I stumbled upon some of these txt files. I used to write when I felt like it, not regularly enuff to call it a diary. They ramble so. Here are some excerpts.
From 19th July 2005
"I feel like i must wander around repeating Willow Willow Willow, over and over again. Or more like I’m so fucked, I’m so fucked, I’m so fucked, I’m so fucked. I can’t stop writing that or thinking that. Things are running on a funny kilter."
"And now I’ve got this joke… it goes… i haven’t worked it all out yet but… it’s something like - I don’t know who i am, i don’t know what i am doing, i don’t know where i am anymore.
The Answer? id ; ps -ax ; pwd
Yes “It” has come to this. I have begun to make amuse bouche about UNIX. Yes folks.”
“I have been looking for things to buy. i feel it. i feel this anxiety that i have been trying to displace. I have been listening to radio 4 all afternoon, well since about half 10 actually.”
"I’m starting to think that nearly all the things I do are for morphine purposes. To totally immerse myself in something that is so drowning that you can’t think about other things."
"I want to reach out to someone, but everyone pulls away. Even the birds."
"I want to just anaesthetise my brain. Or my Brian."
"I don’t understand how anyone can have a relationship with anyone else. I don’t even seem to be able to have a warm conversation with anyone. From here I will never make another friend again."
"I could try sleep deprivation. if i stay up long enough how long will it be before I start to experience hallucinations"
Unedited from what I copied ‘cept a “/” was replaced by a “.”
(I kept trying to explain what I mean here but I can't figure it out)
Years ago I used to plough through dense and complex, convoluted prose and at the end I’d not only still be standing up I’d be seeking out more to read. As though I was starving (although that was literally true at the time). Henry Jamesian novels with sentences that seemed to go on for half a paragraph. Things in the newspapers that were pages long.
I used to read things that sparked me to join my own dots together, but now I read things and it’s as though I’m watching other people knitting garments for themselves (I kept trying to explain what I mean here but I can’t figure it out). I can’t get through two pages. I read a blog post and I’m no, no, no, I can’t do this. Though what it is that I can’t do, I don’t know. Every little thing seems too important, I don’t think things will work so I’m reluctant to do anything, but am scared to do nothing.
I find myself now with things that just seem like self-pity/whining/poor me-ing. And I feel as though I’m taking the self-pity and trying to put a spin on it, pretending that it’s something else. Maybe that’s what the previous post was, I’m not sure.
Sometimes I feel that I’m holding things back just for the sake of holding things back. Fear of other people’s responses/the consequences is a good excuse for a while.
Guarding things it gives you the illusion that there’s something here that’s special, like a gun with silver bullets. But for me anyway, there’s nothing dangerous, there’s nothing even interesting.
I realise that for the past year or so I’ve been feeling that there’s a competition on. And I’m not sure what the rules are, but I can tell that I’m not doing very well at all. I dearly want to get out of the competition, but I don’t recall how I got into it in the first place.
It’s like being in a dream, you know something’s happening although you can’t see any evidence of it. I have, a few times, been relieved because I believed myself to be out of the competition, but later find evidence that I’m still in it.
I feel as though my being unwell is some kind of punishment for breaking, or not understanding the rules, like when I was a child something unpleasant might happen to me and I’d be told that “it served me right” because I hadn’t done “the right thing” (although I’d never been told what “the right thing” was).
I’ve miscomprehended something. Or just missed something. And now what?
I didn’t, and yet totally did want to write the previous post cos, from what people tell me, I do a fair job of seeming not hopelessly pathetic. I do try. But that last post, once again cue more shame.
I imagine someone, if they were to read my postings, might wonder if I’ve ever “gotten help” or “seen anyone” as the phrases go. Or perhaps they assume that I have/am.
A condensed history/recap answer.
I was sent by teachers to the school psychologist, (a woman that showed up ever so often, of whom I’d never before heard) who once asked me to promise that I wouldn’t cut myself again before I saw her next. I said I couldn’t do that, I didn’t want to make promises I knew I wouldn’t keep.
A few years later I saw a child psychiatrist who seemed to think all I needed to set me right was to make more friends and engage in more social activities. I didn’t go back. Around the same time I saw a psychologist who prescribed me anti-depressants (I can’t recall which) that I didn’t take. About a decade later, while I was in hospital for something physical a doctor had me see a psychologist who intimidated the hell out of me, apparently in an effort to make me “accept help”. During the same period a nutritionist referred me to an eating disorders clinic/place/something which, again, I didn’t follow up.
Unrelatedly, assume any “notes” on posts to be what I’m designating “spam likes”, very rarely are they actual people liking/reblogging out of liking-ness.
Florence a character in the book The Good Soldier carries “heart medicine” with her in a flask. Amyl nitrate that, as she had a weak heart, might one day save her life. After her husband learns that Florence has committed suicide, he discovers what the flask actually contained —
"How could I have known that, during all the years of our married life, that little brown flask had contained, not nitrate of amyl, but prussic acid? It was inconceivable."
“Leonora says that she had that flask, apparently of nitrate of amyl, but actually of prussic acid, for many years and that she was determined to use it if ever I discovered the nature of her relationship with that fellow Jimmy.”
(Prussic acid is a liquid form of cyanide.) She carried it around just in case. A comfort. If the worst happened she wouldn’t have to face it.
I used to feel, I think maybe I still do, a huge comfort in the idea that if life ever got so horrible that I couldn’t stand it that I wouldn’t have to. Then I can extricate myself mentally from the tangle of crap I’ve caught myself up in, somehow helps me not trivialise myself. Though, it’s quite an impotent idea as I never came up with a method that I’d be willing to undertake. I’m not being flippant, I think the idea of suicide has been a crutch when nothing else really could be, that this isn’t going to go on forever, this “living” business.
I’ve been living life carrying the the heaviness other people’s values, their likes and wants and shoulds. I saw the lives adults around me were living and I felt as thought I rather die than live any of those lives. I feel that I’m completely out of touch with the people I talk to or hear about, that somehow seem to there, around me.
Things that other people do seem real, like a legitimate use of time and effort. I’ve never felt that anything I did was real, apart from things I was ordered to do, or did for other people. I tend to be a person other people ignore. There’s a feeling that anything I do that interests me will go nowhere and is therefore a waste of time; in the past this put me off posting stuff — what was the point?
When I was young I never understood the world I found myself in. Other children seemed to like things about their world. They didn’t mind school, they didn’t mind childrens’ TV (I think they liked it even). They seemed to enjoy reading the books that they read. They enjoyed birthday parties, wanted to play hide and seek. I thought they were doing as they were told, that they were playing snakes and ladders because they’d been told to. I never imagined that they could be doing it because they wanted to.
I’ve lived for enough time that I “should” but I still don’t know what I like, what I’m good at, what I can bear to do for a living (the idea of enjoying doing things for a living seems like something that other people experience). What I want to do in my spare time (althought it’s all spare time these days).. I learned from school that if I’m enjoying something and it’s making sense to me then I’m probably going to get a bad mark. Part of the “If you feel good then something’s wrong" thing wot I have going on.
Bought a ticket for a gig (that’s probably going on right now) but didn’t go. Last month there was a thing for which I’d bought a ticket and I didn’t attend. Feel as though I have failed when the appointed time arrives and I really don’t want to go. I could have gone, it’s not as though I’m in pain, I’m only tired (feeling very heavy).
Every time I don’t force myself to go to a thing, or read a thing or listen to a thing, or do a thing that I *should* I feel like “see, this is why you’re nowhere, coz you’re not trying hard enough”.
The reason I like writing is cos it’s making it a lot quieter in my mind. I became used to the internal chatter, all these conversations happening. The conversationalists wander in and settle down. Occasionally they pipe up. I hadn’t realised how many had taken up residence, how many shouted, repetitious arguments were taking place, untilI I began to make note of these things in words.
The conversations are all in my voice. I talk and I reply, but sometimes the voice(s) that reply are me doing an impression of and/or or representing the position of other individuals. I often find I’m attempting to justify myself to various people in my mind, as though I’m on trial.
When I used to diary write, putting things into words usually made me more trapped, made things feel more thick, I waded in the sludge of it all. So I stopped. And I thought “that’s what writing does to me” so I didn’t write any more. Some of me is wondering when this will start to happen this time.
All this writing I’ve been doing, I feel as tho I’m in a minor manic episode. Can’t stop writing, can’t stop thinking, can’t stop making connections. Can’t shut up (figuratively). Feeling that if I kept writing I could understand all things eventually, or at least some of myself, perhaps.
I seem to be doing my best here to encourage the idea that I am quite the unstable one.
Edit: Take references to “X made me Y” or “the reason why X” as rhetorical devices. Or lazy writing. I’m not assigning actual cause to any specific thing.
I don’t like “why”, so often a useless question. You go astray seeking some definite and specific cause. If you keep regressing in whys what cause do you end up at? Genetics, the Big Bang, some god-like concept that is the why of the way everything is.
Why am I the way I am? Why is there something and not nothing? That kind of thing.
I find those questions and attempts at answers both fascinating and disgusting. I’ve noticed that I find absoluteness disgusting. I could describe this in astrological terms but you (who?) don’t want to me talk “superstitious unscientific crap” do you?
I used to read books. Lots of books. I wanted to be submerged in worlds.
And now I don’t read books. The last book I read all the way through was “The Medium is The Massage" (which is a short book, has images and the prose is poetic and dense.)
It almost hurts now to live in someone’s creation the way I used to when I got through 2 or 3 books a week. I end up getting trapped in there and I can’t get out. Cos the words just sit there, the reader has to do something to experience anything. And the *something* that I do keeps going on when I put the book down. Many times I’ve felt I was fighting with a book, that the book was trying to suffocate me. I even have to be careful reading the Twitterz (The past year’s been almost Twitterless).
I want to read books, but they frighten me. There’s a huge should about reading books. And I don’t, and I feel neglectful.
Think this is part of the reason I’m writing so often recently. To get lost in something of mine. God, even that’s difficult, cos once you’ve written something it feels dead. All the vitality gone. Bored now.
A song idea. Rilly a rough sketch. Verse and chorus. I like to keep it short.
When I make stuff up it doesn’t come with words, just sounds. The verse bit sounded a bit like I was singing “Exciting, it’s not exciting” or I suppose it could be “Society in I, I sigh” Iz just sounds; sounds excerpted from english talking maybe, that’s why you can “put” words to it.
I’d like to make songs “properly” but feel so exhausted.
Most days there is watching of live streaming video twit.tv. Watching these now familiar presenters/people. Feeling as tho “hey, they’re your friends” Seeing them make each other laugh, observing their arguments, knowing their on-screen injokes, seeing their appreciation/frustration/indifference to the IRC chatroom, them have technical difficulties, talk about patents. You know their opinion on Star Wars re-releases, their dog’s names, starting to understand how they “tick”. Sometimes you’ll think of the joke they’re about to make half a second before they say it. You’re taking on their speech traits, mannerisms.
I have a ridiculous prejudice against feeling OK/alright/good.
When I was younger I developed the belief that happiness is lazy and foolish and it means you have your head in the sand; whereas the disillusioned cynics saw the truth. The news media told you what mattered “The world is a terrible place, what kind of idiot are you to be happy?”. “Happy” people around me flung about platitudes that sounded like lies. I took the “(only) ignorance is bliss” idea and applied to all of existence.
It’s not a useful belief with which to navigate the world but it’s stuck, stubborn. I have to break pieces off it bit by bit cos I can’t shift it whole. Then things happen that make me want to reattach the broken pieces.
Past few months I’ve been oscillating between OK-ness and not OK-ness. I start to feel apprehensive when it’s OK cos I fear what’s coming next. If it’s OK for too long it seems that something’s amiss and I try to make myself feel less and less OK because then there’ll be less height to fall from when “it” happens.
Find it so much easier to talk about painful, heavy feelings that make you feel small and sinking and isolated. Somehow they feel more real, more legitimate.
Also scared of being satisfied or god forbid, happy, because happiness is dull. Literature/film/culture in general isn’t full of stories about happy people having fun times.
It’s all very silly, now I write about it. Cue more shame.
“I’ve had an unrequited crush for about 2 years now and I’m totally cool with it ‘cause I’m not looking for a relationship at the moment- I just appreciate having and analyzing those crush (squish?) feelings.”—On having platonic-y crushes
from a comment on this post asexy beast: Totally Romantic! And yet, not!
Sometimes I — there’s this feeling of dread that although I *think* I’m pursuing my own interests, finding patterns that make sense to me, in actuality I’m just playing other people’s games. Forcing my hand to trace other people’s joined dots while imagining I’m the one drawing the line. In my deluded state I haven’t noticed.
I’ve fooled myself many times before and I’m often afraid that it’s happening right now.
The times when I’ve realised I’m like “Aah damn I knew, it felt weird. It was too much of a push, too viscose.”
I’m so reluctant to blog, speak, act. I feel as though I can’t trust myself. There’s a sense of panic because I don’t know. It could be anything, anywhere. It could be a thing so fundamental that it’s at the bottom of everything, and therefore invisible to you. So comes this frantic digging. Desperation.
The idea that you (one) should eschew every tainted thing. Every homophobic/misogynist song you listen to, a bank with “unethical” methods of investing, every “evil” supermarket etc.
Back in the days when I began learning about “the way the world is” I thought that this was possible. People kept saying boycott this thing or that company, I believed it was possible to remove yourself from the chain/process of all “evildoing”.
This still bothers me cos — I was going to come up with a plausible, respectable sounding reason as to why it bothers me. The truth is that I haven’t got a pat answer that I can tell myself that quells the nagging feeling that’s why this bothers me.
That someone is going to point the finger at me and I woun’t have any legitimate explanation. Collaborator, colluder, apologist.
Finding inspiration/enjoyment in “problematic” things and feeling ashamed. e.g. Gwen Stefani’s Wind It Up video (may contain pre-roll ad). Forget her “credibility as an artist” or similar nonsense. I like the song, the video’s fun, but I can’t ignore the presence of “her” Gwenihana “They’re ever present in her videos and performances — swabbing the deck aboard the pirate ship, squatting gangsta style in a high school gym while pumping their butts up and down, simpering behind fluttering hands or bowing to Stefani. That’s right, bowing.”
Of old I’d just be like “well no more Gwen for me then”. But I don’t do that now. I still feel that I should. Seeing as tho it’s impossible to extricate your self from “everything dodgy” I feel I should be at least attempting.
This idea that if you don’t you’re colluding, you are exercising whatever privilege you have by carrying on as you were, by saying nothing. Enabling.
You’re still eating meat, you’re still shopping at Tesco, you’re buying clothes unaware of the conditions under which they were produced, you’re buying electrical items unaware of the conditions under which their parts were produced/obtained. And what would you do if you found out the how and you didn’t like it?
And so on.
Everyone* in “the West” is participating is systems of exploitation, of all kinds. I spose I’m supposed to conclude here.
“Let’s all commit suicide!” or “come the glorious revolution” or some such: I don’t have a statisfying conclusion to this post.
Anyway this is today’s instalment of “hey, what’s up with me this day (night)”.
Lots of inverted commas, much “you” used in the 3rd person, I find it easier that saying, “one” and sounding faintly ridiculous.
* not sure if this is hyperbolic or literal everyone.
This blogging/tumbleogging thing isn’t going anywhere. It felt as tho it was but now I’m feeling eh,
I don’t like blogging. Feels too formal. Feels like writing in a newspaper.
The formality makes me care too much about appropriateness and correctness and yucky things that set too high a barrier to me writing anything, like, ever.
If I gave less of a shit I would get somewhere with this, maybe.
There’s a feeling of “I need to have a point”, and I rarely ever have a point. I perhaps have half a sentence.
Maybe I should talk to myself.
I want to feel like I’m having a conversation.
Some people can do a straight line, I like back and forth. I think.
How many times on Twitter have I had a conversation with myself? (Many.)
Twitter feels like earwigging other people’s conversations. Maybe that’s cos (I feel that) no one is talking to me.
EDIT: I perhaps don’t want other people to talk at me on Twitter. It scares me. People could be watching. What will be my pithy response?
I’ve become trapped under the weight of pointless, futile things.
Vacillating every few days between “Yes I can see a way…” to "there’s no kind of life that I want to live that is possible on this earth."
Usually my conclusion here is “then death is the solution!”, but I guess I haven’t the fortitude for that, haven’t managed it yet.
So, what now.
Here I am again, trying to be calm, recover, whatever. Don’t seem to be able to manage that.
Trawling the Twitterz yesterday, saw link to Dawkins on Newsnight YouTube clip. Watched clip while reading about the meaning on the eighth house in an astrological natal chart (is the house of (re)birth, death, transformation, fears, power and that, fyi).