u/throwitawayar

I'm in a very slow tapering journey. I've decided to take it slow because the side effects were making me unable to work and study, so I am taking longer intervals (6 weeks) between cuts of 5 to 10%. Started at 4mg of Klonopin in last September and today made a new cut that leaves me at 2.375mg.

I realize that sometimes I focus too much on the process, think too much about getting it over it and want to rush things, but I am doing everything in a way I can tolerate and with medical supervision.

I was wondering if, for those who took long to taper, did you put a little "whimsy" into your journey? Did you celebrate each cut with something? Did you journal? Would really like to hear any positive stories of those that stayed in this process for a long while.

Here at the age of thirty-nine I began to be old. I felt stiff and weary in the evenings and reluctant to go out of camp; I developed proprietary claims to certain chairs and newspapers; I regularly drank three glasses of gin before dinner, never more or less, and went to bed immediately after the nine o'clock news. I was always awake and fretful an hour before reveille.

Here my last love died. There was nothing remarkable in the manner of its death. One day, not long before this last day in camp, as I lay awake before reveille, in the Nissen hut, gazing into the complete blackness, amid the deep breathing and muttering of the four other occupants, turning over in my mind what I had to do that day—had I put in the names of two corporals for the weapon-training course? Should I again have the largest number of men overstaying their leave in the batch due back that day? Could I trust Hooper to take the candidates class out map-reading?—as I lay in that dark hour, I was aghast to realize that something within me, long sickening, had quietly died, and felt as a husband might feel, who, in the fourth year of his marriage, suddenly knew that he had no longer any desire, or tenderness, or esteem, for a once-beloved wife; no pleasure in her company, no wish to please, no curiosity about anything she might ever do or say or think; no hope of setting things right, no self-reproach for the disaster. I knew it all, the whole drab compass of marital disillusion; we had been through it together, the Army and I, from the first importunate courtship until now, when nothing remained to us except the chill bonds of law and duty and custom.

If I had one particular complaint, it was that my life seemed composed entirely of expectation. I expected–an arrival, an explanation, an apology. There had never been one, a fact I could have accepted, were it not true that, just when | had got used to the limits and dimensions of one moment, I was expelled into the next and made to wonder again if any shapes hid in its shadows. That most moments were
substantially the same did not detract at all from the possibility that the next moment might be utterly different. And so the ordinary demanded unblinking attention. Any tedious hour might be the last of its kind.

At the entrance to the Turnpike Neil did a strange thing: he stopped the car and had me take the wheel. He had never trusted me to drive his father’s car before, as if my not knowing all about crankshafts and carburetors the way he did handicapped my competence to steer. But now he was quite complacent. He hunched in his gabardine suit under an old mackinaw and leaned his head against the metal of the window frame and soon was asleep. We crossed the Susquehanna on a long smooth bridge below Harrisburg, then began climbing toward the Alleghenies. In the mountains there was snow, a dry dusting like sand, that waved back and forth on the road surface. Farther along there had been a fresh fall that night, about two inches, and the plows had not yet cleared all the lanes. I was passing a Sunoco truck on a high curve when without warning the scraped section gave out and I realized I might skid into the fence if not over the edge. The radio was singing “Carpets of clover, I’ll lay right at your feet,” and the speedometer said eighty. Nothing happened; the Chrysler stayed firm in the snow and Neil slept through the danger, his face turned skyward and his breath struggling in his nose. It was the first time I heard a contemporary of mine snore.

When we came into tunnel country the flicker and hollow amplification stirred Neil awake. He sat up, the mackinaw dropping to his lap, and lit a cigarette. A second after the scratch of his match occurred the moment of which each following moment was a slight diminution, as we made the long irregular descent toward Pittsburgh. There were many reasons for my feeling so happy. We were on our way. I had seen a dawn. This far, Neil could appreciate, I had brought us safely. Ahead, a girl waited who, if I asked, would marry me, but first there was a vast trip: many hours and towns interceded between me and that encounter. There was the quality of the 10 a.m. sunlight as it existed in the air ahead of the windshield, filtered by the thin overcast, blessing irresponsibility—you felt you could slice forever through such a cool pure element—and springing, by implying how high these hills had become, a widespreading pride: Pennsylvania, your state—as if you had made your life. And there was knowing that twice since midnight a person had trusted me enough to fall asleep beside me.

Anything is valid: feuds, writing methods, love affairs, etc.

I will start with a simple one but that comes back to my mind from time to time: Tennessee Williams wanted to be buried at sea. His wishes were unfulfilled.

Other that comes to mind is that Virginia Woolf often wrote standing up, as if a painter would work on a piece.

I didn’t turn out to be an architect much to my parents surprise. I had a phase of drawing houses from the perspective of a floor plan and then daydream about what the individuals living there would do.

I still have some and the proportion are very accurate for drawings done when I was 10 I guess. Wouldn’t be able to do something like that nowadays.

I never found someone who went through something similar.

Edit: obrigado a todos pelas respostas!

começarei uma licenciatura em Matemática no 2o semestre. Vou me formar, se chegar ao fim (importante ser realista), quase completando 40 anos.

A intenção de longuíssimo prazo é dedicação à pesqu*sa (mestrado, doutorado e depois poder lecionar no superior. A censura é porque tem um bot que lê a palavra e acha que tou divulg*ndo algo), mas optei por fazer Licenciatura antes de cogitar o Bacharelado para ter a opção de dar aula caso a carreira acadêmica não deslanche direto.

(Peço com carinho para não entrarem no mérito de me desmotivar a cursar por outros motivos que não a pergunta do post. Leio o sub o suficiente para entender a dureza da profissão.)

Minha pergunta é especifica quanto à idade. Etarismo de colega na faculdade pouco me preocupa. Me pergunto se pode ser um problema ser “velho” no mercado de trabalho não concursado.

Título, basicamente. Em busca de indicações de aulas em Porto Alegre (qualquer região vale), particulares ou em escolas de música, para o aprendizado de piano, desde que as aulas sejam ministradas usando piano, não teclado.

Of course this is a question one can only fully answer after finishing a book, but from what you’re reading, do you think you would recommend it?

I for one am not sure. I am 1/3 into Henry James’ The Portrait of a Lady. I love his attention to prose/style, but the plot still hasn’t kicked in on a direction I am confident it will satisfy all my expectations. If you’ve read this one, don’t spoil it for me, lol.

What about you?