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Rated: ASR · Short Story · Other · #1900204
Phoenix struggles with the loss of his antipsychotic...
Phoenix had energy, for sure.  There was no lack of that.  It was anxiety, though - nervous energy.  He was not worried, but instead just a quivering ball of ideas and thoughts that had to find voice or fruition somehow.  He had had breakfast with a friend and that went fine, but Phoenix was aware that his sensitivity meters were all fluctuating wildly as far as interpretation of stimuli of all kinds went.  There was too much stimulation at the restaurant.  Too many people.  Too many things to monitor at once.  His PTSD was getting the better of him.  He was unable to calm himself.  When he got home, he played his guitar for a while, attempting to soothe himself, but to no avail.  His spouse arrived home and he had an hour and a half long conversation...standing up.  His gestures were broad during their talk and the emphasis in his voice was noticeable as very expressive.  What was going on?  He was off his antipsychotic.  His doctor had not instructed him to do so yet, but he had decided to go all the way off of the antipsychotic as long as he was having to half his regular doses and alternate them with quarter doses every other day anyway.  Today he had not had any.

The ideas flowed.  The inspiration and sensitivity were turned up on high in his chest.  Thoughts spun around in his mind.  He wanted to do everything, and he wanted to do it all at once.  He decided to write about what was going on with him.  He went to the coffee shop and got out his laptop.  Phoenix had no choice but to type.  He typed and typed, quickly at that.  He was normally a quick typist as it was, but the speed at which he was typing amazed those sitting at the tables around him.  He noticed that a few of them were looking at him.  How should he interpret this?  He wondered these things to himself, faintly smiling at the other people and going back to concentrating on his writing.  There were many stimuli at the coffee shop.  He noticed the conversations of others.  His hearing was enhanced, but to a point that was detrimental.  He caught parts of one conversation, parts of another, in between the noises of the coffee grinders and steamers and running faucets.  One woman used the word "manic" nonchalantly, as if it were a simple matter and not a symptom of a mental disorder or medical condition.  Phoenix hated it when people used words of such importance as if they had none, as if they were common and nothing to worry about.  He hated it when they used them incorrectly.  Phoenix heard the coughs of an older man behind him, the shallow topics of conversation being talked about in a dramatic fashion by the two women sitting at the table in front of him as if they were life and death matters...

Phoenix had brought his Spanish Bible with him to the coffee shop.  He thought maybe that would be something to calm him.  He loved Spanish - the language was beautiful.  English speakers, he thought, had no idea what they were missing.  "Our tongues are lazy," Phoenix thought, as far as speaking English went versus speaking Spanish.  Spanish was such an energetic language, and it carried with it such passion, such precision, such complexity within simple sounds.  Phoenix was excited by Spanish and wanted so badly to be able to comprehend it, to write it, to read it, to speak it, to know it inside and out as he did English, yet not to become lazy about it as he had with his native tongue.  Phoenix stopped typing.  The energy was still with him.  He decided to put it into reading his Spanish Bible or writing some Spanish poetry.  He had to meet his case manager in less than an hour and he needed to be significantly calmer than he was to visit with her without her noticing his symptoms.  But why did he have to hide them from her?  He did not.  That was the point of the thing.  He did not have to hide anything.  He could show his true self.  He could show his true symptoms.  How else would they know that he needed help?  How else would they know?
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