My life has recently played host to yet another bout with stupid craziness. I want you to think back to the heady days of July 15 through the 21st, 2008. On July 15, I had myself a little breakdown, partly because of something the cable company did. But I was in narcotic withdrawal, as well, and that didn't help.
The clinical terms is, "bananas."
When I decided to flutter back to Earth, I found that my ass was in a cell in the basement of Cambridge City Hospital. Turns out, I killed 128 people. No, I'm kidding. Really. At that point the magical psychiatric ward dance begins. I take my clothes off, they give me an ill fitting johnny with my ass hanging out, I get my clothes back, sans car keys that were in the pocket. Now that's a grisly suicide. Anyway, the dance ends when I get searched by a cop and then escorted to a locked, psychiatric ward.
That's a significant reason for the lack of posts of late. But I have pages upon pages of notes, just of things I saw and whatnot, so that will be up here soon. If that for any reason would interest you. You loser.
Good to be out! More soon, chickies!
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Rant About Love: Gender Generalization Day
Saturday, July 5th 2008 has found me, at least now that it is the evening, sitting alone in my flat and watching Silence of the Lambs while waiting for my beloved to return home. I'm not alone, however, and close around me is a dog and two cats. Other cats are circling around and will sometimes approach, seeking my attention.
It's dark in here, as I've turned most of the lights off. I'm also high from various drugs I'd prefer not to mention. With the lights off in an empty flat and the air conditioner banging away, I feel like I'm on a spaceship, a probe of some kind, rapidly but gently moving through black space. Inside there is only me and my pets. I'm the master of no living thing, so it's better to think of them as my traveling companions. Ghost, one of our beloved cats so-named because of her gray color, is convalescing after some abdominal surgery. She was spade, yes, but there was some other non-congenital abnormality that required treatment. Many staples are evident on her abdomen, and last night she seemed extremely groggy. As one would expect, given the pain-killers and surgical gases she had to endure.
I'm afraid right now. I could even get away will saying that I'm terrified. I'm having a panic attack as I write this. I'm rocketing towards loss and terrible pain and loneliness. By being alive I am reducing every heroic act and am a living abomination. I've felt that for years. And everyone loves when I talk about it. Who wouldn't love to hear or read about someone's fascination with the notion that he or she is a disgusting, horrible THING that needs to be killed or at least ignored. Nice light stuff that I'm sure all my friends want to talk to me about. Sarcasm, right there.
I don't know about any of you people, but I'm really up against it on when it comes to mental health. Some people look as if they, too, are struggling to keep paranoia, nihilism, ennui, loathing of self and others, lagging libido, raging libido, angst, confusion, depression and mania at bay. Most of you assholes look fine, though, and it pisses me off to no end.
I'm just a lesser being, I guess. Children of a Lesser God, except not an attractive blond, just me. And I can hear, I just can't think and am at the mercy of my emotions.
I'm having the best sex of my life, though, and that's a good thing. Sex is a wonderful thing. And from where I'm sitting, women are wonderful things. I got a good one, too. I happen to know that women are smarter, stronger, more interesting and emotionally mature, in general, than men. Women also smell better. Even when a woman doesn't smell great, it's an alluring aroma that draws you in. Some men refuse to accept that women fart. I'm not one of those, I know they do. And they are not good, but still better than anything from a man.
Women can be vindictive and petty and so maniacally jealous that they may have men beat. Generalizing. That's what I'm doing. And grudges are held...oh yeah. Just like men. But women do everything better. You want mean? Get a woman. But women are also capable of pure magic. They can practically raise me from the grave. Just give me a smile, a laugh, a bit of conversation about the weather...my god do I like women. All of these magnificent traits are possessed by my Linda.
I've taken three women to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, on dates, in my life. Each time, the fellow working the coat room said about my gal's coat, "What is it about a woman's coat, always warm, not like the guy's." And we laugh. But that shit is true. If not, it feels damn true.
And my Linda. This is no woman, this is a goddess. She laughs long, hard and easily and is never impressed by my demons. She scares them away, scrapes me up and sets things right. She never tears me down to lift herself up. I don't want her to feel that it's her job to prop me up in hard "mental health" moments, that's not fair to her to expect miracles. But she knows how to kiss me, hug me, and even how to talk to me when I'm ensconced in melancholy. In bed she knows how to touch me in such a way as to create a deep shiver that splits me wide and sets me free. She is kind, beautiful, wise, sexy, funny, and strong. Although around me she doesn't have to be, I love her totally. That's what scares me. The fear of losing her. And When I make her laugh it's like a gift from God. In a godless universe that laugh may be the closest I ever get to a spiritual experience.
And I rant and I rant and I rant but I rant about love and love is a good thing.
It's dark in here, as I've turned most of the lights off. I'm also high from various drugs I'd prefer not to mention. With the lights off in an empty flat and the air conditioner banging away, I feel like I'm on a spaceship, a probe of some kind, rapidly but gently moving through black space. Inside there is only me and my pets. I'm the master of no living thing, so it's better to think of them as my traveling companions. Ghost, one of our beloved cats so-named because of her gray color, is convalescing after some abdominal surgery. She was spade, yes, but there was some other non-congenital abnormality that required treatment. Many staples are evident on her abdomen, and last night she seemed extremely groggy. As one would expect, given the pain-killers and surgical gases she had to endure.
I'm afraid right now. I could even get away will saying that I'm terrified. I'm having a panic attack as I write this. I'm rocketing towards loss and terrible pain and loneliness. By being alive I am reducing every heroic act and am a living abomination. I've felt that for years. And everyone loves when I talk about it. Who wouldn't love to hear or read about someone's fascination with the notion that he or she is a disgusting, horrible THING that needs to be killed or at least ignored. Nice light stuff that I'm sure all my friends want to talk to me about. Sarcasm, right there.
I don't know about any of you people, but I'm really up against it on when it comes to mental health. Some people look as if they, too, are struggling to keep paranoia, nihilism, ennui, loathing of self and others, lagging libido, raging libido, angst, confusion, depression and mania at bay. Most of you assholes look fine, though, and it pisses me off to no end.
I'm just a lesser being, I guess. Children of a Lesser God, except not an attractive blond, just me. And I can hear, I just can't think and am at the mercy of my emotions.
I'm having the best sex of my life, though, and that's a good thing. Sex is a wonderful thing. And from where I'm sitting, women are wonderful things. I got a good one, too. I happen to know that women are smarter, stronger, more interesting and emotionally mature, in general, than men. Women also smell better. Even when a woman doesn't smell great, it's an alluring aroma that draws you in. Some men refuse to accept that women fart. I'm not one of those, I know they do. And they are not good, but still better than anything from a man.
Women can be vindictive and petty and so maniacally jealous that they may have men beat. Generalizing. That's what I'm doing. And grudges are held...oh yeah. Just like men. But women do everything better. You want mean? Get a woman. But women are also capable of pure magic. They can practically raise me from the grave. Just give me a smile, a laugh, a bit of conversation about the weather...my god do I like women. All of these magnificent traits are possessed by my Linda.
I've taken three women to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, on dates, in my life. Each time, the fellow working the coat room said about my gal's coat, "What is it about a woman's coat, always warm, not like the guy's." And we laugh. But that shit is true. If not, it feels damn true.
And my Linda. This is no woman, this is a goddess. She laughs long, hard and easily and is never impressed by my demons. She scares them away, scrapes me up and sets things right. She never tears me down to lift herself up. I don't want her to feel that it's her job to prop me up in hard "mental health" moments, that's not fair to her to expect miracles. But she knows how to kiss me, hug me, and even how to talk to me when I'm ensconced in melancholy. In bed she knows how to touch me in such a way as to create a deep shiver that splits me wide and sets me free. She is kind, beautiful, wise, sexy, funny, and strong. Although around me she doesn't have to be, I love her totally. That's what scares me. The fear of losing her. And When I make her laugh it's like a gift from God. In a godless universe that laugh may be the closest I ever get to a spiritual experience.
And I rant and I rant and I rant but I rant about love and love is a good thing.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Wretched
I'm at a bit of a low right now, sitting here drinking Liebfraumilch and popping the occasional lorazepam. A thunderstorm is raging outside, even depositing the rarely seen but oft spoken of "pea-sized hail." You don't see hail too often around here, so I went out to gather some for my beloved. It's in the freezer now, on top of a pot pie that I'll never eat. I lift my glass, or bottle, rather, to the power and light people for keeping the electric up during such a beastly storm.
Pure melancholy. Sounds almost pleasant, doesn't it?
I'm in the "stop thinking and march" phase of my illness. I can't stop the voices and thoughts in my head, calling for me to take my own life. They say a lot of other things, too, and if you've read this 'blog before you know of what I speak. Even if you haven't, you may know of what I speak, anyway.
A proper analysis of life and the price of existence will lead any thinking person to the conclusion that we human beings are cursed by evolution. Cursed to know that we are alone, that death is coming, and that it can be kind, when it robs us of our pain. We all know that there is nothing out there, no god, no devil, no six-armed pagan monkey god. Just noble gases, empty spaces, matter and anti-matter and very, very, very, very, very rarely, life. But that is all we are, rare in the universe. No god watches over us or cares about our sins. God and sin are human creations, nothing more. And humans are just animals with the ability to think, thanks to time allowed evolution.
If you think there is a god, there isn't one. Just the one that exists in the minds of lesser minded people, or those in need of kindness. Or both. You may not like it, you may not know it, but you are at the mercy of forces beyond your control. Forces that can't, and don't, even know that you are there.
I find this all totally acceptable, not that it matters. We all have to lump the existential truth. If you are a friend, and I have many, and you want to try to get me into the fold of your religion, don't waste your time. If you want to talk to me about Jesus you may as well talk about Shiva, scientific pantheism, Zeus or Zoroastrianism. I don't believe in any of it, and if you do I think you a fool. There is no god, or life beyond this one. When you die, the light goes out, as it were, and you are no more.
It sounds wonderful.
I talk a lot. Ask my beloved, she'll tell you. I'm starting to think that she is sick of me, and may even be looking for a way out of our relationship. That she is tired of me, my "mental illness" and inability to function properly. Who could like me, let alone love me? I'm a wretched human being, shat out of my mother's vagina and better left to die. Nothing on me works right, and...
Well, that goes on and on.
Fuck this. I'm going to lie down.
Pure melancholy. Sounds almost pleasant, doesn't it?
I'm in the "stop thinking and march" phase of my illness. I can't stop the voices and thoughts in my head, calling for me to take my own life. They say a lot of other things, too, and if you've read this 'blog before you know of what I speak. Even if you haven't, you may know of what I speak, anyway.
A proper analysis of life and the price of existence will lead any thinking person to the conclusion that we human beings are cursed by evolution. Cursed to know that we are alone, that death is coming, and that it can be kind, when it robs us of our pain. We all know that there is nothing out there, no god, no devil, no six-armed pagan monkey god. Just noble gases, empty spaces, matter and anti-matter and very, very, very, very, very rarely, life. But that is all we are, rare in the universe. No god watches over us or cares about our sins. God and sin are human creations, nothing more. And humans are just animals with the ability to think, thanks to time allowed evolution.
If you think there is a god, there isn't one. Just the one that exists in the minds of lesser minded people, or those in need of kindness. Or both. You may not like it, you may not know it, but you are at the mercy of forces beyond your control. Forces that can't, and don't, even know that you are there.
I find this all totally acceptable, not that it matters. We all have to lump the existential truth. If you are a friend, and I have many, and you want to try to get me into the fold of your religion, don't waste your time. If you want to talk to me about Jesus you may as well talk about Shiva, scientific pantheism, Zeus or Zoroastrianism. I don't believe in any of it, and if you do I think you a fool. There is no god, or life beyond this one. When you die, the light goes out, as it were, and you are no more.
It sounds wonderful.
I talk a lot. Ask my beloved, she'll tell you. I'm starting to think that she is sick of me, and may even be looking for a way out of our relationship. That she is tired of me, my "mental illness" and inability to function properly. Who could like me, let alone love me? I'm a wretched human being, shat out of my mother's vagina and better left to die. Nothing on me works right, and...
Well, that goes on and on.
Fuck this. I'm going to lie down.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
You're Such A Non-Comformist! Chicken in da mornin'!
Apparently, McDonald's wants me to eat fried chicken for breakfast. Some sort of fried chicken breast biscuit sandwich thing. Man, they really like to sell chicken. Every restaurant and fast food joint loves to sell pantloads of chicken. Gotta be billions of chickens a year.
Now for breakfast!
Now for breakfast!
Dark Moods and Happy Homes
These last few days have found me struggling down the gray path of mental illness. The glowing pink aura of a healthy head is a halo you won't find me wearing. Once again the culprit here is anxiety, which leads to chest pain and difficulty breathing. So I've been taking a lot of propranolol and lorazepam, along with my usual dose of lithium carbonate. There have also been many pauses, deep breaths, and mental exercises. And my efforts have paid off. I'm far better these days than even just a couple of years ago. I still snap at people sometimes, though, and can't conceal the impact my nerves are having on my emotional well-being.
In July, I will be 36 years old and am hopeful that, as I grow older, my success at concealing or controlling my dark moods will eventually become complete. This isn't something I desire solely for loved ones who have to endure me. It's also a matter of survival. Ever time I "lose it" there is trailing, psychic damage; shame, fear, self-loathing and guilt. And no matter how much I'm comforted otherwise, I know that it makes it difficult to be close to me, to trust me completely. As completely as one human being can, under the best of circumstances, trust another.
These innate inconsistencies lead to spasmodic outbursts of emotion. They reveal what those close to me already know. That I am "not right" and "have problems." And I can live with that. I've reconciled with my soft, broken mind and am happy that it works at all. What I can't accept is that there is any part of me that may emotionally or physically hurt another human being, particularly someone I love. If I'm going to continue to exist on terms that are acceptable to me, I need to reign in the frequency and severity of my explosive moods. More than I have. Cruelty and disrespect have no place in my life and relationships.
I'm mentally ill, and I know that will make life hard for the rest of my life. I know that I'll be on medication forever, and that suicidal thoughts will plague me, and that anxiety and social phobia will make it extremely difficult to simply run errands or go to family functions. I've even accepted that, by now. But I will not tolerate my causing any more pain or unhappiness out of an inability to control my dark moods. There is enough of that in the world, and even in the happiest homes. I've caused enough pain in my life for the people who love me. It's likely that my suicide attempts and hospitalizations and drama when I was younger contributed to my mother's death. It has to end. No more a burden to my family.
So my specific task is to obtain enough control over myself so that I never lash out against those I love. That these episodes of yelling and wall-punching and self-injury are rare is not enough. They need to be unheard of.
In July, I will be 36 years old and am hopeful that, as I grow older, my success at concealing or controlling my dark moods will eventually become complete. This isn't something I desire solely for loved ones who have to endure me. It's also a matter of survival. Ever time I "lose it" there is trailing, psychic damage; shame, fear, self-loathing and guilt. And no matter how much I'm comforted otherwise, I know that it makes it difficult to be close to me, to trust me completely. As completely as one human being can, under the best of circumstances, trust another.
These innate inconsistencies lead to spasmodic outbursts of emotion. They reveal what those close to me already know. That I am "not right" and "have problems." And I can live with that. I've reconciled with my soft, broken mind and am happy that it works at all. What I can't accept is that there is any part of me that may emotionally or physically hurt another human being, particularly someone I love. If I'm going to continue to exist on terms that are acceptable to me, I need to reign in the frequency and severity of my explosive moods. More than I have. Cruelty and disrespect have no place in my life and relationships.
I'm mentally ill, and I know that will make life hard for the rest of my life. I know that I'll be on medication forever, and that suicidal thoughts will plague me, and that anxiety and social phobia will make it extremely difficult to simply run errands or go to family functions. I've even accepted that, by now. But I will not tolerate my causing any more pain or unhappiness out of an inability to control my dark moods. There is enough of that in the world, and even in the happiest homes. I've caused enough pain in my life for the people who love me. It's likely that my suicide attempts and hospitalizations and drama when I was younger contributed to my mother's death. It has to end. No more a burden to my family.
So my specific task is to obtain enough control over myself so that I never lash out against those I love. That these episodes of yelling and wall-punching and self-injury are rare is not enough. They need to be unheard of.
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