what are you cooking up now? then my pot smoker friend said something, but I couldn’t understand him. then he said, now. As if, at this time of my life, everything about me was beginning right now. Someone unknown said, “i’m trying to stave off disaster,” and it sounded kind of like my default narrator. Now you’re going to try this, my pot smoker friend said – and I’m going tell you I revolutionized pottery, my smoker friend said. I didn’t really care. I didn’t really care about them—or anything they were saying, at least not in this moment, except for me, and I was a little irked by me because he refused to let me function with a decent level of dopamine and testosterone in my body. I got a whiff of the other side, last night, though, as I forgot to take my medicine, and I woke up, unable to get back to sleep, keeping time with my foot, and wondering what was going on. Around 5 I got up to take my morning meds, and I saw that I hadn’t taken my evening meds, so i took half of them, went back to bed for an hour, and felt fine.
Being awake at night is not acceptable for me; therefore, if He’d kept me on risperidone because of that, then I was better off. But I didn’t see why I couldn’t have the best of both worlds—a little dopamine for my intestines, my sexuality, and I kind of wanted to get back to normal testosterone levels, as, I think, that had something to do with my sexual identity. What if I got off the risperidone, and, in getting my desire back, I wanted men and men only? If that happened so be it—but that wasn’t going to happen because I was more heterosexual than I was homosexual—that was settled. I didn’t doubt my sexuality so much anymore—mainly just my ability feel desire, and have sex. I tried to explain that to Ursula, and she got this serious look on her face. She became very alert—and she was confident enough in her beauty that she didn’t take my problem and make it her problem—that is, her feeling about her sexuality and how beautiful she was didn’t change when I told her that it was impossible for me to have sex.
She was the real deal, for both others and me; she was going to bring the melting pot to the foreground, which, in my opinion, would eventually mean that you’d have more diversity—you’d give birth to a child with white skin or black skin—any kind of hair, etc., and then the next child might look completely different. That’s how I saw the melting pot working out, anyhow. So no, I wasn’t afraid that the melting pot was going to make us all alike—and all the color would be stripped from the human race. But, you know what? Even if it did, we’d get used to it, until we felt that we, as one race and one kind, were superior to every race that came before. You’ve got it all figured out, Ursula said. You’re going somewhere, kid, my pot smoker friend said. As far as that goes, I was a little amazed that people didn’t do more with their lives—I mean, how did people get on, when they spent so much time partying—or just watching tv?
You’ve been reading for years, Ursula said. And, to be honest, I set out to read a lot when I was younger, to prepare me to become the man I am today; but there were times when I thought I could speed read, and I missed out on a lot, from a lot of books, when I did that. I don’t remember anymore what I actually read and what I didn’t. But, even still, I read a lot of books normally, too. Because I was getting ready for this. So I could learn, and incorporate what proved to work, and use that, in combination with my background, to make the art I’m making today. How does it suit you? that was my narrator, the big Me, as opposed to me, the one that sounded a little different, like on a recording. Another one bites the dust. But this was getting annoying—people were saying things to me, but I didn’t know what they were talking about—everything seemed totally random and disconnected. I didn’t doubt that there was some deeper meaning to all this, just like I don’t doubt that, when I’m not taking my medication, I become aware of a deeper meaning or structure that makes up the background, but the fact of the matter is that nothing like that was helpful—i needed to process information in systematic units—things that didn’t send me on a wild goose chase in a room full of mirrors, things that were not good for me, since I couldn’t function that way—it was all too much—and what was it? I think it was the future.
So I was on day 8 or day 9 of not having a bowel movement—and, indeed, today I let out a small clump, which was nothing compared to all the food I’ve eaten over the past week; my suppositories arrived today—they were supposed to work in 15 to 60 minutes. And I’d ordered some bisacodyl in pill form, today, too, that was supposed to work in a day. I wanted to try that before I used a suppository. So I had a plan—and I was going to be fine without going to the doctor—for now. Then, in a few weeks, well, I’ve got my fingers crossed, but, hopefully, I’ll transition off the risperidone and find something that works instead—without blocking all my dopamine. But did Ursula need to know this? Would it be off-putting to imagine me loaded to thee brim with stool? It could be, and so, well, I told her anyhow—I figured, if she was going to take a chance on my being sane without relapses, then I owed her updates and full transparency when it come to how I was treating my condition—and how, in doing so, I was ok.