don’t expect those messages to be published — or this) but I’ve lost my last thread of connection outside of my apartment door as well as any respect for myself that I once had.

I plan on cancelling my Tuesday appointment with my shrink. I can’t see the point. I thought myself clever but that was a smidgeon of gliding grandiosity.

I’m running around here, posting never-to-be-published messages with the hope, I guess, that one message might break through. What then? I don’t know.

Possible trigger:

Trigger is such an apt mark-up. Makes Banned For Life more appealing. I’ve tossed my cookies, twice, just contemplating William Blake at the Tate. Hand me down my Walking Stick, hand me down my Hat.

So stupid, me. I carried around pieces of those that I loved for so long that I grew accustomed to the stench of decaying flesh. I turned out my trouser pockets but the smell lingered. The smell lingers still.

I suffered the humiliation of the Unnecessary Father. I’m suffering the depression of the Useless Man. I’m only flesh. And Blood.

***I forgot my shirt***

[Skeezyks]

I hope that, in some way, you might be able to find a pathway to deep inner peace...

[Fuzzybear]

I can’t say it better than Skeezyks did ..

[amicus_curiae]

“‘Peace, peace’ but there is no peace!”
—The Bible—
—Old Testament—
—Refrigerator Magnet—

“I haven’t known peace and quiet for so long, I can’t remember what it’s like!”
“Someone’s got it in for me...”
—Bob Dylan—
—Idiot Wind—
—Mantra(s)—

Even when I thought that I was finding peace, rest, restfulness in contemplative prayer, part of me said, “you faker! yer lyin’ to yerself!”

I was right.

By any standard, I’m on enough antipsychotics to put a sex-starved bull elephant to sleep and yet I’m failing.

I’m failing. People are knocking on my door. Hallucinations just are not that kind of loud. The biggest lie is that I believe that I control my delusions, like picking a movie on a streaming service. “I’m feeling Jane Austen all over.” But what comes on my screen is the worst Nicholas Cage movie ever. And he’s been taking every paying role for a decade, so there are some bombs out there.

Things are sidetracked. Hoodwinked. I spent most of my night writing a threatening letter to my electricity provider. I am facing persecution on so many fronts and there are too many Crazy 88’s and I’m no Kiddo. I’m weak and lazy and I wasn’t around long enough to grow up. Unlike Billy Pilgrim, I became stuck in time. In my 20’s, in the summertime in England (will you meet me?). Betweentime. I will always crave and only at death escape betweentime. Time after time after time. As I always say: do not trust Burnt Norton on time. Time is nothing but the big and little hands on my stopped watch.

Digital watches are just too, too gauche. And I am such a cad (Susan told me before our first kiss). We were such Frannys and Zooeys, such Benedicks and Beatrices. Fireworks stored in a match factory. I loved her exponentially because she said “cad.”

Has anybody seen my gal?

[luvyrself]

Originally Posted by amicus_curiae

“‘Peace, peace’ but there is no peace!”
—The Bible—
—Old Testament—
—Refrigerator Magnet—

“I haven’t known peace and quiet for so long, I can’t remember what it’s like!”
“Someone’s got it in for me...”
—Bob Dylan—
—Idiot Wind—
—Mantra(s)—

Even when I thought that I was finding peace, rest, restfulness in contemplative prayer, part of me said, “you faker! yer lyin’ to yerself!”

I was right.

By any standard, I’m on enough antipsychotics to put a sex-starved bull elephant to sleep and yet I’m failing.

I’m failing. People are knocking on my door. Hallucinations just are not that kind of loud. The biggest lie is that I believe that I control my delusions, like picking a movie on a streaming service. “I’m feeling Jane Austen all over.” But what comes on my screen is the worst Nicholas Cage movie ever. And he’s been taking every paying role for a decade, so there are some bombs out there.

Things are sidetracked. Hoodwinked. I spent most of my night writing a threatening letter to my electricity provider. I am facing persecution on so many fronts and there are too many Crazy 88’s and I’m no Kiddo. I’m weak and lazy and I wasn’t around long enough to grow up. Unlike Billy Pilgrim, I became stuck in time. In my 20’s, in the summertime in England (will you meet me?). Betweentime. I will always crave and only at death escape betweentime. Time after time after time. As I always say: do not trust Burnt Norton on time. Time is nothing but the big and little hands on my stopped watch.

Digital watches are just too, too gauche. And I am such a cad (Susan told me before our first kiss). We were such Frannys and Zooeys, such Benedicks and Beatrices. Fireworks stored in a match factory. I loved her exponentially because she said “cad.”

Has anybody seen my gal?

—check in w yr pdoc and yr therapist. Sounds like would like some relief. Hugs

[Blueberrybook]

If you can't get in touch with your pdoc or a therapist, maybe it's time for IP?

This is an old thread from back in April.

[*Laurie*]

I don't know how I missed this thread, and I feel terrible for doing so.

If it helps any, I truly enjoyed Franny and Zooey.

[amicus_curiae]

Originally Posted by *Laurie*

I don't know how I missed this thread, and I feel terrible for doing so.

If it helps any, I truly enjoyed Franny and Zooey.

Golly. I’m doing so much better now.

Reading all available Salinger is a must. Everyone should be conversant with the Glass clan.

I’m so delighted just now that I could swallow a spider!