Things & People Are Not What They Seem II

Apparently who a person is, is far more complex than I could have ever imagined.  Our only hedge against utter life-long pandemonium is self-awareness, so that we don’t constantly repeat the same old dumb mistakes, and waste a bunch of innocent people’s time.  To make matters worse, what if part of your body doesn’t work right?  For example, I have a HUGE problem.  My level of dopamine, a critical neurotransmitter necessary for life, has never been in the normal range.  My doctor uses antidepressants and dopamine agonists to try to increase the level, but it’s not working out well.  So, as I go through the process of changing drugs and dosages from time to time, I discover the most peculiar things about my character and true motivations.

When I’m on a higher dose of ropinirole (being used as an antipsychotic), my life comes alive mentally.  I can sit down and accomplish a lot of cerebral tasks such as writing in this blog for example, doing various art projects, learning new software, and completing foreign language lessons.  But my physical life completely falls apart.  I start getting lethargic and experiencing that horrible fuzzy zombified feeling.  My joints and muscles hurt and don’t respond with power and strength during workouts.  In fact, I cease having any interest in working out at all, despite the fact that I LOVE working out.  My personality mostly changes for the better, but I start getting the most wicked headaches in the evening.

When I’m on a lower dose of ropinirole, my life falls apart mentally.  Symptoms of depression and psychosis return, as does the drive to work out in the gym and fuck, hard and satisfyingly.  Apparently being a little psychotic and being a badass in the gym and bedroom go hand in hand?  I return to the state of grace in which I can work out for at least ninety minutes, if not more.  My strength, focus, and wiener come alive as more and more disturbing thoughts spontaneously enter my attention against my will–until I begin working out that is.  Workouts are a temporary reprieve from the pain of living.

I’ve already accepted that life is not fair.  But many would agree that this is just over the top.  I mean seriously, this state of things is not just unfair, it’s beyond cruel.  Whether I can get through the day depends on what medications I’m on and how much, not the fortitude of my personal attitude choices.  Over the past forty years I have suffered, suffered, and suffered some more and I’m just tired.  My nervous system is totally out of my control.  My doctor says that I have one of the most stubborn cases of depression he’s ever seen.

Why?  How could this happen to someone?

My doctor finally explained it to me:  extreme stress in early childhood.  My earliest memories are of white hot fear and suffering.  I never had a chance; I know now that my mother was in an extraordinary, prolonged, state of stress while I was in utero, and so my tiny nervous system got acid-washed with stress hormones since, well, before it was a nervous system.  I have been severely depressed and psychotic since I was about four.

This decades-long odyssey of torture and near-death experiences is not the real me:

  • Instead of tanning like an absolute caramel-butter dream like I did when I was a kid, I am a particularly ghastly shade of pale due to a particular side effect of the antidepressants I have taken since I was fourteen.
  • Instead of being the picture of vibrant health and gigantic physical development I have wanted since I was a teenager, I struggle to work out and put on mass due to the dramatic suppression of muscle function inherent to psychiatric drug therapy.

  • Instead of making my elite fitness dreams come true and having a credible chance at winning big money in fitness contests, I engage in circuit and other forms of intense training at my peril.  One persistent side effect I have is a skyrocketing heart rate.  Underneath all the drug therapy, I possess crazy-high cardiopulmonary endurance, but one would never know from the way I trudge through exercise classes and swimming, constantly having to stop to catch my breath and take a BPM reading.  Teachers still give me a pep talk about how a “beginner” like me needs to just “stick with it”.  I’ve been sticking with it nonstop for seven and a half years.  I was a personal training client with professional trainers for four and a half of those years.  If I didn’t have to take any medicine I would, quite simply, be the biggest badass in the county, or maybe even the state.

  • Instead of finishing the prestigious film school degree I was given–with huge scholarship–and entering the elite film industry to fulfill my every creative fantasy, I now live on Disability and handouts from my family.  I am totally unable to work to support myself, despite having attempted to do so about fifty-five times since 1996.  I struggle to keep up with the payments on many thousands of dollars of unsecured credit card debt.  I have no assets, no retirement savings, and am almost totally unemployable due to my undesirable work history.  Yet, I have never once been fired or disciplined on the job.

Because my mom chose not to take care of herself decades ago, I’m completely fucked now.  My full-time job for over a quarter of a century has been improving my nervous system with diet and exercise, but the moment I reduce the dosage of any of my medications, I become suicidal in a matter of days.  Basically, I haven’t altered my nervous system, even in a small way.  My doctor explained to me that physical exercise has been proven to stimulate the production of new, non-depressed, neurons.  Why isn’t this working for me?

My life was over before it even began.  Still to the present day, my astonishingly retarded family expects me to take care of them and their emotions whenever we are together.  My sister, who is an experienced, working, graphic design professional, REFUSES to help me start my freelance business or get clients, even though I am a patently multi-talented artist and everyone, including her, regularly compliments my work.

I used to feel sorry for others, such as the people in my family, or people in other, shittier, countries.  But now I know the truth of who I really am.  And my life and I are not what I thought they were.  The real me has been hidden under a Niagara Falls of other people’s worthless shit.  I am now, and have always been since birth, completely alone.  Perfectly rejected by everyone I have ever met.  Or so I thought.

Now that I have finally found an antipsychotic I can tolerate, I’ve begun to remember all the good people I didn’t notice over the years.  All the kind, interesting, caring individuals who showed me understanding, listening, and compassion.  It was a lot to absorb and come to terms with, as I remembered all the people who tried to show me love.  The only trouble was I was too good at noticing the bad people, and not skilled enough in noticing the good ones.  But it’s never too late to heal and change.

My nervous system doesn’t work.  All I can do is keep taking the right medicines in the right amounts to facsimilate as normal a mental experience of life as possible.  But many other parts of my body do work, and work fabulously well.  My sex drive, for example.  More than one lover has informed me that my sexual appetite and abilities are quite above average.  I thought it was normal to cum three times in an evening.  I thought everybody was doing it.  Anyway, focusing on the health of my body, and slowly healing my social abilities to get my basic needs for love, touch, sex, and intimacy met, is what I am meant to do now, despite the constant fear of financial ruin.

I’m only 41.  Maybe I am meant to start my life all over again.  Maybe I can learn how to notice only the good guys, at the expense of all the lousy.  People regularly tell me I look as though I’m in my twenties.  Maybe this was all meant to be.  I might never be able work at a traditional job, but maybe there’s a reason for that.  Maybe I am meant to be an artist and/or a househusband.  My first personal trainer asked me whether I were a “lover” or a “fighter”.  That’s easy, I thought, I’m a lover, a child born under the sign of Venus, two-fold (At my birth Libra was on the horizon at dawn, so the sun was in both Libra and the current rising sign.).  And I’m a lover of beauty to be sure, especially male beauty.

Once I had a dream in which a big, muscly robot lost his head.  But he was fine.  The rest of his body simply adapted, as he crawled around to find things, poured robot fuel down his neck hole, etc.  He wasn’t in any pain; in fact, it was a relief.  Then he found me and, of course, we could still fuck; your dick ain’t on your head after all.  It was weird at first, but his headless body quickly took on the appearance of an intact whole.  And his head happily lay on the ground a few feet away, but he didn’t feel the need to put it back on.  Besides, he now had me to help him find things and lead the way.  {>^<V}

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