2:39 PM: I am still afflicted by urges, but they are more subtle. They are less urgent and easier to squelch. When I do think of drinking (or smoking), it is in the vein of a hedonistic indulgence; I think of the physical sensations and how pleasant they would be. I still romanticize it in this way. However, the tidal pull toward the deep end simply isn’t there. The inescapable pressure with a singular and certain relief is absent. I feel as if, sometimes, I would like to drink. I do not feel as if I need to drink. This distinction is significant.
Of course, no positive life change is complete without contemplation of its cruel and swift demise, creating a condition even worse by contrast. I have considered what should occur if the Wellbutrin were to suddenly be reduced in its effect or if I were to stop taking it altogether. A bottle of dashed dreams and broken promises is likely to be what should occur. I am wrought with shame and guilt at the very thought of it, as if it were somehow predetermined and this is merely a brief space to breathe before an inevitable plunge into the abyss. The whole thing is fucked.
On the 18th, I remained deliberate in casting concerns aside and being present with others. I finished what I needed to the following day and I lost nothing, but gained meaningful time.
Today I will focus on letting go of the visceral demand to hurry, for any reason, and remain present in whatever it is I am doing. I suppose I am cultivating a sort of calculated procrastination founded in profundity. Or I’m simply being deliberately lazy and detached to avoid having a fucking rage-stroke.
3:14 AM (21st): I let go of unnecessary urgency many times today within the confines of time constraints, but still felt compelled to complete everything I set out to do today, including this journal entry, for the sake of it. I have found that thus is the danger in making lists. I tend to push through, unable to let a single item go, or become so overwhelmed that I don’t bother to do anything. With that said, it is a relief to have put a small dent in the disaster that is the downstairs back bedroom.
