I left work early on Saturday. Cannot explain what was happening. I took the usual meds, as I’ve done for about a year now. The meds have been miraculous in their way, making it possible to do this job without strokes of panic or anxiety. I don’t know if most people would find this job stressful but I do. It’s not about the usual things. It’s not the hours or the work itself. It’s the voices. They go to my head. They stay in my head. On Saturday they were intertwining, the con artist in the mental ward with the incoherent prisoner repeating something meaningless over and over. I could not handle it, but I don’t know why. I mean I know things are different on weekends, and major holidays. You don’t get the angry and the crazies as much.
I still try to remember one conversation. A woman’s home infested with rats. After a lengthy conversation about it she decided to do nothing about them. Let them live. At which point she repeatedly announced “Mark. I want to live.” I don’t know what she meant by that.
Today will be slow, I suspect. Maybe more voices will scrape and wrestle with my inner coil. Or maybe I’ll be aloof. I took an extra half milligram of the panic pill, and will probably take another half in a few minutes. That would be 2 full milligrams, which I haven’t done in a long time.
I feel fine at present, but I remember making that same comment to myself this time Saturday, before everything just went to hell.
I tried to find an online psychiatrist but that’s a joke. Minimum wait for a psychiatrist or psychotherapist is 7 months.
What’s happening with the way the pills work is I still get triggers, and they can jolt my mind into someplace asunder. What I don’t get is the rapid heartbeat, the BP blasting off, and the shakes. But the fundamental mental thud that come from certain types of individuals I interact with.
This all comes at a time when I seem to be moving elsewhere at the company, to a calmer, less stressful environment. But it’s another month away and I have to remain professional.
Yesterday was spent checking on the Penn Station payphones. Only one is left. It works. I can’t imagine it will last much longer but it is there, in a spot few people would probably think to look for such a thing.
For all that the new Penn Station is actually starting to look like a first world transit facility. Gone for now is the low-ceiling atmosphere of doom and futility.
I also got a chance on a Roland digital piano that has been sold out worldwide for two years. They had one at Sam Ash on 34th Street, and I was indeed positively impressed. This is a potentially portable instrument, so I could haul it in to Penn Station or wherever and bring some Bach and Glass to unusual locations. I don’t know how portable it really is, though. I didin’t explore it in that manner. I was just happy to finally find one. I thought it might be one of those limited edition things that few people get to purchase.
It’s all about sleep, I suspect. Lately the anxiety follows me to sleep. Dreams are like creations of another person. Where did my brain come up with a vision of a river of marshmallow separating Queensbridge Park from the East River? And why were there phallices jutting out at numerous points along the river flow?
I encountered someone who said she wants a full bore S&M experience with psychological implications. I think of entering into those sometimes, with daddy talk and mommy talk. It stirs something in me that is crude but rich, horrible but irresistably desirable.
