04 January 2011

I cared more than I have ever cared about anything when I was psychotic. Basically, caring marks it for me: if it feels too real, it's probably not. There was the first time, and the time I went off my medications, and the innumerable little intrusions I had to censor out in the year and a half between the two, while I was taking an antipsychotic that didn't work very well, and later working up to being on one that did. If I was worried that caring about what I did might be self-important or weird before, failing to care enough when it mattered, and to chill out when I needed to threw really crazy back in my face. Did I fail, or was I that depressed? Lots of people go on functioning successfully while depressed, including lots who think medication is wrong. Am I more or less afraid now? More or less brave? Do I have more or less to lose? Did I get my heart broken or not? Would it have happened at all if I hadn't been drinking coffee for lunch, or was I on to steamed soy milk with maple syrup and gingerbread loaf?

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