Standin' in the Need of Prayer...

It's time for a confession...


The above picture pretty much describes how my head has been feeling lately.

A couple of months ago, my "doctor" at the mental health clinic changed my diagnosis and my medicinal prescription.

I place "doctor" in quotation marks because I hardly consider him to be a doctor at all, instead, merely a buffoon with a poor attitude toward healing, who works for the government and is well adept at finding the cheapest way to medicate drones.

He isn't interested in therapy and could care less how I feel.

I used to be in favor of socialized medicine. Not any more.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm seriously standing in the need of prayer. I know the signs of my demise:

1. This Depakote stuff just makes me sleep a lot and constantly battle my weight. I do not feel that it in any way treats the symptoms of my condition, it merely covers them in a syrup of stony nonchalance, that is less and less effective as they take hold of my mind.

2. I am increasingly moody, negative, and strongly desire to demonstrate that the emperor wears no clothes, whether anyone cares to hear about it or not.

3. I have begun chewing on the inside of my lips, a nervous tick I developed in seminary that went away when I began my initial treatment for Bipolar Disorder by taking Lamictal. Sadly, it has returned in force.

4. My need to "break the code" of the number "3" in my life has returned in force. Lamictal seriously lessened this tendency. Go up to the top of this post and look at the blackboard with all the equations on it. That's what my head feels like these days. Sucks.

5. I am getting a very strong desire to shut up, be a good little line cook, an obedient prole, and utterly subvert the system from the underside. I am beginning to recognize hypocrisy at all levels, including in myself, and realizing that there is no escape from any of it. Easier to simply move to the beach, cook, and ultimately one day jump off a high bridge into the sea.

DEATH BY WATER

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,  
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell
And the profit and loss.
         A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers.  As he rose and fell
He passes the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
        Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

--- T.S. Eliot (from The Wasteland)

Shantih, Shantih, Shantih...

Peace, Peace, Peace...

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus...