prozac
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prozac
Sobriety has been mostly a question of seriously trying to confront how disfunctional I am.
Yet, on half a dose of Prozac, I felt like I had arrived. It was like discovering some sort of weird empathy with the human race, with all its postures, dramas, syndromes and oddity. Everything was so interesting. It was harder to speak, to write analytically, to perform minutely detailed tasks, and yet I could read people much better, was in much more emotional control, was a positive force. I felt priestly. Slightly maniacle. I stayed up late feeling handsome and optimistic.
Visually, everthing was super rich, like my graphics card had been upgraded. The snow falling before the history rich monument to all human transportive endeavor--lo! the Grand Central Station flanked by the Chrystler Building! Riding the train was amazing. This worm tube full of human souls being ferried beneath the city. Yet, I was still too shy to reach out to anyone, standing around in that bar, the attic, what's it called. I felt forgiven for totally recognizing the degree my life has been crippled by depression. I felt forgiven for recognizing how awful it has been, how I have been programed for conflict by a childhood spent in hysterical moderation of my parent's conflicts. Where are the postive memories, man? brain? man? Isn't the bad supposed to mellow with age? I feel like I've become one of those guys you see and wonder about when you are 19 when everything is possible. Poor, alone, unemployed, single. Ha.
The desire to drink dropped to zero. And then, bam, gone. I guess my system acclimated to the dose. And you know, I knew while my brain was adapting that it was too good: everything was too beautiful, I was too self-sufficient. The world is back to blah, yet none too unpleasant though. Kind of like waking up. Lonely. I feel so isolated as I go about my life. People seem so remote, ensconced in beautiful lives. How do they do it? Are they all geniuses or something? Geniuses of ego. The genius of the healthy ego is it's able to blot out all criticism, to punch back. I'm sick because all I do to myself is try to tear myself down, but it seems so necessary for survival because I am a screaming, self-destroying infant. I don't want to punch back, to punch anything.
I went to a reading this evening in NYC. A packed little room. I couldn't focus on what the author was saying, but took comfort that she was saying it. She seemed intelligent, probably compassionate, motherly. It was sci-fi horror or something: something HP Lovcraftian, monsters, rape. Her voice crescendod to a scream. I tried to focus on what she was saying, but only caught snippets of sex and celestial phenomena. She seemed like she could be a motherly friend. Then I left and bought some whey protein powder, plus fish oil, multi-vitamens and St. Johns wart. The guy selling the vitamins insisted that 60 percent of my diet should be raw. I began to argue with him and then, reminding myself of my prozac learnings, stopped. Change comes in millimeters, people. There are no bounds. It's like pulling hairs one by one, one a day.
As I browsed the isles of the overpriced healthfood store, this bald man with the frizzy, insane beard --who would probably appear fascinatingly warped and pittiable under the influence of prozac -- followed me around with his arms folded, just standing by incase I had a question. I felt guilty so I bought a 15 dollar bottle of St. Johns Wart.
It's millimeters.
Good night dear souls!
Yet, on half a dose of Prozac, I felt like I had arrived. It was like discovering some sort of weird empathy with the human race, with all its postures, dramas, syndromes and oddity. Everything was so interesting. It was harder to speak, to write analytically, to perform minutely detailed tasks, and yet I could read people much better, was in much more emotional control, was a positive force. I felt priestly. Slightly maniacle. I stayed up late feeling handsome and optimistic.
Visually, everthing was super rich, like my graphics card had been upgraded. The snow falling before the history rich monument to all human transportive endeavor--lo! the Grand Central Station flanked by the Chrystler Building! Riding the train was amazing. This worm tube full of human souls being ferried beneath the city. Yet, I was still too shy to reach out to anyone, standing around in that bar, the attic, what's it called. I felt forgiven for totally recognizing the degree my life has been crippled by depression. I felt forgiven for recognizing how awful it has been, how I have been programed for conflict by a childhood spent in hysterical moderation of my parent's conflicts. Where are the postive memories, man? brain? man? Isn't the bad supposed to mellow with age? I feel like I've become one of those guys you see and wonder about when you are 19 when everything is possible. Poor, alone, unemployed, single. Ha.
The desire to drink dropped to zero. And then, bam, gone. I guess my system acclimated to the dose. And you know, I knew while my brain was adapting that it was too good: everything was too beautiful, I was too self-sufficient. The world is back to blah, yet none too unpleasant though. Kind of like waking up. Lonely. I feel so isolated as I go about my life. People seem so remote, ensconced in beautiful lives. How do they do it? Are they all geniuses or something? Geniuses of ego. The genius of the healthy ego is it's able to blot out all criticism, to punch back. I'm sick because all I do to myself is try to tear myself down, but it seems so necessary for survival because I am a screaming, self-destroying infant. I don't want to punch back, to punch anything.
I went to a reading this evening in NYC. A packed little room. I couldn't focus on what the author was saying, but took comfort that she was saying it. She seemed intelligent, probably compassionate, motherly. It was sci-fi horror or something: something HP Lovcraftian, monsters, rape. Her voice crescendod to a scream. I tried to focus on what she was saying, but only caught snippets of sex and celestial phenomena. She seemed like she could be a motherly friend. Then I left and bought some whey protein powder, plus fish oil, multi-vitamens and St. Johns wart. The guy selling the vitamins insisted that 60 percent of my diet should be raw. I began to argue with him and then, reminding myself of my prozac learnings, stopped. Change comes in millimeters, people. There are no bounds. It's like pulling hairs one by one, one a day.
As I browsed the isles of the overpriced healthfood store, this bald man with the frizzy, insane beard --who would probably appear fascinatingly warped and pittiable under the influence of prozac -- followed me around with his arms folded, just standing by incase I had a question. I felt guilty so I bought a 15 dollar bottle of St. Johns Wart.
It's millimeters.
Good night dear souls!
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Join Date: Dec 2011
Location: Canada. About as far south as you can get
Posts: 4,768
Originally Posted by davaidavai 
Sobriety has been mostly a question of seriously trying to confront how disfunctional I am.
Yet, on half a dose of Prozac, I felt like I had arrived. It was like discovering some sort of weird empathy with the human race, with all its postures, dramas, syndromes and oddity. Everything was so interesting. It was harder to speak, to write analytically, to perform minutely detailed tasks, and yet I could read people much better, was in much more emotional control, was a positive force. I felt priestly. Slightly maniacle. I stayed up late feeling handsome and optimistic.
Visually, everthing was super rich, like my graphics card had been upgraded. The snow falling before the history rich monument to all human transportive endeavor--lo! the Grand Central Station flanked by the Chrystler Building! Riding the train was amazing. This worm tube full of human souls being ferried beneath the city. Yet, I was still too shy to reach out to anyone, standing around in that bar, the attic, what's it called. I felt forgiven for totally recognizing the degree my life has been crippled by depression. I felt forgiven for recognizing how awful it has been, how I have been programed for conflict by a childhood spent in hysterical moderation of my parent's conflicts. Where are the postive memories, man? brain? man? Isn't the bad supposed to mellow with age? I feel like I've become one of those guys you see and wonder about when you are 19 when everything is possible. Poor, alone, unemployed, single. Ha.
The desire to drink dropped to zero. And then, bam, gone. I guess my system acclimated to the dose. And you know, I knew while my brain was adapting that it was too good: everything was too beautiful, I was too self-sufficient. The world is back to blah, yet none too unpleasant though. Kind of like waking up. Lonely. I feel so isolated as I go about my life. People seem so remote, ensconced in beautiful lives. How do they do it? Are they all geniuses or something? Geniuses of ego. The genius of the healthy ego is it's able to blot out all criticism, to punch back. I'm sick because all I do to myself is try to tear myself down, but it seems so necessary for survival because I am a screaming, self-destroying infant. I don't want to punch back, to punch anything.
I went to a reading this evening in NYC. A packed little room. I couldn't focus on what the author was saying, but took comfort that she was saying it. She seemed intelligent, probably compassionate, motherly. It was sci-fi horror or something: something HP Lovcraftian, monsters, rape. Her voice crescendod to a scream. I tried to focus on what she was saying, but only caught snippets of sex and celestial phenomena. She seemed like she could be a motherly friend. Then I left and bought some whey protein powder, plus fish oil, multi-vitamens and St. Johns wart. The guy selling the vitamins insisted that 60 percent of my diet should be raw. I began to argue with him and then, reminding myself of my prozac learnings, stopped. Change comes in millimeters, people. There are no bounds. It's like pulling hairs one by one, one a day.
As I browsed the isles of the overpriced healthfood store, this bald man with the frizzy, insane beard --who would probably appear fascinatingly warped and pittiable under the influence of prozac -- followed me around with his arms folded, just standing by incase I had a question. I felt guilty so I bought a 15 dollar bottle of St. Johns Wart.
It's millimeters.
Good night dear souls!
Yet, on half a dose of Prozac, I felt like I had arrived. It was like discovering some sort of weird empathy with the human race, with all its postures, dramas, syndromes and oddity. Everything was so interesting. It was harder to speak, to write analytically, to perform minutely detailed tasks, and yet I could read people much better, was in much more emotional control, was a positive force. I felt priestly. Slightly maniacle. I stayed up late feeling handsome and optimistic.
Visually, everthing was super rich, like my graphics card had been upgraded. The snow falling before the history rich monument to all human transportive endeavor--lo! the Grand Central Station flanked by the Chrystler Building! Riding the train was amazing. This worm tube full of human souls being ferried beneath the city. Yet, I was still too shy to reach out to anyone, standing around in that bar, the attic, what's it called. I felt forgiven for totally recognizing the degree my life has been crippled by depression. I felt forgiven for recognizing how awful it has been, how I have been programed for conflict by a childhood spent in hysterical moderation of my parent's conflicts. Where are the postive memories, man? brain? man? Isn't the bad supposed to mellow with age? I feel like I've become one of those guys you see and wonder about when you are 19 when everything is possible. Poor, alone, unemployed, single. Ha.
The desire to drink dropped to zero. And then, bam, gone. I guess my system acclimated to the dose. And you know, I knew while my brain was adapting that it was too good: everything was too beautiful, I was too self-sufficient. The world is back to blah, yet none too unpleasant though. Kind of like waking up. Lonely. I feel so isolated as I go about my life. People seem so remote, ensconced in beautiful lives. How do they do it? Are they all geniuses or something? Geniuses of ego. The genius of the healthy ego is it's able to blot out all criticism, to punch back. I'm sick because all I do to myself is try to tear myself down, but it seems so necessary for survival because I am a screaming, self-destroying infant. I don't want to punch back, to punch anything.
I went to a reading this evening in NYC. A packed little room. I couldn't focus on what the author was saying, but took comfort that she was saying it. She seemed intelligent, probably compassionate, motherly. It was sci-fi horror or something: something HP Lovcraftian, monsters, rape. Her voice crescendod to a scream. I tried to focus on what she was saying, but only caught snippets of sex and celestial phenomena. She seemed like she could be a motherly friend. Then I left and bought some whey protein powder, plus fish oil, multi-vitamens and St. Johns wart. The guy selling the vitamins insisted that 60 percent of my diet should be raw. I began to argue with him and then, reminding myself of my prozac learnings, stopped. Change comes in millimeters, people. There are no bounds. It's like pulling hairs one by one, one a day.
As I browsed the isles of the overpriced healthfood store, this bald man with the frizzy, insane beard --who would probably appear fascinatingly warped and pittiable under the influence of prozac -- followed me around with his arms folded, just standing by incase I had a question. I felt guilty so I bought a 15 dollar bottle of St. Johns Wart.
It's millimeters.
Good night dear souls!
Hope you're having a great day.
Bob
Member
Join Date: Oct 2011
Location: NJ
Posts: 594
Hello my friend-
This is what I got from your post.....could be totally wrong lol!
When I was very depressed, I couldn't look at anything or anyone but my own feelings. Big as day blocking out any light and my ability to see any beauty in the simplest things.
You have been working on your sobriety. Sobriety is more than just the refraining from drinking. Therefore you are seeing things in a different light. Your HP's grace and its a beautiful thing. In my opinion, my HP has to see us through grace or would strike us all dead lol!
We all don,t make the required chemicals our brain needs to function. Some of us need an anti something ( I know I do) I think its wonderful you are feeling and seeing the world in a positive way! hugs
This is what I got from your post.....could be totally wrong lol!
When I was very depressed, I couldn't look at anything or anyone but my own feelings. Big as day blocking out any light and my ability to see any beauty in the simplest things.
You have been working on your sobriety. Sobriety is more than just the refraining from drinking. Therefore you are seeing things in a different light. Your HP's grace and its a beautiful thing. In my opinion, my HP has to see us through grace or would strike us all dead lol!
We all don,t make the required chemicals our brain needs to function. Some of us need an anti something ( I know I do) I think its wonderful you are feeling and seeing the world in a positive way! hugs
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