Wednesday, November 12, 2008

language, anxiety, etc

Thinking about language this morning. Yesterday no language did me any good, I couldn't settle into my skin and came home early with a fever. I slept most of the afternoon, my dreams commonly delirious. Maybe it's the moon. Waking up I still couldn't settle into my skin and felt I would slip out of it at any instant. It is horrible and uncomfortable not to fit in one's own body. I left my apartment and took my fever out into the night and walked around my neighborhood but it did me no good. I came home and tried to write but the pen didn't fit in my hand and nothing made any sense after I wrote it. I couldn't handle it so I dipped into the orange bottle, split an anti-anxiety pill in half, swallowed it and disappeared from myself until this morning.

There are a lot of famous dead writers who went crazy or fell into drugs or alcohol. Lots of depression too among writers. I had a theory once that maybe artists feel things more than other humans because we are the emotional historians of the world and it is our job to document. I don't know if it is true. I am not swinging one way or another these days; I'm not happy nor am I sad. My life is quiet and ordinary, maybe that's what is making me crazy. My anxiety attacks are a recent development in my life, less than a year old. I haven't had many in the last half-year, the distractions have been good. It bothers me that the writing dries up at times like this. This is when it would do the most good.

Baby Blues
Andrea Echeverri

No comments: