Things had cooled off a little—I’d finally had a bowel movement that accounted for the fact that I hadn’t had a proper bowel movement in a shameful amount of time; I had to dig it out of the toilet, of course, and dump it in the back yard—which is why, upon further study, I was switching from psyllium husk to a stool softener; clearly, the psyllium husk wasn’t doing what I’d hoped—moving the stool along so it wouldn’t sit around for so long. Now I was thinking: great, now that I’m not adding mass to my stool, I should have a bowel movement every three or four days as opposed to five or seven—and who knows, the stool softener might cut that in half, so that, well, I’d be going as often as I used to go in high-school—about every other day. That, at least, was the endgame, and, along with my sexual dysfunction, the reason for getting off risperidone, even though, as far as my thinking disorder goes, it worked as well as any reasonable person might’ve hoped.
Don’t think I wasn’t drinking a lot of water, either, because I most certainly was; but, to be honest, a lot of it was just going right through me—it wasn’t getting absorbed by my colon. that’s gross why are you telling people that? So, what? That’s what was going on with me—it was taking up a considerable portion of my thinking power; what was i supposed to do? Just bottle everything up inside? No, I had to explain my condition—I had to be me. She smiled; she understood: yes, I might be the greatest artist that ever lived, but, yes, I was subject to constipation like anybody else—more so than anybody else, because yes, I was schizophrenic, and I depended, at this time, on medication that made me constipated. Sorry to all for being gross, but so?
I was doing something about it—so buzz off. I don’t mean to stoke the flames and, yeah, so I was feeling kind of off; I hadn’t been projecting my voices as strictly as I was used to doing in the last six months or so, and I felt, well, unprotected. Sleep was a little off last night; I was lying there and i thought, what is this? Turns out I’d forgotten to take my medication the night before. But hey, I wonder, maybe that had something to do with the bowel movement I finally had. I’d gotten out of bed and taken two mg of risperidone instead of four to try and balance things out until I could get back on schedule. But I have to say—I think i was dangerously constipated—something that the risperidone alone hadn’t caused before; no, it was working in conjunction with this rogue psyllium husk—so yes, I wasn’t feeling at my best right now, i.e. a little shaky and unsure of myself, but I was looking forward to my next bowel movement already—if I have to wait another week again I might have to schedule an appointment sooner with somebody else—somebody that, hopefully, can get me off this risperidone and onto something that’s not going to make me miserable.
I had so many voices now, and I hardly used them all—it was too much; it was out of control, like when I’d dedicated myself to projecting 27 different women living with me. This raised a valid concern: when projecting my voices was I actually trying to shield myself from something that I had no reason to shield myself from? In other words, was my illness driving me to this? Was i trying to compensate for something that medication should be doing? Just yesterday I hurt my stomach a little from straining so hard—risperidone was beginning to backfire. I was a little worried about this; and, naturally, I might never partner with a woman for the rest of my life—but if I had the chance, well, I wanted to be ready, and the risperidone was making that impossible.
If I got off the risperidone I might also be able to get off the benztropine, which I had to take, again, because the risperidone made me involuntarily move my mouth around from time to time, like a tick. I’d had enough, frankly. i was pissed about this. But I was no fool: my condition was serious and required medication—i was worried that the other option, abilify, might not help me sleep, or might somehow interfere, making me restless. Other options looked pretty grim—causing constipation and sexual dysfunction like the risperidone. What was happening? I was uncomfortable, and wondering—do i feel this way because I forgot to take my risperidone last night? Another part of me thought, this is good, I’m going through an overdo change in my understanding of myself and what makes me happy—the life I should be living, and why I should be living it.
What was I even doing? I was suspicious, now, of Ursula. What was going on? When I used her voice I wondered if I was doing something wrong—instead of thinking about my telepathic developments. My voice had changed, too. I’d been recording songs—and my voice sounded different on my songs than I had been imagining it inside my head. Was this suspicion indicative of the lack of risperidone in my body? I didn’t know where to turn, so I turned to my stomach cancer uncle—absolutely not my smoker friend—who represented my relationship with Shakespeare, and tuned, as best i could, to his voice. But that just made me want to shift back to my voice—and Ursula’s voice. I was coming unglued. I declare, however, that I might’ve lost a couple pounds—I expected as much, based on the size of my stool, the stool that, I repeat, I had to dig out of the toilet and dump in the backyard, knowing, as I did, that there was no way the toilet could handle it.