I haven’t written in here in so long. It looks so empty now, but it hasn’t been because I have stopped writing. I have written this summer as much as I ever did, but almost none of my writing could be posted. It is different this time. Nearly all of my writing has involved other people in some way. Not about bad things necessarily, but private things, and things certainly not within my right to judge or say publicly. It was simpler when I was younger. Then, to tell the truth was only a matter of right and wrong. Now, to tell the truth inevitably means to step on other people’s feet, to betray secrets, and to hurt people who have confided in me. There is a line between convention and the greater good I must be aware of, and I will not cross that line lightly. Conditions are not worse now, but they are more complicated. Things have changed as I have known them as a boy.
But perhaps it is not as serious as I have made it out to be. I have been in a bad mood lately. There can be no harm in telling the two people I know who actually read this journal, …and for the rest of you -- who read idly and say nothing -- if you have enough of an interest in me to read what I have to say, than I suppose you deserve to know anyway. I am going through happiness withdrawal. The pills I have been taking to lighten my mood suddenly seemed to stop working last week, and even at their highest safe dose, I simply sat still and felt nothing. It didn’t happen all at once. I have felt their power slowly diminishing these past weeks, but last Friday was the end of it. I felt nothing. Now, regardless of whether or not I take them, there is no lightening in my eyes-- emotions are less vibrant-- myself, am less inclined to receive and tell jokes-- my mind stays unstimulated, slow and dilapidated-- and everywhere, every thought that I think is mired in sloth and futility. It is as if all the happiness and intensity I felt the day before were drained out of me. This must be what it feels like to be a fallen angel-- severed from the hand of God. To walk, to talk, and to interact with people is like swimming through thick jelly, and that state is too vile and still too familiar to want to visit again. It is better when there are people around. Sometimes, I actually believe in the happiness I convey. My mind can get lost in a conversation and forget itself …but other times, nothing moves. My spirit is not lifted as it once was.
I thought to myself there must be a biological reason for this. Prolonged use could have made my receptors less reactive to the drug. I could be producing less-- there could be fewer receptors on the surface of my neurons. I will have to take a drug holiday. I have stayed away from all drugs this weekend -- and how sluggish those two days felt. It is good enough to see Mike, and have other people around, but to be alone is to be completely remorseful. I will try to stay away from pills this week as well. Maybe if I stay away from them long enough, my receptors will regenerate, grow back to their normal populations, and lose their resistance to the drug altogether. I will have to wean myself off of chemically-induced happiness, at least for a time, and at the least -- if I cannot manage it -- partially. How ironic is it that the only way to find happiness again is to stay away from it consciously? I have kept away from it for two days. I will only take enough this week to pull myself out of the bad spells. Everything should be back in order in a few days, or I will have to try something different altogether.
How odd that I suddenly find myself thinking about philosophy …How foolish those dualist philosophers were, to think the mind and the body are not linked. …I do not even think the mind can exist outside of the body. Tell me you do not believe it and I will show you a drug addict and a schizophrenic. It is as clear as night and day. I am certain of it.
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