From the Dark Into the Black
Again. Goddamn goddamn goddamn this lycanthropic crap.
It's not even anything I did. That's the hell of it. I'm fine. Things are fine. There is no reason for any of this. I'm ready to pick up and move on; I have several projects ready to go. And then this. . . .
I see my therapist tomorrow. I should probably call my doctor, too. But what is either of them going to do? Prescribe me drugs? My doctor wanted me on Depakote last time, which I refuse to take. In fact, pretty much all of those drugs are just too much for me to handle. Either they will make me gain more weight, which is part of this whole nightmare problem to begin with, or they will turn me into a zombie.
When you're a zombie it's hard to get any creative work done, and the inability to work is another part of this whole problem. Also, if you're completely numb, it's hard to tell when you're feeling better.
Mood stabilizers stabilize your mood. Therefore, if they are working right, you don't get lows, but you don't get highs, either. Thanks, but no thanks. I NEED the good. The fact that I can take pleasure in things again, the fact that I am feeling desire again, that my characters are speaking to me again, that music is beautiful again, that is all that's keeping me fighting. If that was gone . . . oh, god, there would be nothing of me left. Nothing left of me at all. I can't go back to that. I just . . . I can't.
Goddammit, I don't have any answers.
I do not want this. I do not want this.
Nobody would, of course, but I really mean it. If I could run from this, I would run from it. If I could cut it out of me, I would cut deep and regret nothing.
Because right now, I can smell it on the wind -- the same bleak wildness as last time. And for all of Sargon's assurances that this won't be as bad as it was, it doesn't have to be that bad to break me. I'm not as strong as I was. I have less to fall back on. I have less room. I am closer to that cliff's edge than I was last time.
I'm not going to kill myself. There's a list of people who ought to be dead, and I'm not on it.
But this is still pain, and broken doesn't always mean dead. You have all seen wild animals in cages, things that have lost all sense of self, that have become nothing more than madness and fury, or emptiness. I've been there once. I don't want to do it again. I don't want to live with that, even if I am not particularly interested in ending my life. Just because I am alive does not mean I am winning.
This is stealing everything I want. What I am. It's eating me alive. Werewolves regenerate, yes, we're pretty cool that way, but if I recover? What then? How long before I am back here? How long before whatever I manage to build is torn down again? How much of my life am I going to be able to really live, snatched out of the mouth of the beast?
I know, I know, it's me and the wolf, always will be. We're part of one another. I just wasn't ready to fight again this soon. I needed some time to make friends with it again. I needed some success after the last defeat to bolster me, and I haven't had that. I've barely kept up with my own breathing.
And this goes so far beyond, so astronomically beyond vitamin supplements and phototherapy and herbal remedies and self-help books and doing things I enjoy to keep myself cheerful. I know what this is, now, so I can detach myself from it enough to see how it is working inside me, and it's so much more powerful than that. Fundamental. Primal. It can't be tricked or outwitted, it can't be talked down. It can only be fought, or drugged, or outlasted.
I keep thinking I'm okay with this thing I am, but then . . . I'm not okay with having to live like this forever.
Maybe someday I'll be okay with it, all of it. But right now I don't even want a cure. I want it to never have been. To hell with what I would lose. My creativity? Fuck that. It left me years ago. My depth of emotion? I was shallow, but happier without it.
I'm not going to lie down and take it. I'm not. I'm going to do what I can to help myself through this, and I'll hope that Sargon is right, and that it will be brief. But I'm still afraid. It's so soon, and I'm not ready to fight, yet. Hell. There's not even anything to fight.
And nothing, you see, for the wolf's tooth, but me.
It's not even anything I did. That's the hell of it. I'm fine. Things are fine. There is no reason for any of this. I'm ready to pick up and move on; I have several projects ready to go. And then this. . . .
I see my therapist tomorrow. I should probably call my doctor, too. But what is either of them going to do? Prescribe me drugs? My doctor wanted me on Depakote last time, which I refuse to take. In fact, pretty much all of those drugs are just too much for me to handle. Either they will make me gain more weight, which is part of this whole nightmare problem to begin with, or they will turn me into a zombie.
When you're a zombie it's hard to get any creative work done, and the inability to work is another part of this whole problem. Also, if you're completely numb, it's hard to tell when you're feeling better.
Mood stabilizers stabilize your mood. Therefore, if they are working right, you don't get lows, but you don't get highs, either. Thanks, but no thanks. I NEED the good. The fact that I can take pleasure in things again, the fact that I am feeling desire again, that my characters are speaking to me again, that music is beautiful again, that is all that's keeping me fighting. If that was gone . . . oh, god, there would be nothing of me left. Nothing left of me at all. I can't go back to that. I just . . . I can't.
Goddammit, I don't have any answers.
I do not want this. I do not want this.
Nobody would, of course, but I really mean it. If I could run from this, I would run from it. If I could cut it out of me, I would cut deep and regret nothing.
Because right now, I can smell it on the wind -- the same bleak wildness as last time. And for all of Sargon's assurances that this won't be as bad as it was, it doesn't have to be that bad to break me. I'm not as strong as I was. I have less to fall back on. I have less room. I am closer to that cliff's edge than I was last time.
I'm not going to kill myself. There's a list of people who ought to be dead, and I'm not on it.
But this is still pain, and broken doesn't always mean dead. You have all seen wild animals in cages, things that have lost all sense of self, that have become nothing more than madness and fury, or emptiness. I've been there once. I don't want to do it again. I don't want to live with that, even if I am not particularly interested in ending my life. Just because I am alive does not mean I am winning.
This is stealing everything I want. What I am. It's eating me alive. Werewolves regenerate, yes, we're pretty cool that way, but if I recover? What then? How long before I am back here? How long before whatever I manage to build is torn down again? How much of my life am I going to be able to really live, snatched out of the mouth of the beast?
I know, I know, it's me and the wolf, always will be. We're part of one another. I just wasn't ready to fight again this soon. I needed some time to make friends with it again. I needed some success after the last defeat to bolster me, and I haven't had that. I've barely kept up with my own breathing.
And this goes so far beyond, so astronomically beyond vitamin supplements and phototherapy and herbal remedies and self-help books and doing things I enjoy to keep myself cheerful. I know what this is, now, so I can detach myself from it enough to see how it is working inside me, and it's so much more powerful than that. Fundamental. Primal. It can't be tricked or outwitted, it can't be talked down. It can only be fought, or drugged, or outlasted.
I keep thinking I'm okay with this thing I am, but then . . . I'm not okay with having to live like this forever.
Maybe someday I'll be okay with it, all of it. But right now I don't even want a cure. I want it to never have been. To hell with what I would lose. My creativity? Fuck that. It left me years ago. My depth of emotion? I was shallow, but happier without it.
I'm not going to lie down and take it. I'm not. I'm going to do what I can to help myself through this, and I'll hope that Sargon is right, and that it will be brief. But I'm still afraid. It's so soon, and I'm not ready to fight, yet. Hell. There's not even anything to fight.
And nothing, you see, for the wolf's tooth, but me.