GET ME AWAY FROM HERE I'M DYING!

I believe I'm going to die, sincerely, for one minute, then am convinced I am fine as cherry wine the next. I cycle from total belief in the former to total belief in the latter, and have been doing so for perhaps an hour now.

I have been feeling like unholy hell for the past few days and have been taking dextromethorphan on top of my other drugs as a little experiment. What's DXM? Cough syrup, friends. Take a bottle of Delsym, drink it down, and see what happens (wait -- that was not an instruction). I recommend the orange flavor over the purple (it can't properly be called grape).

Wait, no -- I don't recommend anything. To the point:

Here I am, a 29-year-old, typing away at his father's computer, which is on the main floor above the basement I live in, tripping balls on cough syrup and SSRIs, and hurting like hell from the waist down (and there's no heaven above). My pelvic bone is on fire (of course, that is to be taken not at all sexually) and my legs are made of cement that hasn't dried just yet... but almost.

I want to be ages and hours and miles away from all of this... No such...

A word creates itself and reverberates inside what I feel is an empty skull, trying to find permanent lodging. ...I feel like I could go to sleep, vomit, or watch a few hours of Twin Peaks off the TiVO.

...Getting a cigarette out of the pack out of my pocket just now made me think my arms were going to snap off at the shoulders. The pain was sharp, like bear traps released on my joints, but now it seems far away.

And I suppose that is what the DXM is for... Depersonalization. Sure, itching your temple with your thumb just now was a new hell Dante missed out on, but don't take it personally! It's not you. It's the disorder. And it's sorry that things just don't seem to be working out.

I know I will regret writing this, but I had to make myself type at my worst... I must think of posterity... The exact definition of which I'm going to have to look up right now... OK, fuck posterity.

So why? Why am I writing this, now, though I writhe in my chair from pain?

...I think it's because the office with my dad's computer is on the way to the upstairs bathroom, which I went to use maybe an hour ago. It's as simple and stupid as that.

[Pain: 10/10

Anxiety: 7/10

Cough syrup: Too much of it was consumed. But when you're in the fire you'll consider yourself lucky if you can find your way onto the frying pan.

Chance I'll rue this post: 9.5/10.

Love and kittens]

Mixx it!