Hello and good morning, all. Though I suppose I should leave it up to each of your own individual intuitions and criteria about whether it really is a “good” morning, and indeed, what such a term even could mean. But, really, it’s what they call “a polite nothing” I suppose, because it has no other purpose than being a ritual greeting.
It’s June 8th. In 10 days it will be “Fathers’ Day” (I’m not sure about the “official” placement of the apostrophe). In 21 days it will be my wedding anniversary, so to speak; anyway, it will have been 32 years since I got married, and I will have been divorced for 2 years longer than I was married, which is a crappy, crappy milestone. I’ve also already gone roughly 10 years without seeing my kids in person, which is getting close to being as long as I was a part of their lives.
What an utter waste of years and effort it has been for me to be alive since then.
I’m writing this on my phone still/again, at the house, before heading for the bus stop. There’s not much going on so far today, except to note that I had an unusually bad sleep last night, even for me, so I’m starting the day already feeling exhausted.
As you may recall, yesterday I did not take any “antidepressant”, and I likewise have not taken any today. I did feel less tense yesterday than I had the days before, and that was certainly a relief, but it’s the sort of thing that happens whenever I change something like that. I had a brief elevation in my mood when I started the Wort, also. I suspect it’s just a placebo effect, and/or a reverse version of the same.
Anyway, I can’t blame either starting or stopping the stuff for my sleep problems. They were there before any meds and they’ll be there after them, probably for the rest of my life. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to keep having sleep problems after I die.
Well…yes, I would. Both the fact of still having sleep problems and having the ability to be aware of them would be quite surprising to me after I’m dead. In fact, the ability to be surprised would be quite a surprise after I’m dead. It would certainly be intriguing, as would the fact of being capable of being intrigued. In fact, it’s hard to see that, if one is capable of surprise or intrigue or any other emotion, one should actually be considered “dead” in any useful sense.
Of course, I don’t think any of that is possible, really. I’m quite convinced (provisionally, as always) that death entails merely oblivion, which is one of the things that makes it so appealing. Indeed, my “Bayesian Prior” on that is so high that I would, so to speak, be willing to bet my life on it. Admittedly, that’s a cheap bet, from my point of view, but I don’t have any right to bet anyone else’s life, so it’s all I have, worthless and disgusting though it may be.
Almost none of the various antidepressants I’ve taken have ever seemed to help my sleep. Tricyclics, Effexor, Trazodone, Wellbutrin, Celexa/Lexapro and most other SSRIs…they didn’t make it better and some made it worse. Only Paxil seemed at least to make me enjoy sleeping, which had never happened to me before, but its other effects were not good. One downside was that I gained a lot of weight, and that’s not good in someone like me, who is constitutionally prone to overweight and its related effects. That wasn’t the only problem, either.
Anyway, I don’t know why, but my depression, after initially responding to meds and therapy, has become tougher to treat over the years. I don’t know if this is partly related to my apparent ASD, or whatever form of atypical, non-human neurology I have, or to something about the nature of depression, or to these and other factors mixed together.
What’s more, I don’t think anyone else in the world could actually know, either. At most, at best, hypotheses could be made and tested, by me and by other medical/scientific people. But it’s simply a fact that “we”, meaning all consciousnesses of which any of us are actually aware, don’t know well enough the nature of the normal functioning of the brain, let alone the nature of things like depression, dysthymia, autism spectrum disorders, insomnia (or in fact what sleep really does at all levels) very deeply and/or causally. It’s extremely complex, and not enough resources have been or are put into the study.
We do spend a lot of money on science, but still more on war, and on politics, and on sporting events and so on. Actually, I don’t know which if any of those things receives a greater proportion of civilizational resources than science does, but it feels as though it would be nice to divert at least some of the resources away from such things and into science. The advancement of science is something that can benefit everyone, current and subsequent, especially since, once the information is learned, is discovered, it can (in principle) be shared at vanishingly small cost, to the potential benefit of the whole planet and its future inhabitants.
Of course, the company Elsevier apparently owns many of the premier scientific journals‒it did not originate them, it just bought them and is now rent-seeking through them‒and it not only charges a frankly obscene amount for subscriptions, but it even charges scientists who want to publish in the journals. That is, in a sense, an actual white-collar crime against humanity, against civilization.
Such people deserve to be strapped down onto tables and have one drop of liquid Drano applied to their skin every hour, or perhaps even just every day, or somewhere in between, until it finally dissolves them away enough for it to kill them. They could be kept alive in the meantime, and suffering for as long as possible, by IV infusions and naso-gastric feeding.
It’s just a thought. Probably, even if I were given the power and resources to do so without the risk of consequences for me, I wouldn’t actually torture such people. They’re just monkeys doing what monkeys do, after all. But I might take away all their wealth and make them work at subsistence level jobs for the rest of their days. It’s not the worst punishment, maybe, but getting medical and scientific knowledge out of the control of such people would be the real goal.
Anyway, I’m going to need to head to the bus stop here in a moment. I feel tired and grumpy, and I’m not looking forward to anything about today at all, not even to its end, since the end of each day is merely a prelude to the dismal cycle of the next day and the next and so on.
I never look forward to going to bed, because going to bed merely ushers in the beginning of the next dreary, worthless day, probably to be faced with too little, too fragmented sleep, and with ongoing pain, and without being around or with any of the people I love. It’s not the sort of thing to which one would look forward with anything better than weary resignation, and often with frank horror and disgust…and sometimes, honestly, with something akin to terror.
What are you gonna do? That’s life. It’s not for the faint-hearted. And I cannot, in good conscience, recommend it without significant caveats and reservations and misgivings.