When one is mentally ill, and of the same style, flavor and disposition as am I, it is extremely important to have a place to hide. Away from the perceived judgmental scowl of the Zeitgeist. And of my scantily-clad, extremely gregarious neighbor, Pierre the pharmacist, deli guy, gas station attendant, speechless Chinese man, church folk and myriad cashiers. Basically, anyone I might see on a given day.
That hiding place for me is my flat, particularly my bedroom and desk. The very desk I'm sitting at now. If I am to be likened to a turtle in his shell, I will accept that. It's a good analogy. Even here in this bedroom are thoughts that are just terrible, of things once done and that can't be undone, or stricken from memory. Of things I said, and did. Regret. I'm a very, very emotional creature.
For reasons that are unclear to me, but seem to be perfectly understandable to my psychiatrists, any human contact causes severe anxiety and potentially suicidal ideation. That's not as bad as it sounds, given that just about anything I don't like triggers "suicidal ideation." A lot of people do. The author Kurt Vonnegut spoke that urge often. Of course he never killed himself.
Instead he died from a hideously painful fall that caused terrible damage to his frail old body and brain. I'm told that it's better to die of old age than dying young via suicide. I'm skeptical, but I'm willing to give it a try.
This perturbed state of rattled tension is almost constantly present and radiant within me. Occasionally, it is reduced to a nagging sensation. Once in a great while, I'm free and comfortable within my skin and genuinely feel that human beings are my equals and not my superiors. That I'm not sub-human and a frightful wretch. In the entire time I've been with Linda, a year and a half, I've felt that freedom maybe 10 times. And I'm never going to be happier than I am with Linda. It never lasts more than an hour, then the nagging thoughts return, the stomach butterflies, and the chest pain that requires propranolol to reduce. Lorazepam helps. Sometimes marijuana helps, as well.
That's an interesting expression, "butterflies in my stomach." It feels like my stomach itself is the butterfly, rising and falling slowly then quickly.
Anyway, enough of that shit. Enough about me. Right now I'm listening to Tchaikovsky again, his violin concerto, again. I'm supposed to be working to help the Socialist Party of America/Social Democrats USA (we haven't settled on a name yet). A lot of work needs to be done, and I don't know where the hell we are going to get the dues to pay the Socialist Internationale (SI), which are $2,300 for observer status and $10,000 for voting member status. I'm supposed to be joining the phone conference calls, made up of the vanguard of this new party. Since I'm in that vanguard, I should take part in those conference calls, made up of about 15 or 20 people.
Anxiety, anxiety, anxiety, disorder, disorder, disorder.
Linda and I had sex the other night, then in my sleep I had a "wet dream" while having sex with Linda in my dream. Pretty amazing. She has some sort of psycho-sexual hold on me.
What I have right now is music. It almost manages to rob me of myself and set me free. I am the very albatross around my own neck.