Steppenwolfen's bid to tea

Notes on the mental malady and strife of a gregarious loner

quoi faire

quoi faire

It’s been a while since the last post.
No energy left to think, let alone write.
I only leave the flat for therapy and to play concerts, and I’m taking benzodiazepine to cope with the anxiety. I feel I’m losing this fight.
I feel like throwing in the towel, but I don’t want to hurt my loved ones that way.



Today I went to the dentist to have two teeth extracted. Four more to be removed, still. (Due to years and years of self-neglect and self-destructive behaviour, I have bad teeth).
It’s a right bloody mess inside my oral cavity, and I’m popping lots of painkillers, but apart from that I’m just glad to have made it to the appointment – despite anxiety and depression.
Little steps to put my life back together…

ubi sum? ubi vadam?

ubi sum? ubi vadam?

To hell with this fucking illness and everything that goes with it.
It has me feeling completely handicapped, drained, terrified.
I’m back on Quetiapine but so far it hasn’t shown any significant impact.
Not sure how much longer I’ll last.
I need this drug to work.

the tinker

the tinker

The doc’s still tinkering with my medication. He’s added in Zyprexa for anxiety and sensory overload, and so far – nausea, dry mouth misery and feeding frenzy aside – I’m feeling rather pleasantly stoned. No more mental noise and cycling thoughts. Nary a suicidal ideation.
On the other hand, the sudden absence of a constant companion has left me a bit stumped, and I felt compelled to emulate said hubbub in my head in order to fill the void.
So I dug out this old cover of a Rio Reiser song, recorded some samples with a harmonium, a wurly, a guitar and stuff I found in the recycling bin, then slapped it all together in garage band. Voilà le rumpus.

band practice

band practice

the small escape

the small escape

Last night we took Black Dog for dinner.
Angry rain drummed hard on our windscreen,
as Hungry Hound puled along to the ribbing humming Moogerfooger wafting out of the car radio.
When we crossed the border into Belle France,
we knew the only way is up.
So we grew 360 feet tall,
ascended the thrown, then rested paws in a restaurant that rattled and rotated like an old, stoically diutiful circus elephant, ponderously pirouetting above the city of mills.
Our menu was composed of ‘frites’, some sophisticated greens, ‘sauce béarnaise’ and 584 degrees of unexpected insouciance. For a few hours, I actually felt sane and serene.

Merci, chéri. C’était joli.

treasures, tea and trazodone

treasures, tea and trazodone

Told my tale of woe to the therapist today. He suggested that I’d recommence pharmacotherapy, for lack of treatment options. So I walked out with a prescription of yet another antidepressant, along with zolpidem (a soporific) and good old lorazepam.
I’m ambivalent and certainly not thrilled about embarking on another druggy odyssey, but as things are right now, I’d give anything to escape suicidal ruminating and gaining a little sleep instead.

Spent the rest of the day with my darling man and Rab, a former band mate and now dear friend who had us over for tea. Rab has got the most infectious, massively resounding laugh that never fails to lift my spirits. We sat on the balcony together until the sun had set, then said goodbye, promising to see one another again soon.
It might be a hackneyed phrase but to me, good friends are rare gems.
It’s ties of love and friendship that keep me alive.

psych-atrophic misery drowned in alphabet soup

psych-atrophic misery drowned in alphabet soup

One of the reasons to start this blog was to counteract my poverty of speech and overcome writer’s block by reading and writing as much as possible. And so far, I’m thrilled and awestruck by the sheer abundance of elaborateness, vivacity and wit found on this site. The writing bit, however, is already proving to be a real struggle, as sleep deprivation is taking its toll now: Grammar and expressive vocabulary are dramatically deteriorating by the minute, as well as the ability to form coherent thoughts. I’ve grown taciturn and only talk in fragments.
(Thankfully, I’ll see the doc tomorrow. Think I’m ready for sleeping pills). Anyhow, at times like these I’m prone to resort to drawing as a means of communication. Hence the doodling. So yeah, there will be lots and lots of doodling.

Microsteps towards normalcy // day I

Goodnight & sweet slumber to all ye sleepless ones.


For the past few months my sleep cycle’s been in utter shambles. I’m up at night, feeling sluggish, lethargic and restless and agitated all at the same time. Any traces of my wanting to be productive and creative have long been smothered by massive leaden piles of inertia. Inside my head there’s a perpetual merry-go-round of negative thoughts whirling around that has me gasping for air. It’s quite a bit of a struggle to blind out that constant, damaging mental noise. One way is to seek distraction in books, movies, documentaries and such. I then usually collapse into sleep, with my head on the laptop, ’round about the time when the majority of jobholders commute to work, and my morning begins just about when the average wage earner clocks off. By then, I will yet have missed another appointment with my social worker. Filled up to the brim with guilt I will feel too ashamed to phone her up and ask for a new date. (I’m almost always too ashamed, too scared, too sensitive, too sickish,  too depressed, too suicidal, too you name it to make phone calls, answer letters, run errands, go food shopping, meet up with my friends at that hip café, and certainly too ‘all of the above’ to just go out with a bunch of mates and have fun.)

Anyways, as a result of my depression and anxiety I currently do not hold a job. Never have, really. Although I did work during my time as a student but rarely lasted longer than 6 months. I left uni with no degree, delved into a big black hole, before committing myself to a psych ward and starting long term treatment. Now, a good 3 years later, I’m still in therapy (as an out-patient). I’m not sure whether those hundreds of hours of pharmacotherapy, ergotherapy, music therapy, progressive muscle relaxation, counselling, group therapy, cognitive behavioural therapy, aroma therapy, psychoanalysis, and many a’other remedies have brought me any closer to convalescence. One thing’s sure: the various antidepressants I’d been given didn’t become manifest in signs of recovery rather than in manifold side effects. (I reckon there’s about 40 antidepressants on the market. At the moment I’m quite fed up with these tablets and capsules but who knows, sheer despondency might prompt me to test and swallow many more of them, so that I might find the one that will ‘fix me’, or at least alleviate the pain.

I’m lucky to have found a good shrink with whom I can be completely honest. He’s been away on leave for a while, so I’m rather impatient to go and see him. It’s currently the only place where I can unburden my mind. I normally share everything with my partner (who’s also my best friend) but he’s recently lost a parent and is still grieving. I don’t want to drag him down or worry him with my chronic depression and suicidal thoughts.The latter ones thrive on insomnia, especially when all distraction techniques and coping methods fail to keep me from feeling that void inside myself. It’s at moments like these, when utter hopelessness really hits me and I feel so drained and worn out, that I want to end it all. Insomnia can drive you to complete exhaustion – emotionally and physically. It will worsen your depressive tunnel vision and constrictive thinking, leading you to the conclusion that the only way out of this hell, the only way to end the agony and pain, is to commit suicide. A dark maelstrom that I plunge into every night.


Babble, babble, blah, I’m on a rant… I shall stop now.

8:35am. I really should give my social worker a call.

Bye for now & thanks for bearing with me!


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