The Vile Wraith

I haven't left my flat in seven days, which feels like a very long time when one isn't suffering from influenza, strep throat, or some such malady. Strictly speaking, I did leave to put the trash out on the curb, and to get some grass for the cats. And two days ago I had a fairly long political discussion with neighbor. To me, that felt like a grand social outing. Later that day, however, I was reminded why I endeavor towards isolation. Merciless anxiety, self-loathing, guilt and suicidal ideation turned me into a quivering, pathetic freak. The details are inconsequential, but banal interaction with human beings give flight to thoughts and feelings better left unmolested. And now I'm moving beyond Avoidant Personality Disorder (and social paranoia) into agoraphobia. At least that's my half-assed assessment.

Years ago, a very intelligent and snobby friend told me to take comfort in routine. That was back when I enjoyed cutting myself with a razor blade and then putting muriatic acid on the wound. My reaction to her advice was to blow it off. But now I definitely see the value of routine, of careful action with preparation. I'm not in a wheelchair, or hooked up to a piece of luggage via a hose coming out of my chest, but I have to reconcile that I'm not well. Clare told me, during my visit to Maine a few months ago, that I'm smart, funny, compassionate and I think she even used the word "genius" in there (way to go, Clare), but I just don't interact normally with people in social situations. With friends and lovers I'm fine, apparently. She's right, except for the genius and funny stuff.

So basically my mind is trying to make me embrace self-loathing so I'll fling myself off the Tobin Bridge. I can think of so very many times in my life when I did fine speaking in public, approaching a girl, or working a job. What was building up every day, however, was a growing chorus of voices telling me every horrible thing, aimed at me. Every interaction with the world was like shoveling more coal into the boiler. And at one point I was doing quite a bit. I was working full-time, going to college full-time, and acting as Chairperson of the Socialist Party of Massachusetts. Along with that there were the radical conventions, the Socialist Scholars' Conference in New York City, the little political newsletter I put out. The whole time I was doing that there was a constant voice that spoke a language of pure emotion and vile, subversive invalidation. Any feeling of pride or accomplishment was twisted against me.

Eventually, I couldn't fight it anymore and began what started as a calculated withdrawal but before long turned into a frenetic retreat. Sadly for those who made the mistake of caring about me, it was too late. I tried to make an exit, twice. And after years of treatment and electro-shock, I'm sitting here in my flat, just trying to hold steady and maintain routine. Old activists still write and call sometimes, to ask if I would help out. I tell them I can't. Friends and neighbors ask me out, but that's not going to happen. I can't! If I do, I know that my self-hatred will find an eloquent speaker and cold manipulator and awaken it for duty. This hideous thing that I've created, that is a part of me, will open its black, blood-soaked wings and embrace me. The wings will close around me, and I'll be unable to move. And then this wraith will tell me, convincingly and repeatedly, why I am less than human, an abomination, who must embrace life in isolation. That, or emotional torture that will have to end in suicide or restraints in another hospital. And this thing is so very convincing, as it has more than words on its side.

Despite all that, I will try again tomorrow to walk beyond the courtyard outside my back stoop. I'll carefully avoid people and enjoy my little bit of treason. Given enough time, perhaps hard work and therapy and medication will buy me some freedom and a new routine. I'm not an optimist, but I am an idealist and a romantic. Vive le Revolution!