MENTAL ILLNESS

I am terrified by the future. I have an anger fueled by hate. This ire has been simmering for 20 years. I live with these nightmarish images that never allow me a moment's peace. I thought I had found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow only to discover that I had drunk from a witch's brew that has permanently poisoned me. 

I know mental illness. I experience the anguish every day. I have turned to both positive and negative strategies to deal with this disease and nothing has succeeded. There is a difference between the alternatives. The positive solutions don't exacerbate my malady. They allow me to remain in a status quo state. 

There is no purpose in torturing myself both mentally and physically by turning to fatalistic behavior. In the best of moods, I feel death at my back. Why would I want to put myself in a situation in which I'm staring death in the face? 

Sadly, there are times I can't resist electing this path. The consequences reduce me to madness. I crawl to the edge of the abyss and stare into the blackness below. I do my best to retreat from this dangerous precipice. Once again, sentenced to repeating these absurd excesses in the near future, I shudder thinking that there is no answer, only annihilation. 

My best solution which may lead me to extinction is a steady dose of Xanax. My present dosage is two milligrams daily, consumed at bedtime so I can discover a temporary escape in a deep sleep, the tranquilizers ably assisted by Nyquil, Melatonin and Excedrin, the concoction chased down by a tila tea. 

The serenity carries into the next day unless I have succumbed to another encounter with alcohol. Alcohol has become my merciless enemy. If you want to pour gas on a fire, then douse your anger in booze. You will soon find yourself at the portals of hell screaming at Satan. 

After an initial elation, alcohol plunges me into the deepest depression. I excoriate myself for not having the strength of character to resist this temptation that I knew was going to lead me to a terrible place where I'd lie sleepless and filled with self-loathing.

I write this article in a peaceful state. I'm savoring the respite. I didn't drink yesterday. I went to bed early and awoke rested, but my first thoughts were full of hate and anger. This is the manner in which I greet every day. But if I haven't abused myself, I can handle these remorseless emotions.

I read that in order to be a successful artist critically, you have to suffer. My mental turmoil never ends. It is a dog nipping at my heels. Sometimes it metamorphoses into a beast that mauls me. If suffering is a requirement for good writing, I'm putting in the suffering time. In terms of my writing, I'm hoping something good will come of it.

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