Unchanging

I don’t know why, but I always seem to hope for unrealistic things. For example: I hope that people in my world would stop and change their destructive behaviors and instead nothing changes. I hope that self-honest introspection would be seen as an aspiration, but still nothing changes. I’m mired in frustration; perplexed by a world of decay and stagnation while I try to emerge. I think I’ve finally snapped.

I’m not in psychosis, but I’m just done with the people that erode my healthy behaviors and perpetuate dysfunction. I’m tired of shallow and meaningless exchanges that build a nothing road to nowhere. Why am I wasting my time, skills and love on people who don’t recognize what I have to offer? I’m such a special person, and yet, I subject myself to a reality that will never comprehend all that I am.

This is my frustration. It is massive, unrecognized and undesired. I have very few people in my world that really matter or make a difference. My home is a wasteland. My social circle has chunks missing from it. My redemption is the hard work I put in to help people advance their lives towards prosperity, dignity and stability. That’s no joke. I really do help people, every day. Meanwhile I’m surrounded by resentment, disdain, denial and escapism. My role models are the worst people I know.

So Blog, I’m detaching. Fuck all that noise. I’m launching into independence of self if not of physical location. Soon enough I will be subject to a calamitous and changing circumstance, but the torture involved is unrelenting while totally unappreciated. I’m frustrated beyond calculation.

I tried to expand the bubble and I shouldn’t have. The world is just jam packed with idiots, mindless wanderers and deplorables waiting to poison my reality. Are you ever just sickened by the life you lead? Do you ever wish you could permanently exit? I think about it now. I didn’t used to, but now I do. This life is frustrating because all the parts that need to change are completely unchanging. Stuck in dysfunction. Sinking into the stagnation in a painfully slow fashion.

I do wish I wasn’t here anymore. Nobody sees me. Nobody is even slightly capable beyond a slim margin of well-traveled veterans of my bubble. Do you know how desolate it feels to know we’re all just faking real life? Every day is a pretend version of actuality. Every interaction is make believe. I humor my way through, but why? They don’t see me now, what difference would it make if I were dead? I’d still be just as ineffectual and easy to disregard.

I feel acutely hopeless. Lost. I don’t know how long I can tolerate this rancid rot that fills my nostrils. Denial. Revulsion. Despair. Goodnight.

Groups

Why is it that these groups help? There’s no treatment being rendered, no prescriptions or policies to follow. How can sharing be so effective? I think it has a lot to do with repressed versus expressed feelings and the cathartic act involved in unleashing things that few others get to see.

I don’t feel particularly rejuvenated, but I do feel like I was heard, which is a profound thing. I expressed my hurt over my dad, my poor coping skills stemming from that. I got a lot of genuine reaction from people who understand the why and the what of dealing with mental health symptoms. It is a blessing to have this support and be able to be exposed by it. I just wish I could have a similar feeling from a caring partner.

I saw people fighting the symptoms and thoughts of mental illness in their lives and surviving. People facing their demons and vocalizing. I’m still kinda running from mine, but I won’t forever, yet there was so much in the group dynamic I benefitted from. I will be resolute in healthily coping, but reaching that state is the struggle I face. For now though, my ecliptic is only a place I hang laundry from and the so-called cushions of my chair are pancaked into squishless plates of unfortunate size that tweak my posture and provide no relief. There are surely better habits out there waiting to be implemented.

All the lonely was scraped off like so much obscuring ice on the car windshield of my destiny. I still have only a small sniff of things that may come, but for the time being, there is an ache which continues unabated, unrequited and unmistakable. Is there someone out there? There are people that I help and those that help me. I tend to think a balance of both is the surest path towards positivity.

Crashy ‘Splode… Poof!

I haven’t felt like writing. Real life has been volatile to the point of occupying my attention fully. K was back for a bit but now gone again. She’s not the right fit for my life, which is now abundantly clear. Dad is still slowly dying; withering away as I watch helplessly. Mom lost her mind with stress and grief a few days back, which poisoned the world for a time. Am I dealing with this? Have I become depersonalized from my perception of reality? What hope is there of consistency when all the variables are fluctuating?

I have only what skills and strategies I’ve learned in order to survive this life in varying states of decomposition and growth. There’s no making sense of it; I’ve given up on that. Now, I hang on for scrapes and fingernails.

Daddo

My dad has a limited time left with us, and I’m coming to terms with his upcoming death. I see only one path forward; to be there as needed until the end. I’m his son.

I feel everything one would expect me to feel, but I’m not expressing any of it right now. I’ve made the space in our reality for my mom and sister to experience things while I direct reason and action; providing stability. This role I fill helps us endure the hard times to come, but also works healthily for me since nothing gets repressed. The postponement of response is a promise, not a lock on a safe.

I know my time to process is coming, but right now I accept and embrace the role I have filled in this family unit. I am proud to be a member of it, and fighting to keep us from listing.

Will it work? There’s no telling. I have a good support structure in W and K. I need to be able to use my own tools in a crisis rather than always go looking for the answer outside of myself. I must survive with what I have if I am to survive at all.

Threadbare

A sinew;

Twisting, stretch-snapping the expanse,

Shredded down to an impossible wire.

But feeling it there–

Some thread still binding,

In unrequited twitterpation,

Escaping the fury of torment,

Yet yanking at the throat–

Scraping the hole left by death.

It’s only in dreaming–

That some bridge still exists,

A span still endures,

Where she can still be found.

Dredge

Sunk-shaft in throat-deep brown,

Residual, pungent excrement of time,

Aspirate viscous words,

Review abhorrent scenes–

Snarled in knotted forever nevers,

Plopped firmly in the mud of then.

The stink of hate–

Long permeated through cracked windows–

Careless doorseams,

The dank, mildew-wet scent–

Of irreconcilability.

Paradigm of Self-Combustion

Good morning Blog,

This dawn-less hour I am awake, beginning my day still turning over the events of the previous evening (and days prior). I think I am beyond the point of further discussion in any direct way, as there is no possible discussion to be had. I tried to leave that door open, but it was kicked shut for good.

This all got me thinking about my own destructive states, where my irreconcilable symptoms pervaded and saturated my actions to an alarming degree. I have been very combustible in years past, and I still can be if properly soaked in fuel. The paradigm of the flaming man was not that appealing, or truly representative of the whole person I am. Though, it really does take actual trench-digging labor to become introspective enough to recognize that. A lot of what helped me see what my uncontrolled illness was doing was to look no further than the scorched and incinerated crater all around me, where my friends, partners and family once stood. The fractured rubble and dust is the visible, tangible result of the damage not taking care of myself can cause.

Hence, this Blog! It was conceived as a venting waste site and a bully-pulpit for a time (conditional maturity), but has also been the documentation of a long, slow journey of self-realization and growth. Going back years, the road I walked and the steps I took towards improvement and stability are unarguably, factually, right over there in the sidebar for anyone to see. If not for this place, I would not have been able to correct the negative paradigm I had assigned to myself through unattended action. I continue to feel a sense of inner-death over the things I have done to those I professed to love. I was abusive in my depression, selfish, craven, coercive, damaging and flawed. There is no denying that my broken neurochemistry was not assisting my conscious mind in making great decisions (see suicide attempt).

I think that life is totally, locally experiential. We all interpret things differently, even from moment to moment. As our perceptions and conditions change, so to can the context of memories and trauma from the past. I have participated in this sort of exercise, especially when freshly damaged from a breakup, yelling from the stage of the Blog theater into an unhappy crowd. My perceptions were impossibly biased, rooted in denial, and staunchly defending a favorable interpretation for the sake of self-defense while acutely vulnerable.

Looking back at the hurt I caused brings up all sorts of instances and material for interpretation, as is my process. I don’t let the past lie still if there is still something there. I haven’t affixed myself to an interpretation of things that best protects my security, but rather, deals with the real events and effects I have had on others with the hope of progressing beyond it. How can I ever hope to learn from hurt, sadness and regret if I do not face those thoughts, welcome them, and accept responsibility? In the end, the paradigm of self-combustion fails when one stops lighting themselves on fire.

Carrying around the petroleum-soaked tinder of anger, hatred and resentment was the first casualty of change. These negative emotions, when harbored, cause consistent and unrelenting duress. Their validity never having been in question, the choice is to keep marching them forward as new steps are taken into the future. Logically, I introspectively assessed that I don’t have the energy to spare on such an laborious activity, fruitless as it is. The energy I spent holding on to the negative emotions I had directed at others could easily be reassigned to some other function that would be far more likely to achieve a benefit of some form. This is a conscious decision; a judgement of effectiveness and survival made internally. I am simply less likely to be consistently stable if I have an offsetting weight on me at all times that I choose not to leave on the side of the road.

The real trauma of those terrible events is a constant reminder of the validity of those moments, and should always be there in my mind somewhere. I view the memories  and emotions tied to that trauma can be constructive and negative at the same time. I began to treat moments where trauma is triggered as opportunities to understand my negative responses, practice my anxiety relief techniques, and spend some time focusing on how that surge of emotions still guides (or doesn’t) my actions. There is no denying trauma is a source of consistent pain, but also, that pain is asking a question of the self.

I, personally, explore my trauma not only to comprehend the different emotional states of my life, but also to lessen the anguish of that trauma by not approaching it with reluctance/fear, but with curiosity. Ultimately, trauma is reinforced by the emotional reaction to it, and negative will compound indefinitely until the pattern is too well-ingrained to consider changing. Trauma can be dangerous if indulged, but if observed and understood, can bring stability, resolve and strength. I do go back to some of the moments of trauma in my past, recalling specific moments where I was in a desperate, dangerous states. Yes, it is painful to remember, but also, a sign of real fortitude and endurance that I can look at it at all without recoiling in horror.

I am quite familiar with the paradigm I reference, because I have been that person. I was that person not too long ago. However, I chose not to continue to remain that person and have evolved from that regrettable state into something far more sustainable. Isn’t that ultimately the goal we mentally ill have in common; to have a chance at a fulfilling life? I think it can easily said that no one particularly enjoys suffering, and neither do I. I didn’t paint a new fuzzafied reality for myself (turns out, complex thinkers don’t find delusions satisfying), I walked into the future with all my burned up ashes of truth and regret held in my arms for all to see. I have the dignity of knowing I hid nothing from you Blogosphere, and told you the truth of my story, as best I could comprehend it at the time, with each chronologically incremental post. One soggy revelation at a time, I built up my confidence into someone who’s actions speak volumes to his moral intent. This is the progression, or some facsimile of that, that I hope to not only highlight with this post, but encourage in those who are currently self-combusting (metaphorically speaking) to pursue.

Consistency of action builds a motivation which will fuel additional steps towards hope, and with the intent of establishing the currency of worth: pride.