I am still waiting for my groove to come back. Some days I feel closer than others. Knowing this is all dependent on meds or time (or both) is one thing. Accepting that this is a permanent condition is quite another. Recovering from a psychotic break is like dragging yourself across the playa in a rainstorm. I don’t know if it is the meds or the toll it takes on your body, but I am TIRED far beyond my forty years. Every day waking up through a fog, trudging through a day at work, and then finding there is no second wind for what remains when I get home. The meticulously kept apartment is now a kitchen sink overflowing with dishes, cat barf left untreated and overflowing ashtrays. And there’s the rub: the thought that this may all be from a simple desire to quit smoking the easy way – pain free – landed me quite simply in a world of hurt.