Therapy didn’t happen today. Phone SNAFU. Will happen tomorrow.
Like all nerds, there’a times I feel like an alien.
I might have a slightly stronger case of it than the average geek because I have not worked a job or had a commute or even had a boyfriend, so my attachment to this mortal plane is quite weak.
And from a cluelessly “spiritual” point of view, that sounds great. I mean, we’re all looking to transcend the physical limitations of this earthly plane and move into a higher state of being in the perfect world that lies beyond the illusion of the real, right?
Wrong. I am not a transcendentalist and I do not believe in a hidden and superior reality where all is perfect and all things come together as one.
That’s just mystic bullshit. Like all mystic bullshit, it thinks the world of the mind is another plane of existence when it is actually the world between our ears. Sure, it seems like a perfect existence if you are already biased towards the intellectual side of things because it is the world of abstraction and mentation unsullied by emotions, instincts, or other messily material things like that.
But it’s an illusion. Now where was I? Dammit, I wandered off my point again.
That’s my own intellectual bias playing tricks on me as usual.
Oh right. It might seem like being so poorly attached to reality could be a good thing. but in reality it’s a nightmare.
Because it means my mind is ungrounded. Unmoored. Untethered. Were I better grounded in reality, I would not be at the mercy of the random fluctuations of the chaotic and unstable world of my mind.
For as long as I can recall, I have had this nightmare vision in my mind of myself floating away from the ground and disappearing into the sky, never to return to Earthm trapped forever in the icy cold stratosphere.
It’s a potent metaphor for what I fear world happen if I lost my tiny grip on the real world, and surrendered completely to the deranged mad scientist within with whom I fight a daily battle just to keep what few marbles I have left.
Switching metaphors, it’s like I am constantly boosting to escape the grip of a black hole’s gravity well, but to all the world, it looks exactly like I am doing nothing.
And there are times when I am sorely tempted to just stop all engines and let the gravity take me and do with me what it wilt.
At least then it would be over.
But that path leads to annihilation. And I don’t want to die. Not really.
Most depressives don’t want to die. They just want the pain to stop. If there was a way to do that without dying, they would do it.
And there is. It’s called alcohol. Or drugs. Or video games. Or any of the other ways we self-medicate in order to get away from the pain.
There has to be a better way to deal with this shit. Some way to heal the spirit. Something that solves the problem of the pains that are too big to bear and therefore never ever heal.
Maybe someone will invent a catharsis pill that will open the mind and dull the pain enough so that these wounds, at long last, can be healed.
Or maybe we will just learn to be better to each other.
Either way, I will still be stuck with a head full of shrapnel. trying to make it through life despite the pain, stumbling all the way.
More after the break.
The Demon at the Door
It’s called fear. And it is my jailer.
My captor. My tormentor. My prosecutor. And my judge, jury, and executioner.
And it is, of course, me.
Everything in your head is you. You wearing different disguises. Different hats. Playing different roles. Having different jobs.
But it’s still all you, baby. One hundred percent. You are alone in there.
We’re all alone in there.
My demon is my doorman except that he is there to keep me from getting out of my cell and into the big bad world that it is sure I can’t handle and that would destroy me.
Oh no, destruction. That might result in me having a really crappy life.
My demonic doorman is my primary defense against the infinite hallway of infinite doors(IHOID). By keeping me locked in to this extremely limited and limiting lifestyle, it keeps me from having to figure out what the heck to do with myself.
I’ve never been able to answer that question. There are just too many possibilities. Too many to be rationally assessed, and that’s the only way I know how to process things.
Trapped by my own rationality.
Other people don’t have this problem. Even highly intelligent and creative people who probably see at least as many possibilities as I do do not have this problem.
They have something – call it an X factor – that propels them forward and keeps them trying new stuff until they figure out what works from than and that quite possibly actively prevents them from looking at more of the big picture than they can handle as any one time.
And yet, I also feel like the IHOID is bullshit. A smokescreen like all the rest. Something the bad part of my mind has found to be an effective way to shut me the fuck down and keep me from wanting to go outside to play in that big bad world out there.
If so, I do not yet know how to circumvent it. It’s easy to say “Just pick something and try it! If it doesn’t work, try something else!” but it is nowhere near that simple.
If I could pick something, I wouldn’t have this problem in the first place.
There’s always lots of things I could be doing. Things that sound logical and doable and productive and enriching and all the rest.
I could be writing a novel. Or trying to sell a script. I could be entering contests. I could be applying for online writing jobs. I could be collaborating with people. I could be making my own videos in order to share my talents with the world.
And those are just off the top of my head.
But I know I won’t do any of them.
My demon won’t let me.
And he won’t disappear until I don’t need him any more.
And Lord knows when the fuck that will be.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.