Phoenix has another rough Sunday...
|Phoenix had gone drinking the night before with his friend. They had a wine and movie night. Phoenix's spouse picked him up at around 2230. He had not overdone it, but he felt the effects of the red wine and the peach strawberry sangria. Phoenix could not drink much due to his many medications, but he could drink some. The effects of both the alcohol and the medication were definitely enhanced. He fell into bed as soon as he had changed out of his clothes and went to sleep.
Phoenix woke up at 0248 Sunday morning and could not sleep. That was not unusual for Phoenix at all. At least his normal rhythms with the nightmares were not affected by the alcohol. Phoenix sighed and got out of bed. He went to his computer and ordered a classical guitar method and a book of beginner's solos - 50 of them - for classical guitar from a website online. He wanted to learn to play properly and he wanted to be able to play some of the best music out there. By 0317, he was tired enough to go back to bed and attempt sleeping again. He awoke again at 0710. Nightmares. Always the nightmares. Oh, well. This had been the man's life for years now. Thirteen of them. Over a decade. Good old Kuwait. Phoenix got up and put the acoustic guitar practice CD on his iPod to listen to. He was immediately tired again, and went back to bed. The next time he woke up, it was time for church to start. Phoenix had not gone to church in several years, but always felt guilty about not going. He laid in bed looking at the clock. 0959. He should be there. He covered his head with the blanket and hid as his spouse got ready to go to Wal-Mart for cereal, saltines, and what else? Pork and beans. Oh, yes, pork and beans. Phoenix got out of bed once his spouse had left and wandered around the apartment in his pajamas. Eating some cereal would help. He got out the box and noticed that his spouse had been into the cereal, as the bag was not rolled up to keep the cereal from getting stale, but was instead open. Phoenix left it that way after pouring himself a cottage cheese container half full of cereal. After finishing his breakfast, he took his medication. Exhausted, Phoenix could not figure out what exactly was wrong, but he hoped that it had been the alcohol the night before.
Phoenix got out his guitar. That beautiful guitar in his hands felt great. He could play it. That was the point. Phoenix could play the guitar. "Tum Balalaika" was his favorite so far. He had not progressed beyond this the day before, however. The notation in the book got complicated and Phoenix did not understand how it was structured. "The House of the Rising Sun" was printed later in the book, and Phoenix wanted to get to that song because he knew it and liked it. It was written in that terribly complicated notation, though. Phoenix's cell phone rang. It was his mother asking him if he had weighed himself that morning. They were starting a new accountability program for diet and exercise that morning. He had weighed himself and the scale read 198 pounds. His mother and he agreed to do fifteen minutes of exercise that day, she on the bike and he on his treadmill. His mother promised to call later to confirm that he had exercised and Phoenix bid her goodbye, looking forward to the kick in the butt that his mother was providing. Phoenix put his guitar away and studied the explanation of the confusing notation. He found himself feeling depressed. Perhaps changing into his clothes would help. He put his jeans, socks, ankle brace, and shoes on. That did not, however, make him feel any better. He desperately wanted to transpose the impossible notation into something he could understand, something he could play. Phoenix was stuck. Already being stuck in his new hobby was not a good sign and he began to catastrophize about it. That was a bad sign. That was a sure sign that Phoenix was clinically decompensating in his depression. Why was he depressed? There seemed to be no reason at times. Other times, there was a clear reason, but the underlying reasons always escaped Phoenix until he thought about them. They soon became obvious when he thought about them, but the focus on such thoughts made the decompensation even worse, and Phoenix wanted to avoid that if he could. He knew better than to begin brooding on these things. Phoenix walked into the kitchen and looked at the calendar. Only three more days until he had another ECT. Wednesday was the day. Phoenix was thankful for that and told himself that he could make it that long. This could be a long, rough, day. Another Sunday.