I've been posting crazily the last week or two, like almost once a day. This is something wholly unusual for me, and it is also something I probably won't be able to do in the future. This maybe the nature of my 'interest-span', as in, I get interested in something for a couple of days or a week or so then drop it like a dead slug. This is one of the reasons I can never really get good at many things to a great level, because it actually becomes painful for me to continue unless my intense gaze of interest is focussed upon the subject forever, and like Sauron's eye, my interest in things keeps shifting from one topic to another. I'll probably have another streak, I think, unless this will become a regular thing (therefore: hooray!).
As for me, I recently found out that despite what I had thought, I am being chemically castrated by these drugs. I don't particularly mind THAT much since intimacy freaks me out, sort of, but it's something to point out to God when he reads me my list of sins.* I am still bored of everything, and I'm really concerned that my reading things that give me no entertainment might spoil them the next time round when I actually, hopefully, have pleasure - re-reading isn't always the best. So what to do then in the absence of pleasure? Well I'm finding a little bit of comfort in lying down doing nothing at all but thinking. It's like meditation, but a lot easier. Oftentimes with the strength of my depression I found this pretty hard to do, simply because thinking means bad thoughts in those circumstances. Now with my brain being drugged to the moon (the hyperbole of the century) I can't really think those kinds of things, so lying still is pretty easy for me. I'm not accomplishing anything, but I can always blame that on mental illness. Not that anyone actually cares at all but me.
But what about this small comfort? I'm assuming at some point in the near future it'll stop working too. This is generally what happens to me. When one door is closed a window is opened, and then as soon as I go to look out, it's closed too. But look! Another window opened! Closed. These situations I often get into really have me thinking at times that I am in one downright evil TV show (a black comedy, I think). Though that's partially why I attempted suicide anyway (TV show cancelled), so it morphed into something of a delusion around that time.
You may notice that I can no longer write depressed. This is so-so. It's fun to be depressed when you can turn that depression into a pure concentrated hate-ball, but it's not at any other time. When you're mildly depressed with anhedonia, every hate-ball you throw misses all the pins and goes down the gutter. My situation is a lot better I suppose, to the point where if I could convince myself that no pleasure and barely any emotion is a good thing, I'd probably be set to wait for death for another couple of decades or so. But as things are, I'm probably going to struggle quite a bit. Not enough to make me reconsider my valiant quest to complete more than half of my lifespan, but enough so that everyday is another session with Guthwald the torturer.
*"That's all well and good God, but let me list YOUR sins against me". The Uber-God that made God (something can't come from nothing says our top intelligent design scientists) will obviously at this point send God to hell and let me into heaven.