I am in Penang, Malaysia, sitting in a cozy hotel lobby in downtown Georgetown, early in the morning, sipping a coffee, watching the empty, rainy street, wondering how I got here.
Do you know that song from Talking Heads? I think it’s called Once in a lifetime.
It goes like this:
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?”
Well? How did I get here?
On the surface? Yes, I know the answer. I wanted to see my long distance girlfriend somewhere in the world before I start my new job in Canada. She couldn’t get a Canadian visa, nor an Indian visa. So, we decided on Malaysia, since neither of us has been to this South East Asian country.
That’s how the story goes on the surface.
But what about this pressing question How did I get here?. This surreal feeling of being in a dream within a dream, wandering aimlessly, waiting for the inevitable, always asking myself, Who am I?, How did I get here?, or Are you feeling what I am feeling?, and the best one out of all, What the hell is this damn thing I am feeling?.
So, what is it that I am feeling?
Constant thinking, that’s for sure. Thinking about the people I’ve met along the way, past lovers, past traumas, dramas, faces, and words echoing through time. Of course, how can we forget about the future? So, I think about that as well. Constant thoughts about how the current relationship will play out, how will it falter, and when will it falter. Obsessive thoughts about my place in this world, where will I live, how will five years look like. Ten? Twenty? This constant thinking is another kind of addiction. It doesn’t fully go away even when I sleep.
My subconscious is like a dimly lit, old factory; rusty and creaky, but open 24/7. There are always worker minions passionately, and enthusiastically, spinning the wheel, and making sure that the show goes on; making sure that I see all that they show. I can’t refuse to see what they show. I can’t turn it off, close my eyes or look away. Remember how Alex’s eyes were pryed to keep them open in The Clockwork Orange? Remember?
None of this bothered me until recently.
I’ve always considered myself creative. I’ve written about one feature length film script, and four more short film scripts, twenty three short stories, and about 80 videos for YouTube. I’ve never considered even remotely, the possibility of my creativity drying up. That is until I started taking anti-depressants to treat my anxiety and depression.
It’s been more than six months now since I started taking them. Not a huge dose by any means. It definitely stopped me from having raging crying attacks, and I am not slapping or hitting myself anymore. Very good. My friend and I call my panic attacks metal concerts because there’s a lot of head banging involved. Those were always disturbing. I’ve always known that they were kinda fucked up, even while I am in the middle of one.
The pills not only took my ability to go through these intense negative spells, but also took my positive spells away. No excitement, great happiness, no intense emotions of any kind, be it positive or negative. I think therein lies the problem. The anti-depressants work essentially by zombifying you. It puts you in a state of emotional numbness. It’s not to say that I don’t feel anything. I am still me. I still feel everything. Just far inside the crevices of my subconscious. The pills just pressed the mute button. It’s like watching a horror film on mute. So, yes, I can feel my creativity running dry.
Even this blog is an excercise to challenge this numb state. Ok, maybe I cannot think up a great story. But I can vomit on page, write everything I’ve been feeling lately.
So, you are very welcome, if you are reading this.
Not all of it are the pills. My refusal to “feel” in romantic relationships, my need to run away, my need to push people away, my frequent sexual impotency. That’s all me. Oh trust me, I am very tempted to blame the pills for all of my doing, and sometimes I do. But it’s early in the morning, and coffee hasn’t fully kicked in yet. So, I decided to be honest.
I am eternally thankful for the pills as I don’t go through my self-harm episodes anymore. But it does come at a cost. I am thinking of reducing my dose, eventually come out of it in a few months, and meanwhile look for other means to deal with my depression and anxiety.
Religion? God? Meditation? Worship Satan? Joining a cult?
You tell me.
Autoboy Chronicles 