The day before yesterday I ran out of piracetam - first time in about a year. So yesterday & all of today before 3:45p I got to understand the washout.
Yesterday without was fine, but less dreams at night. The night before last I slept about the same but didn't wake up so refreshed. Not groggy per se. but just slow-minded. It took me about 15% longer than usual to do the daily wakeup chores.
Last night I looked at the orange sodium streetlights. They're my gauge for saturation and luminance dynamic range at night. They were duller, less colourful. Their edges weren't razor sharp anymore - instead, a bit blurry. I had few significant thoughts, and went to bed. Sleep came quicker but without the splendid dreams.
Fish oil can't do much alone - even combined with the other boatload of supplements I take. Everything combined is only at most five percent of my brain function - the other 95% is piracetam.
Waking up this morning, brain was really slow. Totally unlike the last year. Took 60% longer to complete morning chores. Through the day, even though vision was still relatively sharp - I had the sense of forgetting something. The quick fear that comes, the scramble through stuff in my backpack, making sure that the critical item in question is still there. That I didn't forget it. Because I couldn't remember if I'd forgotten it or not.
That absolutely never happened in the last year. Even two days of washout and the old problems start coming back, like weeds cracking through old concrete. Today I noticed a tiredness and inability to fully concentrate, to be fully awake, a small sample of the terrible state I was in for many years prior to starting piracetam.
Lurking behind the splendid, shiny and bright surface is a weak substructure. With good propping and lubrication it can work like a dream machine. But without it quickly regresses into dilapidation. How is it possible to understand one state while living in another? State-dependent memory is a horror on both sides of its fence.
I understand these things in a technical sense, but the heart is another matter. To be dependent on this magic molecule to keep myself functional as a normal person would be - somewhat better - but without it, to retreat into darkness again. Because I can't make it, it must be imported.
The mail and shipping are an extended intravenous line, roughly speaking. The fear of losing myself due to loss of piracetam supply, is something I may never come to terms with psychologically. It is truly my hidden prosthetic. Just like a person with a lost limb who couldn't walk, but gets a new leg that's even better than a regular person's. But it needs constant maintenance. Without that it becomes a useless deadweight.
Thus, I am a drug addict. But far worse than the kind that gets a fix from heroin or cocaine. Those people can clean up and will get healthier. In my case, I will lose what function I've got without a constant supply. There is no cure, just perpetual mitigation.
I realized months ago... maybe even within days after first starting, or maybe during that two-week period last year when the supply ran out - that I would be taking this material until the day I die or the supply runs out.
When I think of the commitment that entails, like when I was in hospital last year and had to walk around with an IV pump stand. Being connected to something external to survive. Even more of a commitment than marriage, because those come and go.
To live a normal life makes me so very happy. To have found out how to do it myself was great too. But by doing so I cannot ever go back now. It was like walking through a one-way door. When I think of the future it's so scary because of not being able to guarantee a supply, yet it's also so wonderful because while I have access, I can be normal. It's easy to remember everything, there is no fog, I can think and even learn new things, which I had stopped being able to do before.
But all of those gains will evaporate like dew on a hot summer day if the supply stops. Last year's two-month interruption and the last two days reaffirmed that. So piracetam liberated me to live normally, but as part of the deal it trapped me too. When I think of it tears come to my eyes, yet are they tears of joy or tears of sadness, or both? They are both, because for me it is the freedom from a prison worse than death, yet it is a new prison that I will be confined in for life - one which I will pay for in money each month, and each three hours with that bitter taste. One or the other, but at least I can choose - for now.
It seems most people take it for the extra edge or enhancement. I get these things too, except that if I stop I return to a state that is far, far under what could be considered 'normal'. A normal person would fall back to the ground from that state, but for me there lies a chasm in wait. Inside that chasm I could never believe escape was possible, and today outside that chasm I can't believe that it exists because I can't remember it as a state, at least not clearly. It is an abstract concept in my mind, totally unlike the way I remember a smell, or a colour, or a taste, or the sound of a person's voice. It's exactly like a dream, especially one remembered weeks or months later. Details come but the real implications, the real feeling of the state, can't be recaptured except by reliving the state itself once again.
Yet if I stop taking piracetam, then like a shadowy mouth it slowly begins to swallow my life once again. The bitterness of piracetam is absolutely nothing, let me tell you, compared to the chasm. I would swallow a powder thousands of times worse-tasting to stay above that darkness. That place was a hell that was almost finished eating my life away, but I left it behind - temporarily. Piracetam's like an anti-gravity device. It doesn't provide thrust but it does provide static repulsion, keeping me hovering easily hundreds of feet above the chasm's gaping maw. It's so easy to feel superior - even
elevated - in that state. But the supply disruptions taught me that such elevated thoughts are a fool's. I will be dependent on piracetam for the rest of my life - just like a diabetic needs his insulin. And just like a diabetic, as I get older the difference between piracetam and none will get wider - making the regularity of supply ever more crucial.
So that's about all I have to say for now. I do envy people who use it just for enhancement. They probably won't ever understand what it is to me, but I'm glad because that means they also won't have to ever suffer the badness of such a state.
In my head a perpetual clock ticks. It counts every group of three hours, and thanks to the piracetam itself I can remember with uncanny ability to take the next dose on time or very close to on time. Every three waking hours, forever. Just like prisoners count the bars on their cell, I count the hours between doses. It's a life sentence, with me as the judge, jury, warden and prisoner all wrapped into one.
I am proud that in the last month my brain has improved to a state that I can remember the exact minute of the hour that the previous dose was taken on. Yet it is sickening to think how nicely precise and quantized the process is. There is an ugly compulsiveness to that precise repetition. Far worse too than the cravings of a heroin addict, since the dosing is always inside the limits of saturation, thereby making dosing a totally voluntary affair within a fairly large time period.
Rather than being driven by craving like the street-drug addict, a person like me is driven by this totally voluntary process. It sounds nice that it's voluntary and without immediate withdrawal effects, but it is really far worse precisely because of those things. It's so very hard to explain, but by being totally voluntary and totally needed to live normally, it is made the most perfect horror of them all. Perhaps if it was the sweet oxiracetam, it wouldn't be such a problem. Or maybe that sweetness would turn sickening in time. Like killing a few trees to save a forest, the constant regular dosing, the careful counting of hours and minutes - maybe seconds soon, if things keep improving - is itself like some kind of rot inside my brain. A real Faustian bargain.
Diabetics must feel this way - except they have to use needles. I hate needles, but if I had to... if piracetam wouldn't absorb otherwise... I would. Needles - like the often illegal drugs they serve to inject - are the same kind of love-hate relation, except one that is visually obvious to others and the Self. In contrast, taking a powder by mouth leaves no trace except for the transient bitterness.
It is silent absolution - silent love, and also the most perfect razor which leaves neither scar nor bloodstain upon the wrist of its user. That is its horror.
It is beautiful and I love it almost more than life itself. It is awful, and I hate it almost more than death itself.
Edited by Isochroma, 22 December 2009 - 07:12 AM.