I visited my humane, informative, coat-free, bolero Psychiatrist yesterday. My aunts and cousin went galavanting the whole day, left the island at 4am and got back home at 3am making it a 23-hour affair. I didn’t get to sleep until 5am, woke up at 9, so now I’ve been nursing a runny nose and a headache the whole day.
I got to clarify maternity issues and got a few reminders about the upcoming holidays. These visits are so different because the hold of the medication on my thought process is loose so I get to have an actual conversation with him and everybody else. I get to write and be creative on everything I put my mind into. Often, it naturally just pours out.
Now I’m left with all this time to rest and prepare myself for the year ahead. All I can really ask for is stability amidst probable stresses once I get back to work. There isn’t a guarantee that my psychosis won’t reoccur once I get back to work or when I reintegrate myself to the bustle of city life, but I am hoping that I get to do so many things when I do.
I often think that being in my prime, I should be out there actively goal-digging but I also remind myself that my drum doesn’t follow anyone else’s beat but mine. Sometimes in trying to catch up with what my contemporaries have made for themselves, I put a pressure on trying to get into society’s norms only to realize time and again that I was meant to live on the fringes, on the edge.
I know that when I look back years from now, my illness will just be another chapter in my book, or maybe a recurring character in a story that I have made for myself. A character endearing, crucial to the plot twists that will propel the story forward.
To a writer, it is when you watch life unfold that life unknowingly happens to you.
For someone so discriminating, it is when you say “no” to opportunities, people, and ideas that make you settle that determines the quality of your life.
Next visit is in 4 months.
In Quetiapine we trust.
The Chronicles of Era Blues 