May 26th, 2014

Roy Batty

Now we are fifty.

Day after day after day of black rage, waiting for the Lamictal to kick in again and knowing that it will be weeks yet before there's any hope of release or relief from that avenue. Cold spring, March at the end of May. A precious tiny handful of days when I feel well enough I can get the editing work done that I am so far behind in. I've spent weeks now only wanting to be dead and too big a coward to act on my longing.

I've alienated people on Facebook, "unfriended" friends who once were actually friends, but whom I have not seen in decades. It hardly matters.

I have posted:

This is not the person I was supposed to be at age fifty, nor is it anyone I wish to be.

(And people howled in dismay.)

I posted two quotes:

"They tell us that suicide is the greatest piece of cowardice... that suicide is wrong; when it is quite obvious that there is nothing in the world to which every man has a more unassailable title than to his own life and person."
~ Arthur Schopenhauer

– and –

"Suicide is man's way of telling God, 'You can't fire me - I quit.'" ~ Bill Maher

(And, in so doing, I unwittingly set off a firestorm)

Then last night, a few minutes past midnight, I posted:

The third greatest regret of my life is having lived to fifty.

True fact, that. And so there.

There are other things I might tick off, about work since the last entry, but I just don't care. It's cold and rainy here in Providence, though the weather idiots promised sun and 85˚F. They couldn't find their asses with flashlights. We are supposed to spend the next three days in Manhattan. That was birthday gift from Kathryn, but now it seems unlikely I'll go. I'm just too unwell, and I'm just too angry, and the money could be put to better purposes. Like getting me the fuck out of Rhode Island.

There is no joy in this,
Aunt Beast