I'm feeling a bit better today, and yesterday was better than the day before. There have been a lot of kind words and encouragement, mostly from people I don't know in person. For the sake of continuity, I should probably explain what happened and why there has been so much drama. Drama used to be a major problem for me, but in the past few years I've managed to short circuit some of my more destructive thought processes. But last week was a bad week for a fellow like me.
Thank you for the comments and emails. And try not to be anonymous on my blog. Come right out and tell me I suck if you think I suck.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Monday, January 05, 2009
Goodbye
I've become aware of a sad fact recently. That my blog is mediocre at best, and usually just poorly written drivel. I know that now, and will endeavor to stop wasting the time of people who check this site. I have the sense that my life is winding down, although it may take months or years to actually end.
No more pretended friendships, I know now (finally) that I'm being laughed at behind my back. I'm considering ECT, or at least a hospitalization, but I don't know. I'm tired of causing misery.
My name is Darren W. Lyle.
No more pretended friendships, I know now (finally) that I'm being laughed at behind my back. I'm considering ECT, or at least a hospitalization, but I don't know. I'm tired of causing misery.
My name is Darren W. Lyle.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Message Received
I've developed the opinion that it would be best for me to isolate myself. A young lady, a friend of mine, has told me that one night just before Christmas I sent her a message on Facebook. Apparently, it was full of sexual comments that made her uncomfortable. She is of the opinion that I was drunk. Even so, I don't remember reaching out in such a way, to a person I respect and like. No memory exists in my head of any of this, but my memory is fragile for many reasons.
Two weeks earlier, I swore on a friend's Facebook page after I was told that his family looks at the page often. He was angry with me.
In addition, a friend of 10 years isn't responding to my emails. I know she is there, but she doesn't want to speak to me.
A website banned me for violating the terms of service. Some say unfairly, but that is not of any import.
There is this man, about 35, whom I don't know very well. He is compassionate, funny, difficult to anger and quick to laugh. He has friends who admire him for his intelligence and wit, and he works hard and certainly pulls his own weight. He is loyal and loving and can always be counted upon to do the right thing.
I tried to be that, but have failed. What I am is a strange little man, stupid, with a string of spit where his spine ought to be. And I do not pull my own weight, my sense of humor is strange and disturbing. Because of this, I shouldn't expose myself to other people and friends. In fact, I should live in seclusion. By doing so, logically, the world will be a better place. I'm strongly inclined to commit suicide, but I can't. So I'll have to wait this life out. The greatest favor I can grant to my loved ones is to reduce my presence as much as possible. To hide, as it were, to isolate.
That is why my Facebook account is gone, and I'm going to try and communicate with others as little as possible. It may be that what is wrong with the world, the part that I complain about, is me. I sicken myself as much as I now know I sicken all of you. If my mother were alive, I would spit on her for ever bringing such an abomination into the world. But here I am, finally having gotten the message.
Two weeks earlier, I swore on a friend's Facebook page after I was told that his family looks at the page often. He was angry with me.
In addition, a friend of 10 years isn't responding to my emails. I know she is there, but she doesn't want to speak to me.
A website banned me for violating the terms of service. Some say unfairly, but that is not of any import.
There is this man, about 35, whom I don't know very well. He is compassionate, funny, difficult to anger and quick to laugh. He has friends who admire him for his intelligence and wit, and he works hard and certainly pulls his own weight. He is loyal and loving and can always be counted upon to do the right thing.
I tried to be that, but have failed. What I am is a strange little man, stupid, with a string of spit where his spine ought to be. And I do not pull my own weight, my sense of humor is strange and disturbing. Because of this, I shouldn't expose myself to other people and friends. In fact, I should live in seclusion. By doing so, logically, the world will be a better place. I'm strongly inclined to commit suicide, but I can't. So I'll have to wait this life out. The greatest favor I can grant to my loved ones is to reduce my presence as much as possible. To hide, as it were, to isolate.
That is why my Facebook account is gone, and I'm going to try and communicate with others as little as possible. It may be that what is wrong with the world, the part that I complain about, is me. I sicken myself as much as I now know I sicken all of you. If my mother were alive, I would spit on her for ever bringing such an abomination into the world. But here I am, finally having gotten the message.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Goodbye
I'm not well. I'm going to stay away for awhile. I've shut down my email and Facebook, as well. Maybe I'll be back.
Bye everyone.
Bye everyone.
Of Amelioration and Albi
For the past half hour, I've watched a clubionid "sac" spider (the tiny white spider we've all seen in our homes and flats) crawl up and down a Toulouse Lautrec print above my desk. I'm happy to have the company of another being; the snakes are lying on their heating pads in their tanks across the room, and the cats and Belle are elsewhere. That's fine with me. If he or she lights somewhere, I'll place it on the sanserveria plant.
The spider and I are close. The arachnid world seems dominated by matriarchy, from what I remember, and there is sexual dimorphism at work in different species. More often than not, the female is larger than the male, and am therefore inclined to refer to this large spider as "she." One hopes there will be no objections. The temptation to name her is becoming hard to resist.
Having held her, I've decided to name my new friend "Albi," after Toulouse Lautrec's hometown in France. If I've spelled it wrong, my apologies, but I'm not of a mind to look these things up right now.
My ancestry is Scottish, and when I was younger I did some research into my clan, which is Clan Stuart (or "Stewart"). Darren W. Lyle, or D'Lisle, of the Clan Stuart centered in Renfrenshire, Scotland, in the lowlands; there is even a Castle Lyle there. While this is a matter of no consequence here, that research did lead me to Scottish folklore. I learned that it is very bad luck for a Scot to kill a spider. There is a legend involving Robert the Bruce, meant to teach us about tenacity and the value of not giving up. I'm sure it's on the Internet and easy to find. If not, then do something else.
I'm a superstitious atheist who gets nervous if he has $13 in his pocket, or if the stereo or television volume is at 13. If salt is spilt, I have to fling it over my left shoulder. In my mind, some salt is spilled every time salt is used, so I have to fling a little over my shoulder every time I use salt in any capacity. There is a little bit of madness there, but not worth losing any sleep over.
But I don't kill spiders because they don't swarm or get in the way, like roaches. I like them, and they are welcome to set up shop in my flat. Albi is perched on my paper files, near my desk. Specifically an order for bloodwork, meant to check my lithium and testosterone blood levels. She seems content to stay there. I'm content to let her.
Every so often I entertain the idea of packing my computer away in a box and isolating myself, with only the spiders and pets to keep me company while Linda is at work. And Dvorak's cello concerto, which Albi and I are listening to on the stereo. And my books.
Hermitude.
I'm not considering this because I dislike people. My pathology is more complicated than that, dear friends. I'm merely "avoidant" and bipolar, not schizoid. I'm fond of people and the living. The problem is that interaction requires the use of my mind, and my mind is not always good to me.
It has become clear to me that my mind is working against me when I try to maintain friendships. I've been very successful at quieting the voice in my head that tells me that I don't deserve the company of others, that I'm human waste with a Social Security number, and that I'm distracting people from better friends. This is my fault, as it is my brain and mind at work. But there is only so much imaginitive, cold and constant self-loathing and paranoia I can take. Every so often I slash my leg with a blade just to distract my mind, which sometimes feels like a car on black ice, spinning out of control.
I've sworn not to suicide, to all the right people, so I have to fight. I'm not weak, and if you think I am you don't know what I'm up against. I need to stop caring what people think of me, but that is not likely. Today I have things to do, and the rest of this concerto to listen to with Albi. Perhaps she can feel it. After that, a bit of Dostoevsky always makes me feel less alone. Perhaps I'll re-read "White Nights" later today. Melancholy. I look forward to my amelioration.
Albi has made herself small, on the frond of the plant; I placed her in a nice little spot a moment ago.
The spider and I are close. The arachnid world seems dominated by matriarchy, from what I remember, and there is sexual dimorphism at work in different species. More often than not, the female is larger than the male, and am therefore inclined to refer to this large spider as "she." One hopes there will be no objections. The temptation to name her is becoming hard to resist.
Having held her, I've decided to name my new friend "Albi," after Toulouse Lautrec's hometown in France. If I've spelled it wrong, my apologies, but I'm not of a mind to look these things up right now.
My ancestry is Scottish, and when I was younger I did some research into my clan, which is Clan Stuart (or "Stewart"). Darren W. Lyle, or D'Lisle, of the Clan Stuart centered in Renfrenshire, Scotland, in the lowlands; there is even a Castle Lyle there. While this is a matter of no consequence here, that research did lead me to Scottish folklore. I learned that it is very bad luck for a Scot to kill a spider. There is a legend involving Robert the Bruce, meant to teach us about tenacity and the value of not giving up. I'm sure it's on the Internet and easy to find. If not, then do something else.
I'm a superstitious atheist who gets nervous if he has $13 in his pocket, or if the stereo or television volume is at 13. If salt is spilt, I have to fling it over my left shoulder. In my mind, some salt is spilled every time salt is used, so I have to fling a little over my shoulder every time I use salt in any capacity. There is a little bit of madness there, but not worth losing any sleep over.
But I don't kill spiders because they don't swarm or get in the way, like roaches. I like them, and they are welcome to set up shop in my flat. Albi is perched on my paper files, near my desk. Specifically an order for bloodwork, meant to check my lithium and testosterone blood levels. She seems content to stay there. I'm content to let her.
Every so often I entertain the idea of packing my computer away in a box and isolating myself, with only the spiders and pets to keep me company while Linda is at work. And Dvorak's cello concerto, which Albi and I are listening to on the stereo. And my books.
Hermitude.
I'm not considering this because I dislike people. My pathology is more complicated than that, dear friends. I'm merely "avoidant" and bipolar, not schizoid. I'm fond of people and the living. The problem is that interaction requires the use of my mind, and my mind is not always good to me.
It has become clear to me that my mind is working against me when I try to maintain friendships. I've been very successful at quieting the voice in my head that tells me that I don't deserve the company of others, that I'm human waste with a Social Security number, and that I'm distracting people from better friends. This is my fault, as it is my brain and mind at work. But there is only so much imaginitive, cold and constant self-loathing and paranoia I can take. Every so often I slash my leg with a blade just to distract my mind, which sometimes feels like a car on black ice, spinning out of control.
I've sworn not to suicide, to all the right people, so I have to fight. I'm not weak, and if you think I am you don't know what I'm up against. I need to stop caring what people think of me, but that is not likely. Today I have things to do, and the rest of this concerto to listen to with Albi. Perhaps she can feel it. After that, a bit of Dostoevsky always makes me feel less alone. Perhaps I'll re-read "White Nights" later today. Melancholy. I look forward to my amelioration.
Albi has made herself small, on the frond of the plant; I placed her in a nice little spot a moment ago.
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