It’s early Sunday evening and Downton Abbey is starting soon here on the eastcoast. I’m still debating on whether or not I’m going to watch it live since I’ve already seen this season that is about to be shown in the US. I also know what happens at the Christmas episode too, and really, if you watch DA long enough, you begin to realise Julian Fellowes has a pattern and that pattern must be kept to. The English must keep to their schedules after all.
On Friday I called Dr. H to discuss the status of my drugs. We have phone appointments set for every Friday from now until my next appointment with him at the end of the month. Presumably the idea is I see him once a month, but phone every week, and see my therapist Dr. P every week. Dr. H. has decided to up my lithium to 900mg (300mg in the morning, 600mg at night). Apparently the average therapeutic dose is 1800mg. I’m to stay on Concerta at the current dose. I’m to continue to keep track of my feelings and moods and report back to him next week during our next phone appointment.
After we hung up, I proceeded to have a minor panic attack because I’m having an atypical side effect, extreme feeling of cold, and I don’t know what to do. As I had forgotten to mention this during our initial phone call, I opted to read Doctor Google about the side effects of Lithium which sent me into a tail spin of AMG I AM DYING.
Obviously, I’m not dead.
Or having cardiovascular collapse, which happens in very rare cases due to lithium toxicity. But the side effets listed on the page don’t mention it’s not a singular side effect but it’s a combination of all of those things that will put you into physical distress. I called Dr. H. back; he explained; I felt better. Problem solved.
But fuck Doctor Google.
I was overly productive in the last couple of days in writing, getting up a few short stories up to my Beta Readers and working on a few more. I plowed through my files looking for more snippets or starts I could expand on, so I could start working on those pieces. Instead, I ended up reading a lot of things I wrote a decade or two ago, and instead of finding myself depressed or lost for time gone, it ended up energizing me.
I was hesitant about visiting those pieces, sure that seeing that much raw power would depress me because the output of the years hasn’t been the same since that period. But I knew then, what I know now: That a few particular pieces were glorious and while some may come close to that power, and maybe one or two would surpass it, its rhythm and depth could never be exactly matched. It takes youth to have that kind of raw vitality, and while I’m still youthful (and vain enough to think I can produce more like that), there is something gorgeous about the pure consciousness of your early 20s.
Twenty three year old Lisa was wondrous in all of her faults, desperation, and earnestness. She was never afraid to rip back all the layers of pretention and love fiercely, love wholly, and live completely. The pureness of her energy, and of her innocence, is almost breathtaking to witness, even in written form.
I love her, and it really doesn’t get any more real than that.