Idéation Suicidaire & Médication -- Un Collage

- Si ça me rend zombie pis insensible pis vide, tant pis, m'en crisse. Je ne veux plus (ou suis plus capable) de continuer "sobre". Je pense que j'ai accepté qu'à la base j'ai plus envie de vivre. Mais qu'il le faut (pour mes enfants). Alors donc qu'il me faut quelque chose pour m'aider à continuer malgré tout.
- Tu seras ni zombie ni insensible. Juste moins vulnérable.
- Je le souhaite. Mais à ce stade-ci j'accepte tout. Si ça m'enlève ma fatigue constante, je serai déjà content.

* * *

Écoutant la chanson Nothing Disease de Siskiyou (https://siskiyou.bandcamp.com/track/nothing-disease), j’en viens à la pensée que les effets secondaires multiples (et parfois contradictoires) qui sont associés aux antidépresseurs (idéation suicidaire, anxiété, dépersonnalisation, insomnie, dépression, maux de tête, etc.) reflètent dans le fond les maux collectifs dont souffre la communauté humaine globale (non pas un hive mind mais un hive heart), mais que nous n’admettons individuellement que quand la vulnérabilité est révélée ou exposée, de facto.

* * *

the cursed moment when a tangled spot of oft-visited Doubt is trampled to the point of becoming a place of complete and utter Conviction, where resound statements of unarguable failure, justified resignation, and irrefutable arguments towards exile, exodus, self-exclusion

* * *

i’ve already commited suicide
a million times over
blown my brains with numbness
blasted my veins with soma
lungs drowned, way down inside myself

inert
dead already
a haunt
not touching anyone
not talking to anybody
not going anywhere
not doing anything
just putting in my time

* * *

inward weeping
lost O lost
to everyone
to everything

* * *

I’m sick of the 21st Century, I can’t bear to look at anything for too long, it all reeks of Babylonian cacophony, end of the world angst and the poisonous blooming flowers of thriving hatreds.

* * *

Tenter par des moyens artificiels d’être plus fonctionnel (sans pour autant parler de "guérison"), parce qu’autrement je n’en ai ni la force ni la volonté. S’obliger au mieux-être, autrement dit.

* * *

the last recourse :
turn your back on your true self
fake your way into a Life
you have no appetite for

* *

- La fin de semaine arrive, j'espère que tu vas pouvoir dormir.
- Oui... quoique j'ai l'impression que c'est plus qu'une question de sommeil, et plus que ce qu'une fin de semaine peut régler.

[July 24th, 2019]

light-headed tremulous stance
discarded garnets of preciosity stuck in my shoe
cut off from the scraping elevations above
dismantling & re-aggregating artifacts
in my double-vaulted chambers

stumbling through painful queries:
“who would miss me if I was gone?
would not my departure alleviate worries?
certainly it would mine…”

eyes glazed over
like a wastrel sent to war
living on borrowed time
after a trifling infusion
of cast-off, diffuse nepenthe

[July 22nd, 2019] Another dream-revelation

Another dream-revelation, this one having to do with my alienation (real and perceived).

In it, I was some kind of adult Asperger/autistic/schizoid misfit, finding myself in multiple situations (in a semi-professional context) where I was faced with mutual misunderstandings of various kinds. Following me around was an invisible intermediary of sorts which only I could see, which would sometimes offer me advice as to how to deal with a particular conflict or social dead-end. Mostly he told me to quit my elaborate elucubrations which were infuriating everybody, to keep it simple and to say: “I’m sorry but I don’t understand what’s going on or what’s expected of me.”

Then I would was away from work, enjoying my solitary leisure time. Going to the pool every day, I would meet the same girl every day, so (not knowing any better) I approached her and said something like:

“Almost every day for a few months now, crossing your path at the same spot around the same time, and every time you’re a vision to me. I have a little bit of a crush on you. I wonder if maybe we could be friends?”

Very seriously she answered that it was impossible, and then walked away giggling with her friends. Somewhat dejected, I went on with my planned swim, concentrating on holding my breath for as long as possible under water. At some point I noticed that the pool was now filled with dozens of little baby platypuses doing an elaborate and synchronized underwater dance. For a few minutes I forgot everything and was amazed at being in this special swimming pool where humans can bond with animals in such a harmonious fashion (although no doubt it was all in my mind and only I could see the wondrous spectacle).

That’s pretty much all I remember, but it seems to sum up so much of my existence…

Excluded from the not-so-secret Society of Normality since forever-ago, alienated from its foreign-to-me code-words, brandings, rituals, expectations, obligations, opinions (and desperate need of opinions). Having internal scenarios and conversations as a way to process life as I experience it. Systematically falling for faraway beauties which I have no chance of ever getting close to (because although I am simplistically honest, that doesn't mean it's possible or even desirable to establish any kind of proximity with me). All of this leading to a tightening cycle of self-exclusion. Living for chance moments of solitary wonder and enjoyment, always too short, almost exclusively relying on imagination, like a mere little supplement to adorn the main fabric of my societal existence which is toil, incomprehension, constantly striving to please others but always resulting in irritation and/or disappointment for all parties involved.

[8 Juillet 2019]

Sentant le mal-en-manque, du mauvais côté de l’esprit, comme une entité affamée qui sent la proximité de sa dose depuis trop longtemps perdue,

sur le point de sauter dans un autre mode d’appréhension (cette fois peut-être pour de bon),

je ressens le besoin d’enregistrer l’affirmation suivante (même si ce n’est que pour moi-même):

ras-le-bol de la Réalité, ou peu importe quelle portion de cette dernière je suis en mesure de conjurer sans aide externe dans ce crâne qui est le mien; que le Réel aille se faire foutre: je ne veux plus que son facsimilé rehaussé et falsifié, d’ici jusqu’à la fin

en espérant que ça fasse taire la Voix de façon définitive, même si ça veut dire l’étouffement de toute ma personne par le fait même, et que ça fait de moi un automate insensible, impassible et vide.