I don’t know how long I’ve been up. I wanted to begin the writing with the exact moment I woke up, but I’m not even sure I remember. It was at least twenty four hours ago. I woke up to found my room empty and my son spending time with his mother’s family. I do not go out during the day. I feel like there’s something I have to hide from everyone I encounter.
I woke up and took my prescribed medication. Seven pills the minute I roll out of bed just to cope with the existential horrors that exist within my life. Every day a mountain of events with millions of implications, psychological, religious, moral, mathematical, and every fucking thing else, seems to create a mass fucking weight that presses against my chest and gradually restricts my ability to breathe. This is when I write. When I can barely fucking breathe from all the panic and terror that the prior day entailed.
I woke up and lit a cigarette. I took my medicine. I’m prescribed two different pills for two different illnesses. I slammed my head against a pole as a child and nearly bled to death in the school office while waiting on my neighbor to come and pick me up. I had to give the bitch directions to the school while the incompetent staff just stared at my bleeding fucking head. Massive headaches started. Hallucinations started. Anxiety crept in and begin to squeeze all joy and beauty out of my life. They gave me a drug called Neurontin to regulate the release of serontonin in my blood to make me less alert. As a child I was called a prodigy, but at 15, and working on my phd in English in the back of my grandmother’s house, I needed to be dulled down. My concentration wandered from drawing to writing to reading to meditating to researching to psychology, to religion, to mythology, biology, philosophy, physics, art, culture, literature, world history; I studied every single piece of paper I could get my hands on just to live up to a bullshit prodigy label placed on me as a child when I made a good grade on a test. The rest of my life has been an attempt to prove they didn’t mislabel me. This does not always go as well as planned. I wanted to understand every single bit of data ever processed by a human or mechanical mind. At twenty two I’d estimate my studies in each field have improved beyond any measure possible at my age at any of those fucking colleges who I decided to turn down in order to destroy my life with drugs and women and random acts of stupidity. I wear the clown hat. My psychological state in which I do nothing but make sarcastic implicatory comments that either directly or indirectly relate to something said. This is a way of hiding what I call the constant self, which I divide into parts. There is my writing self where I write poems and novels and plays and phds for lazy college students. This aspect of myself is interested only in areas of research and I have friends with whom I communicate daily that represent the field they chosen and my interest in it. To an artist, I will become the artist self. To a musician, I show them music. To a physicist, I show them work in theoretical physics and revisions in Einstein’s relativity. To my friends I show a psychological and emotional wreck wildly out of control of his own life.
I don’t care if I misspelled any of that