There are drawbacks to being good at holding yourself together.

Sometimes, falling apart so you can come back together stronger is the best thing you can do for yourself.

But I suppose that’s not the kind of thing most people can do on purpose.

I spend a lot of mental and emotional energy just keeping my shit together. And I have to wonder if it’s worth it. What am I getting out of it?

Stability, I suppose, or the illusion thereof. The semblance of predictability. Freedom from the dark demons of chaos always threatening to tear my tender sanity apart.

But are those real? Maybe they are merely paper ghosts my insanity uses to control me. Yet more boogeymen my depression created.

Maybe I could let it all fall apart and still be fine. Better, even, at least after the dust settles and a new and superior island of stability forms.

I have a strong feeling that much vitally important transformation has been delayed and denied by my conscious mind’s constant interference in the mind’s natural processes.

Not for the first time, I find myself wondering if I would be far better off if I was far less self-aware and in command of my mind.

I mean, we have subconscious minds for a reason and they are probably best left alone to do their jobs.

But no, I “know better” and demand control over everything because I don’t trust anything to work fine on its own (issue) and so I essentially micromanage my own mind instead of letting it just do its job in peace.

Like the title above suggests. I should just let myself change. Surrender all form so that I may be reborn anew and all that mystical type stuff.

The shape I have assumed is incorrect. It does not do what it is supposed to do, which is facilitate my pursuit of my own happiness.

It is supposed to be my shapeshifting super-suit that can turn into whatever I need it to be in any given situation.

Instead, due to my fanatical need to keep everything the same, it is an ill-fitting and cumbersome costume that keeps me from meeting most of my needs.

It’s got to go.

But change is scary. On a deep level, where identity lies, it’s the scariest thing there is.

For every butterfly born, a caterpillar dies, and so forth. But only if the caterpillar thinks of itself as a caterpillar only, fixed and stable.

Because it’s true, the caterpillar dies. But that which once was the caterpillar lives.

If it can understand and accept that, then there is no death, just transformation.

My word, I am all about the mysticism today.

Similarly, if I can accept that stopping being this current version of me does not mean stopping being me but only the transformation into a happier version of me, I can stop fighting the changes I need to make and let myself become what I need to become.

We are not a singular being. We are a process. We stop being who we were the same way we stopped being infants, children, and teenagers.

Gradually, and with no gaps.

Fighting that is futile. It’s time I learned to stop.

I hereby declare that I am ready and willing to change however I need to change in order to be happy. In other to be free.

Let’s hope I’m still able.

More after the break.

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If I was sane

This is my attempt to “think past the problem”.

What would it be like if my mental illness disappeared?

Wonderful, obviously. It’s the main thing keeping me from pursuing a happier, more rewarding, more fulfilling life.

One a lot more like a normal person’s, with jobs and relationships and such.

I would be a heck of a lot more confident. Perhaps obnoxiously so. Without my crippling self-doubt and convulsive fear response, I would be one cocky son of a bitch.

I know this about myself. Hidden under all the layers of neurosis is a smug prick determined to push his luck as far as it will go and who refuses to limit himself any more than absolutely necessary because God gave him a fortune in talent and intelligence and he’s going to use it to get rich and have fun doing it.

Or something like that, anyhow.

But I would still be a sweetie too, I think. Just maybe not quite as worried about other people’s feelings. Not to the point of being callous, mind you.

Just to the point of being able to pursue my own self-interest and assume other people are capable of taking care of themselves and aren’t made of fragile glass.

Similarly, I would be a lot more ambitious. In my own laissez-faire way. I’d take a lot more risks, and use my unique perspective to find unusual angles and approaches to things that work because they exploit loopholes nobody’s ever thought of before.

I’d be more romantically and sexually adventurous too. I’d go after anyone I was attracted to who was, shall we say, available to me.

I’m not about to mess with some straight dude’s head by pursuing him. I could really mess someone up with my charisma and charm and ability to push people’s buttons.

And that would be very, very wrong.

So I would never do that. Um, again.

Sorry James. I didn’t know what I was doing.

What else… I would have the courage of my own cleverness. By this, I mean I would do things that seem incredibly bold but are actually way more sane than they look because I have figured out the difference between how scary things seem and how dangerous they actually are.

Life belongs to those who know the odds, kids. And can play them with skill.

I know there was a lot more I meant to talk about, but right now all I can think about is the sheer joy of being free of all this goddamned fear.

Somehow, I gotta pull this off.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.