psychiatric disorders. now there’s a bit of fun. like people obsessed with being in love, or politics, or game of thrones, it is something I could talk about all day every day. my most profound and deep thoughts centre around my own dysfunctionality; I can’t get it out of my head. so how do you reconcile with your deepest thoughts also being your most despised? passion is the experience of following your deepest impulses, giving voice to them. one of my deepest impulses is to disappear. I normalise this impulse by removing myself into the wilderness, onto the road, away. it feels good, I like it more than anything else in life. I just feel like a wild little animal trapped in a world I don’t comprehend or connect with. it’s like trying to frame waves. the confusion makes me insane as I oscillate in and out of a delusion that I can belong, if I just tune out the fear, if I just figure out how to be genuinely myself in a specific way that is genuinely belonging
what to do with it. booze and drugs provide nice temporary obfuscation, but mostly I just get through one day, then get through another, until the tumult subsides enough to think about anything the hell else. for a reason I can’t entirely articulate prescription meds have been something I’ve avoided, except for a very brief, uneventful stint with anti-depressants seven years ago. maybe I’ve started to come around to them now because I see more clearly than ever that I am at odds with my own chemistry. as the anxiety of youth dies away I am left standing here just feeling kind of unimpressed, in a way that is actually kinda strengthening, hardening. there is, more than ever, a fairly firm core of values to my character, so when these manic episodes of delusion&downfall wash by- which they still do, frequently- I generally just feel humiliated and isolated by my own self
what’s it all about. I cherish my wildness, my undomesticated heathen disregard for all the unnatural strictures. the last thing I want to do is throw in that towel for some baseline normative reality. but it also leaves me fractured; I dream of taking the wildness and living the shit out of it, like just being a filthy radical dero with other wildfolk and enjoying this little blip we have together. what has made that unachieveable so far? is it a medically alterable chemistry? is it deeply wired ‘personality’, made up of billions of hypercomplex neuronal interactions, i.e. indomitable chaos? we tend to be pretty lenient with ourselves, we think that our bad attitudes and behaviours are just symptoms of not blossoming how we ‘should have’, and that maybe it just needs a bit of fertiliser; the potential is there afterall… but ofcourse you never blossom, not really, not beyond the usual getting older, more self-knowing, more shrewd. if you accept the stunted-blossom theory of shittiness then you kind of can’t hold anyone responsible for anything ever, it’s all just action-reaction. personality becomes a placeholder for unrealised potential to be the best possible you. “it’s not my fault, I’m actually great- it was those bullies who made me an arsehole”. which I actually believe in broader cosmic terms, while simultaneously believing that everyone has an ethical/moral obligation to be ecofeminist warriors or whatever, and judge them for not being. ha ha
so what to do with it. I don’t know. early check-out feels like an inevitability so I’m not too stressed about it, in the mean time I think I might start taking some anti-depressants and see if they can level me up a bit, lift the haze of bitterness so that I can stop feeling compelled to write self-indulgent blog entries like this and instead write about practical, good things. like how to build your own straw-bale house or do your own mechanics
