I thought it right to assess some antidepressants, which philosophers are more inclined to call mood enhancers.
This was during my foray into human enhancement, substances intended to enhance physicality, cognition or mood. Nootropic compounds concern the latter two categories.

The most commonly prescribed mood enhancers are serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SRIs), but it takes over a week for these compounds reach their peak effect.
Thus I approached them with the notion that a limited dosage might point to their character, though  not reveal. These considerations in mind, I set about acquiring a few miscellaneous anti-D's.

Fluoxetine was the first successful selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitor (SSRI), better known by its original brand-name Prozac. Fluoxetine has an acute biological half-life of between 1-3 days. Presence of a trifluoromethyl group on the compound deserves note, I wonder what the presence of electronegative fluorine atoms add to the psychoactive flavor of a compound (subjective effects).
I administered a single dose by mouth, there was some indication of subjective character. Light serotonergic sensations and seemingly benign mood-dampening, there is a ****** towards the positive. Waking headspace relatively uninteresting. Observed hints of oneirogenesis, did not manifest in enough character to be detailed - a sort of vivid, 'pulsive wandering, more pronounced in contrast to its waking character.
Good experiment, interesting results.
Ligand     Ki (nM)   Ki (nM)
Target      Flx            Nflx
SERT        1               19
NET         660           2700
DAT         4180         420
5-HT2A   200           300
5-HT2B    5000         5100
5-HT2C    72.6          91.2
α1             3000         3900
M1            870           1200
M2            2700         4600
M3            1000         760
M4            2900         2600
M5            2700         2200
H1            3250         10000

Sertraline is another popular SSRI, also known by it's original brand-name Zoloft. Sertraline has a variable half-life, on average 26 hours.
It's metabolite, desmethylsertraline, has a half life between 62-104 hours but is a far less potent Serotonin Releasing Agent (SRA).
The presence of two chlorine atoms is interesting. The usual, phenomenal serotonergicity is present and pushing towards the positive.
Some nausea, particularly when hungry (this disappeared after some minestrone soup). Some faintness after physical exertion. This dose did not promote onirogenesis. There was a moment of cognitive distortion when the proportions of a focal object seemed to be growing in-and-out, shifting in size.
Site                 Ki (nM)
SERT              0.15–3.3
NET               420–925
DAT               22–315
5-HT1A       >35,000
5-HT2A          2,207
5-HT2C          2,298
α1A        ­        1900
α1B                 3,500
α1D                 2,500
α2                  477–4,100
D2                  10,700
H1                  24,000
mACh           427–2,100
σ1                   32–57
σ2                   5,297

Escitalopram is an SSRI commonly prescribed for major depression and generalised anxiety. It is the (S)-stereoisomer of citalopram. The biological half-life is of escitalopram is between 27-32 hours.
I administered a dose and thought the phenomenal serotonergicity less apparent than fluoxetine but then gastro-intestinal disturbance was noted, I surmised it has a high affinity for 5-HT2C.
Any oneiric qualities were not readily apparent after a single dose, relatively little visual imagery which is understandable given its lack of affinity for 5-HT2A. I found this to be philosophically interesting. Mood elevation observed in bursts of conversation and as odd sensations, possible mental discomfort.
Ligand,
Recptr     Ki (nM)
SERT       2.5
NET        6,514
5-HT2C   2,531
α1            3,870
M1           1,242
H1           1,973

Venlafaxine is a selective serotonin-norepinephrine reuptake inhibitor (SNRI). Venlafaxine and its metabolites are active for about 11 hours.
Initial subjective effects similar to a very light empathogenic stimulant. Perception of altered attention-span/increased reflexive response; energizing yet paradoxically much yawning.
Ligand,  Vnfx      Dvnfx
Recptr    Ki(nM)  Ki(nM)
SERT  ­    82           40.2
NET       2480        558.4

Tianeptine is a tricyclic antidepressant (TCA) with an unusual mechanism of action. It is an atypical agonist of the μ-opioid receptor and has been described as a (selective) serotonin reuptake enhancer (SRE). It has a short duration as sodium salts [prescribed form] of between 2-4 hours but as sulfate this can be notably extended, some of its metabolites are active for longer than tianeptine itself.
Definitely anxiolytic, quite artificial; possible aphrodisiac. I find its opioid activity dissuading, requires caution.
Site          Ki (nM)
MOR       383–768 (Ki)
                 194 (EC50)
DOR      >10,000 (Ki)
                 37,400 (EC50)
KOR      >10,000 (Ki)
                 100,000 (EC50)
All other transporter/receptor/sub-receptor values are >10,000 (Ki).

Bupropion is a norepinephrine-dopamine reuptake inhibitor (NDRI) with affinity for some nicotinic receptors. Bupropion and its metabolites are active for between 12-36 hours. Interestingly it is a substituted cathinone.
Initial subjective effects similar to a fairly light stimulant. Perception of increased attention-span and improved cognition. It is an onirogen that is neutral in quality, enhancing vivid dreaming (a boon of its nicotinic affinity which is counteracted if the stimulant component impinges on sleep). Completely absent of serotonergicity, curious.
The N-tert-butyl group's effect is most interesting, how it affects metabolism and to what extent ROAs alter pharmacokinetics.
I took 150mg ******, as extended and as instant release (the latter was more pronounced). I thought an altered pharmakinetic profile might result from bypass of hepatic metabolism, so I tried 25mg insufflated and felt as if there was effect that it differed slightly from oral ROAs, but also worried that its metabolic fate is thence unknown (compare to the neurotoxic 3-CMC). What of other bupropiologues,
for example, 3-Methyl-N-tert-butyl-methcathinone? Indeed.
                        Bupropion    R,R-Hydroxybuprpn   Threo-hydrobuprpn
AUC               1                     23.8                                  11.2
Half-life         11 h                 19 h                                 31 h
IC50 (μM)
DAT               0.66                  inactive                          47 (rat)
NET               1.85                   9.9                                  16 (rat)
SERT              inactive          inactive               ­            67 (rat)
α3β4 nic         1.8                   6.5                                   14 (rat)
α4β2 nic         12                     31                                   no data
α1β1γδ nic     7.9                    7.6                                  no data

Moclobemide is a reversible inhibitor of monoamine oxidase A (RIMA), its monoamine oxidase inhibition lasts about 8–10 hours and wears off completely by 24 hours. Inhibiting the decomposition of monoamines (e.g. serotonin, norepinephrine and dopamine) increases their accumulation at an extracellular level. It tends to suppress REM sleep and so it lacks oneirogenic properties.
Feeling of well-being, less constrained by the usual anxieties; openness. Relatively unnoticeable side-effects when diet is carefully managed. Made the mistake of eating a cheese and turkey sandwich (i.e. foodstuff rich in tryptophan/tyramine), indications of serotonergicity later became apparent: feelings of overheating and flushing, slight sweating, racing thoughts and anxious discomfort. A stark reminder of Shulgin's old adage: "there is no casual experiment".
Combination with a select few tryptamines (not 5-MeO-xxT) should be safe, and synergistic (perfect for pharmahuasca); reputed to potentiate GHB. However, generally it is extremely dangerous to combine with serotonergic drugs.

There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.

Now I’ve tamed the
Paroxysms
The tidal waves no longer
Roar

The midnight screams are
Cut to whispers
The midday blaze
Reduced to coal

Now the days have fewer
Minutes
The past shall pierce the skin
No more

A sudden bang
A silent seizure
A crippling song
To end them all

Now I’ve tamed the
Colder seasons
The hail, the ice all thawed
And gone

The brilliant lines
The highest treason
I sold my vision
Just to live on

It would take too much time
to spit out a rhyme, that exhales
the too many complicated details
of how I became a criminal.
If someone out there tried
to define the lines of limitation
that create stone cold walls
beholding all that is right and wrong
I would laugh in their face

There is no right time or place, for anything
despite all that grandma told me she can
Remind me that fried fish is fried in oil saturated with fat
as if my jiggling thighs didn't already know that

But I'll try to smile, despite the war I struggle to, need to fight
against the earthquake in my stomache but it's just begun to have it's fun

I feel disgusting.
I am ashamed.
I'm not aware of the rules to this game but everybody else seems halfway across the board

There was no one incident catapulting me to hell, I just think I was born there
And if you don't believe me there will be a yell, or screech to teach the meek and weak
who seek some form of hope, some drip or some leak
I will yell at you, when whispers drown the drums in your ears I will reveal the fears you've been trying to conceal for years and I will bring out your ******* tears

Why? why would I ever want to make you cry?
I don't, I just don't want to see you make the same mistakes I did
said every mother father aunt uncle sister brother family member ever

Where am I going with this?
These are not the consecutively places lines
I have been assigned for the poetry class I sit in at nine
These are lines on paper portraying, redundantly saying why I sometimes wish I would die.
Sometimes.

One of those times the mirror in the bathroom was not silent or flat it screamed,
"FRIED fish is FRIED in OIL SATURATED with FAT"
as if I didn't already know that

One of those times occured directly after one of those times
and I will never have enough security cameras
and I will never have enough freedom

Because in this universe, we teach the entire history of how jesus came to be
but shun faith in the stars or the wisdom of mythology
Because in this universe, healthy food is instantly corrupted and corrupted healthy food will get in your head-wait, no. Society cannot simply manipulate my brain
Because in this universe, I was already born insane
In this universe a sixteen year old girl can be sexually assaulted 3 times
and still be expected to feel protected
In this universe, a sixteen year old girl can feel older than dirt, tired and disintegrating
there's no SSRI that'll chemically clog this hurt

But my friends still stand beside me
They're solitary statues saluting my salvation
we live on our own planet of alienation and whenever
I can't find the rocket fuel to propel myself from my own pit of despair
they know not to say much, they know the importance of just being there

There will be no one supporting me my entire life
I'm my own husband, lover, my wife
I am the criminal being charged with crime
I am the mouse in the clock moving the hands of time
with that time, lessons yearn to be learned
In this life, we all just want to be heard

While I stand in line to pick up my prozac,
the pharmacy’s preset radio
plays a cover version of a song
that I liked in high school.  
There was a time, amazingly,
when I was naïve to the comfort of prescriptions.
Floating through friends’ houses that were
too expensive to feel comfortable in,
gravel-speckled snow in mounds
mile-marking parking lots
while waiting for the 7:00 showing.
Teenage intimacy and
red bulls at a sweet sixteen,
trying to figure out the coolest way
to ask for a sip of the schnapps
that I know is hidden in that soda can,
parties I’m not sure I was invited to
and a 10:00 PM curfew.
Water pong with balled up aluminum foil
in a half-finished shed behind
his friend’s house in the dead of winter.
I wanted to feel like them,
incite my growth,
I know he was just trying to keep me clean.
He tried, but I got what I wanted.

Life was only worth living
With SSRIs in the system
It was only a matter of time
Before I regressed without them
Back to the bottom
Another AllTimeLow
The headaches
The despair
The empty
If I can’t live without you
Do I even deserve to live with you

tachyphylaxis - tach·y·phy·lax·is (tāk'ə-fĭ-lāk'sĭs)  n.
1.    A rapidly decreasing response to pleasure following initial administration.

I didn’t know this
demon had a name.
Ugly as it is it fits,
a random mish-mash
of unpleasant sounds
and equal unpleasantness
felt.

I’ve known the *******
forever, manifest in vitamin cures
and psychological processes,
SSRI’s and stabilizers.

He attends to the end of
affectionate loving and all
the designer vacations
you've ever taken.

He is the golden handcuffs of
square foot home ownership
and his business cards are
set in silver.

To put it bluntly
his continuous presence
is intent on destruction
of any contentment.

He is all things along the way
that appear so promising at first
but never last.

Synonymous with tolerance,
antonymous with precedence,


the antagonistic leaven of all living.

my therapist told me to write more. problem is, i can't write in my journal at this very moment because that may tip him off that i'm up to no good. ever since he's been living here with me, i haven't had the alone time i need in order to purge my feelings. so i keep them inside glass jars in my head, but my inventory is overflowing.

he once told me that he thought i was "one of those people who will never be happy". i wanted to be offended, but instead i shut down. that was months ago, and i still haven't fully woken up yet.

i've come to realize that i can't recall the times when i'm feeling better than "not okay." my therapist tells me that's one of my biggest obstacles. she tells me i need to learn how to recognize positive emotions, as if i didn't already ******* know that. sometimes i feel like therapy is simply flushing money down the toilet.

i haven't had any episodes recently. the ssri's keep my emotions from occurring at all. i've learned to accept that my baseline attitude is "blah". though i can't say that whenever they ask how i'm doing. no sir. maybe if i can convince them that i'm doing better, i can convince myself??

there aren't any decent movies that address mental illness. hollywood is just now starting to address the topics of race, sexuality, and feminism. but you'd think with 16 million depressed people in america, those elitist ******* could come up with some way i can show my family what it's like to live without life. maybe then they'll be able to understand why they shouldn't keep asking if i'm okay.

i told him that i just wanted some alone time today and he said, "have you taken your pills?"

i keep having these dreams where i'm trying to say something, but it won't come out. i've literally woken my dog up several times during the night, because i've actually yelled out loud due to the struggle in my dreams.

i went hiking last week in the hopes that nature would bring me clarity. it didn't. in fact, i feel crazier than ever. i kept seeing myself lying in the clear freshwater as the current took me away. i'm not saying that to be poetic. i actually had hallucinations.

i think i may have a drinking problem

Sometimes everything is broken
Sometimes everything is fine
Once in a while my pain is your fault
Mostly it is mine
Did Jesus ever get depressed
Do you think maybe he got down?
The only man who could walk on the water
Maybe instead wanted to drown?
I can relate to mixed emotions
I know what it's like to swing between extremes
Sometimes I feel like I could move mountains; oceans
Sometimes I just want to cease to be
The wild ride through downs and ups
There is medication that takes all of that away
Caring to much and not giving a ****
Knowing tomorrow wont ever feel just like today
If we are made in the image of God
Coming into this world chosen and anointed
Why is there times I feel like a fraud?
Why so often do we leave disappointed?
Does God take his Lithium
His SSRI's and his benzo's too?
If we are made in his perfect image
Then why can perfect feel so blue?
why is it that we all have something wrong?
Some deficiency or disorder
And why should we take our medication
When God is so bipolar?

To answer your question from earlier with a newfound clarity, we're over. I've been ready to let go, but unable to budge an answer from the woman of such few words. Well, tonight she dropped me, and it's official. She punched my sheet and gave it back for the last time, passing me back into the world without a hurtful word like I'd been her best employee.

What's it going to be like now, as the human slingshot? All the emotions long left to the side return to the hole the skeleton of our dull relationship dug from the dense pulp of my longing body. I'll be a bullet, the smallest pebble, toward a target picked at random.

That's what's called a faulty firing pattern. For all I've tried, the SSRI won't fix my inability to grasp the practice of foresight, so for once I'll have to really think about putting my foot in the door. A road like that leads to nothing but the worst I have to offer, and the worst the world finds it can give in return.

I want to love, but I don't want to date. What is dating? I feel too old, and if you tell me I'm not old by any standard, then I feel like I missed something. I want to love, but I want to do. As I do, I want to meet. And if I never, then that's fine. But I'd rather meet and make the silent hard sell in a moment of the truest definition of fiery, urgent complacency, than pick through peers and lovers like I'm at a thrift store bin.

What I want, is to do what I want, and do what I know I shouldn't do, while sometimes pretending it's this great disaster that I report in writing, type into boxes on screens that lead directly to the people most likely to benefit from hearing about repeated and semi-purposeful crash and burns.

My perpetual hope is that I'll catch lust's throbbing hand so well wrapped around my throat that I'll simply die. That I'll choke and choke until you, whoever you are, break the bones away and choke my lungs with blood. I hope for the spastic gasps that you'll confuse for last breaths, when I'm actually having an ******.

I can't be what I want to be
Cause to fail is easier
Then to fail to succeed
My generation is a new breed
Ready for a revaluation
But tripping over our own two feet
PTSD, ADD, ADHD
VHS , DVD,  MP3
I'm sick of these mental anomalies
Drug dealers with doctorates
Pushing band aids
For a brain aneurism
That may not even occurred yet
But your diagnosis
Is their proctosis
To line their pockets
With decaying presidents
So they don't feel a need
To take that SSRI
that to you they so desperately feed
Welcome to America
Home of the crave
And land of the greed
Hope you have enough stolen
Souls in your pocket
So that you may succeed

Taking medication may be fastening together the seams that could split. Between SSRI, HRT, and caffeine the moments speed, fleeting before I secure my grip. What's the point of living as a zombie losing opportunity through barely there fingers? I can be **** for you, I'm fond of pleading on my knees, tongue over my teeth, waiting patiently for my mouthful -- but what's point? What would it solve to introduce a controlled study meltdown? Well, I see the seasons coming at first light. Spring and Fall pull balance apart. So pull apart, because these meds don't help when my mind conspires without me, but with the world. Leave me alone. I'm caught gazing at the canvas in the white on walls. If it appears I'm choking, I am. I choke myself to gasping near to death as a means to depart from my leaden regret. Do I grow wings? No. Do I ascend? No. Do I myself then deify? No. It takes endlessly repeated little deaths to prevent permanent disintegration in passion's cruel flame.

The feeling is viscous. Impermeable.
I’m restless, doomed. I can’t explain
why I love art
but wear a lab coat, just
so I’m forced to remember
what life is worth.
I can’t find that in words.

A white noise, a terrible ringing. I
used to feel nothing. Not anything.
Now I hear my fear and anger competing.
I’m listless. Delusional.
My mind is irrational.
My heart says “don’t listen”
but I can’t always hear it.

I wouldn’t
hurt myself anymore, but sometimes
I can’t sleep on my side.
I’m balding from tearing
my hair out. Sometimes
I dream I’m pulling at wires
and on waking my palms are bleeding, sometimes

I wake up and I’m crying,
fingernails buried alive, and I’m prying them
out from under my skin.
But, these are just days the SSRI’s
aren’t working,
the days when I'm ill
and my whole body's hurting.

My dad is so sad - he says
“when will you stop them”
I say “hopefully never.”
He’s downtrodden. I’m sodden in rain.

I want to lie in bed today.
Is that okay? What if I
never get up? What if I forget
how to feel, and lie here
for weeks and weeks upon end?
I’m so afraid of
losing my mind again.

Thing about bipolar disorder. There is no cure and it's a mental illness.
The thing about bipolar disorder, I can be depressed for no reason or I can be restless for no reason.
The thing about bipolar disorder, there are times I see shadows moving not attached to anything.
The thing about bipolar disorder it can only be treated with antidepressants or an SSRI.

It was a dreary day,
not different than normal.

The sky was gray,
the air was damp.

My heart raced as I drove over the mountain.

I told myself over and over,
I am here to get better.

I will try to get better.

The doctor came in,
I started to cry.

I can’t let this out,
I will keep it inside.

As the time past,
that soon was a lie.

She asked me, “honey, do you have hope?”

I said “well, ma'am, I truly try.
I can see a better future,
But sometimes want to die.”

“Let’s try to fight these feelings,” she said.
“Would you try an SSRI?
We can face this as a team, you and I.”

I dropped my head,
I wiped my eyes,
I said “let’s give it a chance,
it cant hurt to try.”

Here I am.
6 months gone by.
I still feel alone,
but I don’t want to die.

I’m starting to see the beauty in things.
I’m starting to feel again.

Is this a chemical warfare,
that keeps me from feeling low?

Or is this a head trick,
a sugar pill,
a modern placebo?

Whatever it is, I am happy.
For a minute,
for a second,
for a moment,
I am happy.
I have hope.

If all the world’s a stage
then anxiety is a crisis actor

The trickster archetype
typecasting all my critical thoughts as truths

Into a monster of the weak
rogue gallery
of self-destructive episodes

Maybe it’s the lack of SSRI’s
but SI be like:

Since they slashed and burned
half the forest preserve
maybe you should slit your wrists
and self-immolate in the center of it;

Maybe you should spill
your guts like seppuku
at the center of Daley Plaza
underneath The Picasso
outside that Shepard Fairey exhibit
(Provocateurs; Block 37)
Call it an art instillation

If all else fails, I’ll just throw myself in front of a Tesla on the North Shore

Onset of first 2023 heatwave
found yours truly lulled to sleep
courtesy rattle and hum
(U2 can dreamily tread
where the streets have no name)
of oscillating fan.

Nestled under blankets,
the gentle whirring sound
soothes the savage beast
within mine body electric
of one generic, opportunistic,
and wholistic garden variety man.

Within blink of closed eye
yours truly transported
into the realm of deep sleep
benumbed to reality as unconscious guy
experiencing dynamic vivid dreams
courtesy Fluoxetine Hcl
(C17H18F3NO·HCl)
known as Selective
Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI),
especially prescribed to treat
depression, panic disorder,
and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Holmes tower fan whooshing air
analogous to sonogram (ultrasound)
infiltrates fumfering, slumbering
snoring schnorrer (me)
best not to awaken papa bear,
cuz he will roar loud and clear
disrupted sleep upends ability to function
no joking psyche dybbuk riddled

with profound anxiety and despair
subsequent havoc wrought
on par whereby mailer daemons ensnare
co opting, conquering,
and compromising blissful state
deadened head reveling
within private webbed world

regarding unscripted drama deep inside
temporal lobe of brain,
the hippocampus might conjure
time traveling circa Renaissance faire
wordsmith metaphorically possessed
remonstrated by fire breathing
amazing puffing magic dragon
lived by the sea
and frolicked in the autumn mist
in a land called Honah Lee
evidenced fiery breathing
affect nostrils to snort and flare

awoke from necessary dreams,
I would angrily glare
frightfully enough to induce goosebumps,
and raise every small hair
along spine uncontrollable fury
communicating shattered functionality
essentially rude awakening would impair
ability to experience joie de vivre.

Debilitating panic attack invariably triggered
similar to Tonga underwater volcano
eruption January 15th, 2022
constituting physiological displeasures
chiefly vertigo, racing heart, nausea,
excessive perspiration, adrenaline
coursing thru body,
whereby Prozac (brand name regarding

aforementioned synthesized chemical)
ameliorated unbearable,
unmanageable, untenable...
earth-shaking, devastating,
and crushing manifestations
disabling, exhausting, hijacking,
jackknifing, sabotaging, and wrecking
life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

Kickstarting psychological disequilibrium
linkedin with savoring
at least bajillion winks
else sixty plus shades of gray matter methinks
attempting to piece together logically
reasonable poetic rhyme
despite missing links
knotted courtesy cerebral gordian knotted kinks
yours truly feels discombobulated
teetering and tottering atop brinks
of figurative steep precipice.

Nestled under blankets,
the gentle whirring sound
soothes the savage beast
within mine body electric
of one generic, opportunistic,
and wholistic garden variety man.

Within blink of closed eye
yours truly transported
into the realm of deep sleep
benumbed to reality as unconscious guy
experiencing dynamic vivid dreams
courtesy Fluoxetine Hcl
(C17H18F3NO·HCl)
known as Selective
Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitor (SSRI),
especially prescribed to treat
depression, panic disorder,
and obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Holmes tower fan whooshing air
analogous to sonogram (ultrasound)
infiltrates slumbering snorer (me)
best not to awaken papa bear,
cuz he will roar loud and clear
disrupted sleep upends ability to function
no joking psyche riddled

with profound anxiety and despair
subsequent havoc wrought
on par whereby mailer daemons ensnare
co opting, conquering,
and compromising blissful state
deadened head reveling
within private webbed world

regarding unscripted drama deep inside
temporal lobe of brain,
the hippocampus might conjure
time traveling circa Renaissance faire
wordsmith metaphorically possessed
remonstrated by fire breathing dragon
evidenced fiery breathing
affect nostrils to snort and flare

awoke from necessary dreams,
I would angrily glare
frightfully enough to induce goosebumps,
and raise every small hair
along spine uncontrollable fury
communicating shattered functionality
essentially rude awakening would impair
ability to experience joie de vivre.

Debilitating panic attack invariably triggered
similar to Tonga underwater volcano
eruption January 15th, 2022
constituting physiological displeasures
chiefly vertigo, racing heart, nausea,
excessive perspiration, adrenaline
coursing thru body,
whereby Prozac (brand name regarding

aforementioned synthesized chemical)
ameliorated unbearable,
unmanageable, untenable...
earth-shaking, devastating,
and crushing manifestations
disabling, exhausting, hijacking,
jackknifing, sabotaging, and wrecking
life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness.

Kickstarting psychological equilibrium
linkedin with savoring at least bajillion winks
else sixty plus shades of gray matter methinks
knotted courtesy cerebral gordian knotted kinks
yours truly feels discombobulated
teetering and tottering atop brinks
of figurative precipice.

she writes in a haze and everything makes sense. if i was on ssri's i might take the risk over feeling like this. nevermind that was stupid to say because how can you know when you've experienced it. find a way to survive soon or this is gonna be a little bit messy.

i started to realize
that i didn't want the diagnosis
because i wanted to get better
i wanted the diagnosis because i wanted to be drugged up
to finally feel good, or to fade into nothing
my own sweet little oblivion
because if i just slept,
and didn't wake up, it wouldn't bother anyone

i've thought about a coma
how it might be my way out
to be unconscious for so long
to not wake up for months
maybe that would help me
just wait until everything is normal
until i'm normal

i've thought about taking the type of drugs that make you forget
the kind that makes it all go away
like that one SSRI i had
i woke up, and couldn't remember yesterday
or the last month
it felt good
until i had to write it all down
just so i didn't forget what i was doing

then i keep thinking nothing's wrong
that it's really just something wrong with me
that i've been lying to myself
that's what my mom says
and then my friends say to look into it
and my head is scrambling to pick up the pieces
of late night internet searches,
desperately trying to find some label to whats in my head
and only coming to the conclusion that it really isn't real

maybe i'm not real
and that's why i can never figure it out
maybe that's why my hands feel numb,
and all of the songs i listen to seem to rearrange themselves in my head
into words i don't want to hear anymore
maybe that's why there are some parts of me
i'd like to get rid
just to feel the weight of existence get off me