PasteBin

Created By wedge at 2016/06/17 16:09

1.   Warning. For triggers, for… I don’t know. This is mad. This is all mad.
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3.   Let’s talk about mental health. My mental health. My increasingly fragmented, confused, frightening brain. I guess this forms a companion to what I’ve written before about depression, but that came from a rational place. I don’t know where this comes from. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
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5.   I am insane. I must be. I’ve lost sight of the world. It’s there, I know, it has to be real, but I see it through a fog. Like I’m a ghost or in a dream. I actually spent an awkward few hours thinking I was a ghost not so long ago.
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7.   I have mood swings. I have some sort of disease, but nobody can agree on what it is. Sometimes I feel nothing, sometimes I feel everything at once.
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9.   And I don’t know what this note is. It’s not a cry for help. It’s not a… goodbye. But maybe it’s a pre-goodbye. A thing, just in case I lose myself entirely. I don’t need comments or views or… I… I don’t know what I need.
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11.   I’m so helpless. So utterly helpless, and I know that there is no help for me in this world. And that feels sad and inevitable at the same time. And people tell me I’m sick and that there is a way to feel better, but they talk in generalities. They think they know my own mind better than I do. And I obsess over my consciousness all day, every day. I have to understand it. If I can, I can fix it. But it’s impossible. It’s a camera trying to take a picture of itself, as Lucy Prebble puts it so eloquently.
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13.   There’s a consciousness, an ego, driving me. That sense of self is always there, and sometimes it’s loud and sometimes it’s quiet but it never disappears entirely. It’s the thing that has me going ‘why are you writing this? Why would you ever show this to anyone? What will they think? They’ll see you’re in pain, but they’ll also be shocked. Surprised. Afraid. They won’t see you the same way.’ And it’s the part of me that has gone back and edited this, fixed every typo, every awkward turn of phrase. Tried to make sure I come across as more sane than even I believe I am.
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15.   Sometimes it’s locked away in the back of my brain saying ‘hey, think about this.’ The quieter it is, the harder I try to listen to it.
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17.   But a lot of days, I don’t. I drink. I punch walls. I fantasise about crushing every bone in my left hand with a hammer. I grab my girlfriend by the throat. I’m sick. I’m wrong. But I can’t stop. And I don’t want to, most of the time. I just want to be, to live in these insane moments. To embrace the feelings I have.
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19.   Because on a lot of days too, I have no feelings at all. And I can do or say anything without feeling bad about it, good, or anything. I hate this. I hate everything. I want to burn everything I own. Burn my house down, hoping the fire spreads and consumes the houses on either side. Burn things and hope that the whole world catches alight. And there, in the background, is the voice saying ‘that’s mad. You’re mad. Don’t be mad.’
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21.   I think it’s about meaning. Or, more precisely, a lack of meaning. This world has no meaning. Whatever meaning there is comes from ourselves. I find my meaning in the search for meaning. But because this is a self-reflexive and ultimately futile search, I’m not happy. I can’t be happy. Not properly. There’s something missing, something that has always been missing and yet, at the same time, something I think I used to have. I understand that this is a paradox, but this is how it feels.
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23.   I’ve become used to my feelings being irrational. To not understanding them. When people ask me how I’m feeling, I’ve taken to saying ‘I don’t know’. And sometimes that’s because I don’t, but sometimes it’s because I do know, but I don’t care. And sometimes it’s because I know my feelings change so quickly that by the time they’ve asked, I could feel different. There is no continuity, no stability in my emotions. And, to be very honest, a lot of people ask very often. I am fed up of answering. It’s not like the answer is helpful for either of us. It’s a stupid fucking question.
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25.   I don’t know what I want. No, that’s not true. I know what I want. I want to be happy. I just don’t think that’s possible. I don’t know if I want to be sane or not. When I have the moods where people say ‘you normally act like this’, I feel like me. But when I have the moods where people say ‘you don’t normally act like this’, I feel like me too. So which is me? It’s all me, right? I mean, it has to be. I can’t not be myself, no matter how insane I am.
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27.   If I am me when I am sane, and people trust my judgement, I have to be me when I’m not sane and people don’t trust my judgement. I have to be. I have to be me. The me that gets his belts out every morning and checks that they’re still strong enough to hang myself from the stairs is the same me that plays games with friends, that says ‘I love you’. It’s all me, good or bad, positive or negative, or whatever. The mania (or whatever it is) driving this mad rant is me. The fear I experience when thinking about the consequences is me. It’s me. It has to be.
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29.   If you’ve ever experienced this, maybe you know. Or maybe you don’t. But you want to do everything, and maybe you can. You feel like you can. But you also know that maybe you do some things and it’s not enough, or you do them badly. I can do 10 things badly or one thing like a king. I feel like I’m unstoppable. But part of me wants to stop. Wants never to feel this way again. Never to feel anything again.
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31.   I think this madness reflects the world, at least partly. I see so much bad stuff and I wonder, how much of this makes me feel worse? I cry sometimes, but less often than you’d think. Sometimes I’m not in touch with my emotions properly. A lot of times.
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33.   I… I don’t know what I’m doing. And maybe I never know what I’m doing and I just tell myself I do. Tell myself that I’ll be okay somehow. And sometimes it’s true and sometimes it isn’t.
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35.   I believe in fate. And I don’t. I believe that there are no absolute truths. And that there are. And the extent to which I fall on either spectrum is as changeable as the weather. I will argue both points of view in a single conversation. Because this is a fluid world where nothing is absolute. Or, at least, that’s what I think right now.
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37.   Can you imagine not recognising yourself? Can you imagine the outside world feeling alien and hostile? Can you imagine describing these things? Can you describe these things? Can you? Are you? Are you reading this? Did I ever even post it? Is this happening? Is anything actually happening?
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39.   You start with cogito ergo sum, and you disbelieve everything else. But I never got around to believing in anything again. I’m here because I think I am. I must be. I’m not just shouting this stuff into a void, an echo of my own subconscious. But it feels like I am some days.
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41.   I have to find an answer. You don’t even know. I have to. I have to. I repeat myself because it feels more concrete, but all ideas are painted on air. Painted on nothing at all. I want to find an answer, I suppose. I want to want to some days. Oblivion opens up in front of me like a gaping maw, and I want to jump and to back away from the edge and be. To just be. The freedom to be me. Or not be me. I want to be free. Free from all these chaotic thoughts and feelings. Free from the chains that hold me back.
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43.   I want to kill people. I want to throttle the life out of friends and strangers. I want to kill myself most of all. I never want to hurt anyone. I want to find a cure. All these things are true. Imagine having so many cognitive dissonances at the same time. Imagine if you could live like that. Just imagine.
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45.   I imagine a bright, cold day where I’m walking and I’m pleased. And it’s true and it’s untrue at the same time. It’s a vision of the past, of the future, of a dream, of reality, of everything and nothing.
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47.   I just… I had to say some of this. I couldn’t not. I couldn’t not.
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49.   I’ve given up on my life. Why stay thin if you’re only going to live a few more months, weeks or hours? Why do anything at all? But I keep on. You know Beckett, The Unnameable? “I can’t go on. I’ll go on.” That’s me, every single fucking day. Every minute. Even when I’m happy, I’m not. Not really. And even when I’m sad, or I feel nothing, I’m not and I still do.
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51.   I just… I feel the need to bear witness and to share what is happening to me. Everything and nothing all at once.
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53.   In a few weeks, I see another doctor. With the hope that I can finally address this properly. If it is bipolar, I just need some lithium. But it isn’t, is it? It’s some unnameable thing, some unaddressable thing bigger than me or you or the whole world. It is my whole world. Whatever my problem is, I know. I know for a FACT that there is no cure. Because I don’t want there to be. I want to be like this. Until I don’t.
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55.   Every problem that starts in the mind has a solution in there. I just need to think more, to truly understand what’s happening to me. I can fix this. I just need more time, a better understanding, more… just more…
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57.   But there is no more. At the same time, there is no more. No more me, no more you, nothing at all. There’s nothing.
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59.   I believed both of those things when I wrote them, seconds apart. How can that be the case? Imagine what that’s like. Imagine who I am inside this shell. Think about me. Remember me. Never forget. That’s how you live forever, in the minds of others.
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61.   I think I was more sane when I started writing this. I think dwelling on it makes me less sane. But I think that it makes me more myself. Because I’m not sane. I don’t just have some illness. Illnesses have cures. There’s no cure for my self. For myself. Whenever people say ‘you just think that because you’re sick’, I want to kill them. In that single moment, I am a murderer. Don’t tell me who I am. If, whenever I agree with you, I’m sane and whenever I disagree, I’m not, I have no voice. I can’t ‘legitimately’ say anything that you don’t agree with. If I say there’s no cure, I’m mad. If I say, ‘I think the doctor can help,’ I’m sane. Or more sane, less mad perhaps. Because why would a sane person need a doctor?
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63.   I can’t do this. I’m so afraid every day. I can never share this. It’s a bad idea. It rightly stigmatises me. I’m so broken. Unfixable. This isn’t even half of what I want. A quarter. I’m an infinite hole of misery. And I hate that. I want to not be miserable. I want… I don’t know what I want. I’ve never known. I think it’s impossible to know your own will. Your own desires. You never want what you have. Gods, what is this? What’s happening?
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65.   Is this happening? It feels like it isn’t, maybe. But it is. You can’t trust your feelings. They’ll lie to you every time. You can’t trust anything. You just have to have faith.
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67.   I don’t know what this is for. I think that’s because I don’t know what I am for. Maybe if I write it down, someone will see it and understand. Maybe they can tell me what it means. I think it just means I’m losing it. But am I sane enough to publish, or not publish? What would be more sane? How can I tell? How do you know if you’re not sane?
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69.   I question everything, I guess. That’s probably part of the problem. Even if I found something that gave me a sense of meaning, I would question it. Even when things feel right, I question them. Because I know I’m mad. Not to question things is mad too. Any behaviour I exhibit must, by definition, be mad. So I’m mad when I say I’m fine, and just as mad when I say I’m sick. The only difference is if I agree with you or not.
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71.   And what can you do? You can look at this and feel pity, maybe sympathy, maybe, god forbid, you recognise some of these thoughts. And you can comment saying ‘that sucks’ or ‘I’m so sorry you’re hurting’ (thank you. Although we’re all hurting in different ways) or ‘you can always talk to me if you need to’, but I can’t. I mean, I can, but what would be the point? Talking about these feelings doesn’t help. It confuses people and frustrates me. Because you need to think like a mad person to follow the twists and loops inside my brain, to fathom the contradictions, to talk to me, to understand me you need to think like me. And I don’t think you do. I don’t think anyone does. I am unique. And that’s why they can’t help me.
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73.   I spend my life thinking that at some point, I’ll finally snap and kill myself. And I don’t even feel bad about that right now. That thought is exhilarating. It means that Kate gets the financial support she needs and gets to be okay. Sad, but never worried again if she’ll find a corpse when she walks through the door. But I guess it’s frightening too, and a bit sad. I don’t care if anyone comes to a funeral, but I know you crazy bastards will miss me, will believe that it was a waste somehow. I’ve tried to articulate my suffering, but you’ll still say it was a momentary thing. And maybe you’re right. But you feel what you feel. Whether that’s for a moment or a lifetime. You have to listen to your feelings. I am not a robot, although there are plenty of days when I wish I were, and undoubtedly some where I act that way; cold, uncaring, unfeeling.
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75.   I should be in a hospital, right? I guess I’m afraid of losing my autonomy. And I know that I’ll still be at least a little bit sane, down in my core. Even if I can’t control a single one of my thoughts, feelings or actions, I’ll still have my ego. I never lose it.
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77.   But this is fleeting. All this is fleeting. If I’m only this mad for a few hours or something, do I need constant attention? I guess it only takes a few minutes to do something irreparable. This is a fleeting life. What’s 100 years but a few more breaths? What happens if I don’t die? Surely it’s better than if I do? Maybe. There are no promises in this life.
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79.   So I guess I ache with the desire to feel better. And know I will get worse. And I care about both, and sometimes I don’t.
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81.   Time to decide? Publish, or let this sit somewhere? Delete every word? Show someone? Maybe not the world, but a friend? I… it’s too raw. But maybe raw is what they need to help understand how I feel.
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83.   A stream, a river of consciousness. I’m drowning in my own turbulent consciousness. What a stupid image.
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85.   Toss a coin. But this is not a binary world. There are infinite choices about what I do next. It’s only just beginning. The beginning of the end? More like the middle.
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87.   I don’t know what this is for. Not just this ramble, but my whole life. What do we do? Why? WHY? The purest suffering of that question I’ve ever felt in this moment. I swear.
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89.   I hate this. I hate this self-indulgent crap. I hate seeing it from other people and I hate it in myself. Why can’t I just get on with living instead of constantly worrying about this pointless shit? So much self-loathing that I’d break my arm. Will it out of existence, somehow. Make myself as useless as I feel. Have you ever hated yourself so much you started obsessing about stabbing yourself in the eye? The thought of hurting yourself so much was a thrill, but one you know, ultimately, you’d probably only ever think about. I want to drink acid, to punch a train. I desire oblivion of the self.
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91.   I think you’ve probably had enough, if you read any of it at all. Don’t worry about me. It’s all just posturing, I expect. It usually is. All these thoughts and feelings I swear blind that I truly feel, but I so rarely follow through. I’m a sick, weak little coward. But that’s for the best. The depression says I’m bad, the mania says I can do anything. The combination should mean that I can do anything bad. But I can’t. Always just lucid enough to stay alive, I guess.
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93.   I’m so scared of myself. Of not living any more, and of continuing to live.