2ND DECEMBER 2001 AD

The grip of depression continues. I'm just now after 3 typically depressive days: lying in bed, punctuated by physiological activities and reading the book "Negotiator" by Frederick Forsyth. I wanted to see how long I could last on my own, without going out and on poor grub. Until Sunday evening, I didn't eat meat - which is almost three days. That's also how long I lasted in my flat, dreaming and dreaming of summer and better times. I had a lot of interesting dreams, but I only remember two - one about an old colleague and the other about a strange school in Germany, resembling a sanatorium psychiatric ward at times. There was only a snapshot with the colleague - I remember it was summer and he said to me: 'Come for a beer. For loosening your tongue and for airing out your lungs". He got up and went.
From the school, too, I remember only fragments. The building was wooden, there were few children and they were of different ages. I used to walk around with some kind of diary (like my diaries from primary school) and ask the other teachers how to enter the marks. Such a reminiscence from late 1999-early 2000s when I was teaching children in the village. The memory perfectly preserved the feeling of embarrassment. For my fragile psyche it was a horror - especially towards the end. The pressure became unbearable and the psyche 'escaped into mania'. No wonder. I was not prepared to work with children, especially difficult ones. Fortunately, the dream was not a nightmare. It was only puzzling. But it reminded me of an infamous past.

I was glad my parents had come to see me, because I had had enough of loneliness and ... hunger. A visit from my parents meant being taken home and having a good lunch and dinner. I forgot to make sure I took my medication, but lately, even when I didn't take anything, I felt bad - very depressed. Suicidal thoughts have been less frequent, maybe the end of the depression is coming -- GOD grant it!!!Anyway, it looks like a truce - less thoughts of a final solution, but I still can't get up myself. I make an appointment and don't come. In this cold I don't want to go out. Maybe I've lost face in this faceless time. I was supposed to write, but I don't even want to do that. Anyway, I'm not always inspired. There's nothing interesting going on in my life, I'm jealous of my neighbours having someone visit them, I'm jealous of the brunette dyed blonde and the blonde the grey and the quiet children. At the same time, I'm still annoyed by the noises these people make, especially at night when they leave the party at the blonde ondyna's and the brunette's. Yesterday one was tapping her heels so hard on the stairs that out of curiosity I ran up to the judas to have a look, but she was so pretty that I decided not to snitch on the brunette to the co-op for disturbing the quiet of the night. Now I find that it reflects badly on me that I can't bear to be alone and calmly write about the decline of the 'fine psyche'(great psyche), only having to look at people through the peephole.

One of the reasons was the wrong programme, as my favourite psychiatrist stated: "Change the programme, Paul, change the programme." - he used to say. But what he didn't know was that his programme was too difficult for me and unacceptable to my parents and my sensitive psyche. At the time I was with him, I was also suffering from depression, three in total I think: endogenous, post-neuroleptic and autumn-winter depression. I was anaesthetised and knocked down by medication - at first I was under the effects of a Fluanxol injection and I was very stiff and depressed.
My drive was very lowered - as it is today. Meanwhile, he was in full swing, getting laid two or three ladies in a week and didn't understand how I could lie around and do nothing. He had an interesting lifestyle, but unfortunately he could not cure me. He understood mania -- as rebellion -- but depression, especially a depression as deep as mine, this life and ass loving doctor could no longer understand.