The Slightest Pressure
Tuesday, November 14th, 2000 (continued). A journal entry:
I began reading J.D. Salinger’s “For Esmé — with Love and Squalor,” from Nine Stories, a night or two ago. If I had to pick between this story and The Catcher in the Rye to keep, I don’t know which one I’d pick.
I’ve been having electrical sensations in my head for at least the past ten days. (Since I lost Internet access and stopped posting to paxilprogress.org a few weeks ago, I haven’t been keeping detailed records.) I find them as disturbing now as I did when I first experienced them in July.
For the past 69 days since I began the weaning process, I’ve been doing everything I could to keep an active mind. I’ve been reading and writing as much as possible. I don’t know about the writing, but the reading has been intellectual stuff — Aristotle’s Ethics, that kind of thing.
But for the past ten days or so I haven’t been able to stick to anything. I’ve barely touched the Aristotle book. I open to where I left off and before I even finish the first paragraph I’m saying, “I can’t read this.” The electrical shocks that take off from behind my eyes (often while I’m reading) and then surge through the inside of my head have left a mark on me. They’re wiping me out.