Spent the whole day finishing a script. Then I thought I’d hit the gym for an hour. Then revisions. And revisions. Patingi-tinging revisions. And I don’t even know if I still have a job after this month. So that’s a source of anxiety. Then you called and it was sweet even after I freaked out on you yesterday (or was it two days ago?) when my brain was still adjusting to my psych meds (umped the dosage, made me really crazy. Couldn’t get inside a building. It was really that crazy). Apparently you know how to de-escalate. Every time I tell you to stop calling me (ah the drama!), you send a perfectly sensible text message and I’m back again to wanting you (and I don’t even know if you want me, too). Now I’m done with the script, followed your advice (maybe you’re right, what’s the rush), and I’m thinking of you. At four in the morning. After a stressful day. And I’m thinking, you know I might marry you someday. Or not. Or maybe I’d be ruined after this. But I don’t know. It seems like …
Showing posts from March, 2017
With my meds failing on me, I begin to crave for a more potent elixir, something with claws, something that punctures the veins and go straight into my heart in a matter of seconds. But I have a deadline to finish, a script about a young girl hounded by demons. How apropros no? My life is once again tragic and comic. I seesaw from a sinister grimace to a demented smile. I go online and Google my condition, hoping that with science I could understand what I couldn’t see but only feel.