I’ve become an expert in treating Schizophrenic episodes and chemical depression. Well, expert is perhaps too strong a word. Hobbyist perhaps, or weekend warrior. Every morning I swallow a new multicolored cocktail of lovely little pills. I am my own battleground, my own test subject. I take extensive notes. These are some of the more cogent:
Sertraline – This stuff is a great mood stabilizer, though it makes my fingertips feel a little funny.
Chlorpromazine – Good stuff.
Zotepine – Taking this with the others gets a little interesting, but makes staying conscious a little hard.
Risperidone – I take this stuff by the handful, but it’s a bit sporadic. I prefer cutting the dose with Zotepine or prozac.
Prozac – Useless on its own.
I have a friend who said she could get me some clozapine, but I need my white blood cells to fight the infection’s inevitable spread.
I am aware that this falls outside of even the most broad-ranging view of an acceptable treatment plan. I cared about that a great deal back when I still managed a few nights of solid sleep. These days I would swallow all of these all over again to trade for one blissful night of uninterrupted rest.
How I fretted back then. The thought of drug interactions now only bring a mocking smile and a kind of quiet defiance. Will these two together kill me. Why, that would be just tragic.
More and more, I find myself navigating an invisible minefield within my own mind. Don’t think that, don’t think this. I shout at my own thoughts, barking like an irate dog trainer. NO. BAD. I edit myself into something resembling a rational creature.
Everyone dies.
But some are fated to die sooner than others. Just meat? NO BAD. Lives have value, meaning… Meaningless-ness NO.
I can save them. I can. If I can get up off this floor and clear my mind.
