8th June 2017
Let me just start by making it perfectly clear that
I have no intentions of becoming one of those people who will incessantly
remind everybody else that they’re sick. I know it may seem like I am, with a
majority of my posts having to do with medication, and brain
references, and shit (sorry). But I swear to my God and yours that I wish I had more to write
about than just my drug-dulled life; in the same way I wish I could talk to
people about more than how “I haven’t
worked or studied in over twelve months.” Caringly, or not so caringly, the
people almost always ask, “Oh, so what
are you doing now?” to which I respond with, “Fuck all, Susan.” I’m joking. Not everybody who asks is called
Susan. And I’m not doing just fuck all; I’m also developing my skills as an egg
breeder. That was also a joke; I’m not that interesting. Or that funny, as it
turns out. Somebody help me.
Actually, somebody told me I was interesting the
other week. Having spoken to me a little more, somebody probably will not help
me because somebody has probably discovered that I’m not as interesting as my
mysterious façade would allude to (HA). But seriously, over the past couple of
weeks I’ve been put in social situations (shudders)
where a variety of people have asked me a variety of questions about me. You’re
all probably thinking, “You should have
no problem with that, Meg, you talk about you all the time.” Yeah, to a
computer screen that doesn’t ask me about my ten-year plan, or the kinds of
music I listen to, or what I’ve read lately. “Wait, those all seem like decent, normal questions.” Yeah, they
are decent, normal questions (except the ten-year one, that makes me uneasy). The
problem is, person whom I assume to be reading, I can’t remember anything.
What you have to understand (brace yourselves for
the sick talk), is I’ve been put on a whole lot of mind-altering substances in
a very short period of time. And throughout that time, I’ve lost bits of me
that equated to a whole person. Or maybe not lost, maybe just dropped. Until
about a month ago, I was unable to hold a conversation with someone, and hold
onto whatever the fuck we were talking about. I’ve only been driving by myself
for the same amount of time. I could only learn my lines for a play three weeks
from opening night, because I’ve been unable to read and process information.
I’m only now trying really hard to listen to music, and watch movies, and enjoy
them as pieces of art (because I’m cultured). Not only do I forget the things
that made me, me, but my senses seem to have dulled. I used to experience the
extremes, and now my emotions have been dampened just incase they get too out
of hand. I haven’t cried in a month, do you know how odd that is for me? It’s
very odd. I’m lucky I haven’t gone through ECT (Electroconvulsive Therapy)
though, because apparently that really messes with your sense of self.
So, yeah, I mightn’t be the most riveting, or
intellectual person you’ve ever spoken to. And it might take a while for me to
answer any of your questions. But if you do talk to me, just imagine me
scavenging around on the floor, looking for a broken piece of Meg, picking it
up, and giving it to you for keepsake. It’s probably dusty, but you know. I
forgot to vacuum. Which is probably a good thing, otherwise you’d never get
that piece.
And if you don’t want it, well: fuck you, Susan. (I’m
kidding, Susan is very nice.)