Inside a broken clock

I have not been just absent from here, but from everything.  Sometime in April I fell into an oblivion.  I drew a long conscious breath on the 3^rd of May.  I only know this because I felt compelled to write but never posted because, suddenly, I was back to the shadows.  I first blamed it on a magnesium overdose and then realized I had not taken any magnesium or my prescribed meds for weeks…and here we are, a month after that and I have neglected my meds…for two months.  It is an incredibly stupid thing to do.

I have had three days of fairly heavy anxiety, I suspect brought on by thinking about my dying friend, who left us this morning.  I am letting guilt punish me and feeling like I deserve it for not following her example.  She enjoyed every moment and I am wired such a different way.  Today I considered if my quantum reality of knowing her was to observe her wonder.  To be inspired, even if I am too paralyzed most days to act on it.

Are we, the mentally ill, the story tellers?  The ones lurking in dark shadows marveling at the bright stars, reduced to tears by beauty in what ever form we see it.  The feelers, wailing out the heavy weight of emotion brought on by existence. Artists trying to learn how to live with our turbulent minds and souls.  Occasionally, some of us, finding the medium to let it pour out to the awe of others.  I want this to be true.

This evening I am considering my dissociation. It is the longest one I can remember in my sketchy memory, and wondering if it is over now, or, if I am just surfacing for a deep breath to go back under.  The fantasist in me wonders if I went to another reality. I want this to be true as well.  Unfortunately, if it is, I brought nothing back to report.