Not sure what I am confessing, exactly. It just sounded cool.

I feel like I am edging closer to pulling together some form of positive self-image and maybe even a better internal narrative.

The “that’s so Fruvous” twist is that this involves reconciling the dark and negative feelings that emanate from my wounded being and the objective truth that I am a pretty amazing person, actually.

You guessed it, it’s time for the litany of self-praise. Just remember, it’s therapeutic.

I’m extraordinarily intelligent. Might as well get that out of the way. Straight A student without ever having to study, smarter than all my teachers, yadda yadda, ^[1]

I’m a very sweet dude. Kind and sensitive and compassionate. I truly care about people and want them to do well. And I have a deep understanding of the human condition and a keen appreciation for all the little imperfections that make us human.

I’m funny. All my profs at VFS said so. My friends certainly think so. One of them who worked in Canadian broadcasting for over a decade even told me I was by far the funniest person he had ever met.

Plus, ya know. I’ve made a lot of people laugh. Sometimes really hard.

I’m warmly charismatic. That’s something I have only been contemplating fully consciously recently. There is a warm glow to me that is like sunlight on your soul and I think it makes people happy, or at least happier.

If true, that makes ME extremely happy. Because making people happy is what I love to do the most. And as someone who has dwelt in darkness for his entire life, the idea that I could shine a little sunshine into someone else’s darkness fills me with such exquisite and sublime spiritual joy that it must be akin to religious bliss.

I’d heal the world if I could.

I have great vision and imagination. One benefit of spending most of your time in the world inside your head is that you become very good at imagining the furniture. I have a powerful imagination that can make my dreams almost tangible and that, when harnessed to my potent intellect, makes me one of the most powerful kind of people : the pragmatic dreamer, who can see how things should be then come up with a plan to make things that way that will actually.

And last but not least, I am one hell of a writer. I do words good.

To sum up, I’m an intelligent, sweet, hilarious, charismatic, creatively brilliant writer, and that is enough.

More than enough, in fact. And not just enough on some abstract scale of merit. It’s more than enough to be able to put together some kind of life.

My depression would have me end that equation with, “…and yet despite all that you’re still a weak, helpless, disgusting sack of shit who doesn’t deserve to live. ”

But that’s just not true. I am a good and worthy soul who deserves a place in society as a productive taxpaying citizen who is just as good as anyone and who therefore finally gets to be a fully certified and genuine adult type person.

I’ve cowered for so long in the long dark shadow of my deep and dire shame at being so weak and helpless and “useless” that to me, that’s practically the Holy Land.

Yes folks, I dream of some day finally making it to bare adequacy.

Dare to dream, folks.

More after the break.

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Being smart isn’t worth it

Not for me, anyhow.

Or maybe it is. I dunno.

But talking about my astounding IQ in part 1 has aggravated the sore tooth that is my troubled relationship with my mighty intellect, and as with any sore tooth, I just have to keep poking at it with my tongue.

One thing I should note : it just occurred to me that my big brain has always been something that I have, not something that I am.

Like the real me has this massively powerful animal it leads around on a leash, and while I am in charge of it, that doesn’t mean it always does what I want it to do.

It’s like the servile but treacherous servant in a Restoration comedy. Perfectly loyal and obedient to my face, but following their own dark agenda when I’m not looking.

It seems odd that there should be such a dichotomy. One’s IQ operates as a very deep and central level to one’s psyche. How did it come to me that I don’t think of it as me?

I think it maybe happened because a mind as massive as mind is extremely difficult to truly conceive. So I have no choice but to have a sort of “black box” relationship with my analytical mind where it does what it does then outputs the results to me without my being consciously involved at all.

But more than that, there’s the bare fact that my massive mind terrifies me.

Like it truly is a massive and powerful entity, cold and ruthless and unforgiving, like a dragon, and I am this tiny meek and helpless creature cowering in a corner of the dragon’s lair clutching the gem that lets me control the dragon.

Actually, let’s park that image here before it becomes a novella.

Another revelation : when I try to imagine integrating this side of me into the main part of my identity, I feel a profound sense of fear, shock, and deep down horrified disgust.

Like it’s the touch of some kind of horrifying insect.

So it’s like my brutal truth machine of a mind is actually alien to the warm, kind, alive remainder of who I am. I am deep down horrified of it and that’s the root of why I have this strange relationship with my own intellect.

But the truth is that there is no separation. I am it, it is me, we are the same entity.

And I think that overcoming this false dichotomy would do me a lot of good.

Time to bring the hot and the cold together to make warm…. and alive.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.