Archive for the rants Category

Best post I can offer right now

Posted in mental health, personal, philosophy, rants with tags , on March 13, 2014 by theweirdphilosopher

I come here. I start a post. I stop writing after five words because I don´t know why I would want to post my thoughts on a blog written by a person who has nothing much to do with myself. The person who has been writing this blog – she simply isn´t me anymore. I´m not her anymore, and I don´t have her largely imaginary problems.

Well. Okay, maybe that´s unfair. But this blog doesn´t really offer room anymore for the feelings I have and for the things that prey on me. I don´t really have a place for that anymore and this bugs me. I want to communicate my thoughts and experiences, but I no longer want to do so in the context of mental health issues. I feel so disconnected from the vast majority of my posts on here. Even now I´m trying to create room for what I really want to talk about, instead of actually getting to talk about it.

Could it be that many people only feel drawn to mental health issues or define themselves as mentally ill because it allows them to talk openly about their emotions? Could this, even when they actually are ill, be part of what stops them from getting well? The threat that if they get well they can´t dwell on their inner experience anymore? Am I not myself constantly looking for a justification to talk about myself, analyze myself, muse on psychological questions? But why does it take a justification? Shouldn´t it be enough that it´s sort of well written? Isn´t it silly how much of a taboo it is to talk about ourselves, yet we are so addicted to it that we make up all sorts of dumb excuses to do it anyway? Like: “I´m only analyzing myself in detail because I hope it will help me become a better person/get rid of my illness?” It´s not even like we don´t believe in those stories! But if we absolutely need a justification, should we maybe try to find better ones? Some that don´t require we stay ill forever so we get to talk about ourselves and be taken seriously?

When I try to write a blog post on here I feel like I´m locked inside a story of which I no longer am the protagonist. It´s someone else´s story I´ve been trying to live, and I´m growing very, very tired of it. Even resent it, as it is the story I deemed more worthwhile than my own. And not just the story – the person. I presented myself as a person I thought was more valuable than the person I really am. I don´t like that person anymore. Hell, I don´t even like that kind of person when I encounter her in real life. I used to think that´s unfair, but is it, really? Is anyone entitled to being liked by me?

Is this meant by the sanctity of feelings? That you cannot demand people stop having a specific feeling because it is immoral to feel that way? Is it really immoral to demand for someone to have different feelings about a subject? I have contrary intuitions on that. I´ll need to think about that when I´m less tired.

 

 

That one time when I tried to say too many things at once and published a very unstructured post

Posted in personal, rants with tags , , , , , , on September 30, 2013 by theweirdphilosopher

Those how-tos and advice I read…

Quite often they´re designed as a kick-up-the-backside. Tough-love motivational speeches. Depending on my mood, I can read them calmly, feeling unaffected, like it doesn´t apply to me (until I reach the passage that says: “and – YES! – this applies to YOU, too! Specifically to you!”), or I will be cast into a dark prison of rage, hurt, self-loathing and demoralizing internal arguments. Actually, if that doesn´t happen right away, I´ll keep on reading those speeches and lists until it does. That´s typically the point where I skip to the comments section, hoping to find affirmation for my feelings. What I will find, however, is floods of: “OMG, brilliant as ever!” – “Oh god, I´m so guilty of all this! Haha!” – “That´s just what I needed to hear right now. Thank you.”

Those comments demoralize me even more. Because they touch upon something that had me doubt myself ever since I can remember:

How do people manage to respond like that to the emotional equivalent of a full-body-thrashing and why is it so impossible for me to respond in the same way?

I´m torn between two explanations, as always. Either everybody else is simply a whole lot stronger than me character wise (need less ego stroking, not afraid to hear the truth, genuinely eager to improve), or those are some very elaborate defense mechanisms they might not even realize they are using.

I´ll explain the second hypothesis first, because that´s easier: Tough-love speeches put their (willing or unwilling) recipients one-down. Said recipients want to be on equal footing with the author again, but they can´t do that by openly contradicting. It´s nearly impossible to contradict those tough-love speeches without looking like “you´re just too weak for them”. The implicit rule of tough-love speeches is that those who contradict are the once who´d need to hear them most. Therefore, you will need to pretend that 1) you absolutely agree and 2) that you aren´t actually a recipient, you´re a bystander. The recipient is someone else. You might applaud the author for his writing style while not talking about the content. You might keep your positive feedback as vague (and possibly even condescending) as possible. You might want to signal “I learned all those rules a long time ago and I have applied them since, but it´s never wrong to hear them from someone else, so kudos”. At any rate, you will want to make yourself sound like an equal.

This part is something I can understand. I apply those techniques, too, rather often. But then I encounter something like: “I needed to hear this, thank you so much!”, and when I´m done cringing I wonder why the hell someone would respond like this. I simply don´t know how this could be a defense mechanism. Sure, excessive self-abasement can be used as a form of subversion. It can shed light on the true nature of some of those speeches, that is: They´re a form of humiliation. But those responses don´t reek of parody. I can only conclude that they are real. Earnest. Serious. And I don´t get it.

Responses like these make me feel dumb and defective. The feelings that could make me want to say such things are a blind spot both in my imagination and my experience. And there surely must be something wrong with that? Beginning with the fact that other people don´t understand my utter discomfort when faced with such reactions. Or the fact that, when such responses are expected from me, I fail to deliver and instead do things that can only be described as irrational, crazy and incomprehensible?

There is, as always, the special snowflake explanation. Maybe something is terrible wrong with a society based on such put-downs, and hierarchies, and all kinds of humiliations guised as child-rearing – and I´m one of those few people who are sensitive enough to recognize the wrongness of it all. I know what tough-love speeches have to say about that. There are no special snowflakes in tough-love, and even if so, YOU are none of them. (This is meme-worthy. This is so meme-worthy.)

I don´t need to be a special snowflake, though, in order to disagree and be right. Tough-love speeches are good at creating an illusion of all-encompassing consensus. No one contradicts, so everyone agrees. Apart from some really, really pathetic twats. Don´t be one of them. Actually, though, the author can be sure only of the agreement of the 159-ish people who cared to comment. That´s not so terrifically much. So maybe there´s hope for me.

Anyway, maybe that´s part of the reason why I can´t stay away from such speeches even though they make me unhappy and unproductive (actually, that was not supposed to be the topic of this post, but never mind): I cannot accept that there is something I don´t understand. It´s a loose end in my belief system, so I need to tie it up. And that´s why I keep on coming back to this issue.

Anyway. How do people do it? How do they feel doing it? What does it take for you to feel grateful for this kind of treatment?

Somehow, I always tip-toe around this question. I kind of – want to experience that state of mind. And I kind of don´t want to. I imagine myself saying those things. I try to strip that idea of its horror. Of the disgust I feel. I try to be sincere. I try to say it without self-disgust. I try to make it sound plausible, real, like the mistakes I´m accused of are the only right explanation there ever was for all my unhappiness. I even imagine trying to forgive myself for not seeing it earlier.

There´s only ever two outcomes: Either it kicks in a a way that it really shouldn´t, or I feel nauseated, depressed and demoralized. Often, it´s one after the other. What doesn´t happen, though, is that it ever feels like a genuine, positive emotional experience. And that makes me feel broken. Defunct.

If I´m incapable of responding well to lectures and criticism, am I then incapable of personal growth? Does my masochism block my ability to react positively to any attempts at improving me? And if so: Do I have to change my sexual orientation in order to become a mentally healthy person?

Those were questions more or less visibly nagging at me when I started seeing Dr. Stoneface. That´s not why I noted them down here. I did so because they still bug me. Part of me feels like the answer to all those questions must be “no”. Part of me feels like this is wishful thinking. Remember, no special snowflakes. Even if there are people who are right, those people certainly aren´t YOU!

Yes. Totally meme-worthy.

I know that many people are inclined to think that the answer to all those questions posed above is “yes”. Dr. Stoneface certainly was. How people answer those questions, though, is my ultimate test of their trustworthiness. It doesn´t protect me, of course. To many people, those questions aren´t even connected. They might think, for example, any kind of masochism or sexual deviation is ill and crazy. But also people who embrace sexual diversity might reject me, thinking I´m an immature twat who isn´t really into their kind of kink but just one of those nutjobs and eccentrics who creep around on the edges and give the “scene” a bad name. And 99% of all people I deal with have no idea of the inner conflicts and the social anxiety I carry around and they will never know that they just failed a major trust test.

I wish that didn´t matter to me so much. Like: I wish I didn´t care what opinions other people have. Fact is, though – when someone I like or even admire has an opinion that makes me feel bad about myself, I sometimes feel unable to continue talking to them. A friend of my partner I always sort of idolized was visiting and I was talking to her about my failed therapy attempts. Suddenly she said that she really took something from her last therapy because her therapist didn´t let her get away with her usual schemes. I felt physically ill hearing her say that. I felt unable to stay in the same room with her. I felt deeply rejected. And this kind of rejection happens to me very, very often, without anybody noticing.

I´m starting to feel depressed, so I´ll just leave it here for a better day.

 

 

 

 

 

Yeah, I´m still alive

Posted in morbid, personal, rants with tags , , , , , on November 22, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

So it happened, I left home.

I´ve always had trouble with changes. And this is so far the biggest change in my life. I´ve left and I´m not going to come back. The place will be sold. I honestly have thoughts that it would be convenient if my parents died now because that way I could save the place. Oddly enough, I also have thoughts of the place burning down now, while I saved the most important stuff, and nothing remaining. For some reason that would be more bearable than what I´m feeling now.

I´m still not sure if I feel abandoned, or like I have abandoned something. The easiest way to put it might be to say I feel like a homesick little child crying for her mother, just that this child will now have to live alone, and that it´s not my mother I´m crying for. It´s my home.

I feel like I myself ought to die now. I´ve made that step out of my sheltered world, the painful, complicated relationship with my home (and I mean that absolutely literally: with the place!), and the end of this relationship is nothing I should survive. I feel like cutting my wrists so I bleed out all the pain, anxiety and guilt I´m feeling and fall asleep peacefully.

The worst thing is that I still feel like I could get my home back, or that I could keep it. I still frantically think about how much time I still had one month ago, one year ago, or – goodness! – six years ago! I could have thought of something, or done something to become a person who can deal with this, but now here I am, being absolutely not ready for this, and yet it is me who is lying in this strange, foreign room with pieces of my old furniture standing around.

And I was neglectful. I always preferred not to think about it. What was going to come, I mean. For some reason I feel like…well. I was going to say I feel like I want to stop running away from anything at all and just spit out all of my feelings, worries and dark secrets right here. Which is what I´m doing anyway, but it feels unwise. I wish I was the kind of person who doesn´t need this. It makes me vulnerable.  Or maybe, what I dislike so much about it is that I feel better after telling someone, and be it random strangers on the Internet, how weak and helpless and homesick I am. How much I need to be cared about, whatever exactly it is that I need. It feels like a trap. It feels like a price I pay for affection. Being really, really low. Hitting rock bottom. It feels like running back to my mother and telling her how weak and needy I am, making her feel strong and needed and confirming her view of me.  It is okay to show neediness in the presence of people who like you when you´re strong, self-confident and independent. It is not when the people in question prefer you weak and helpless.

Still, I am weak and helpless and needy sometimes, and the easiest way to battle this is to judge myself. Talk about how neglectful or lazy or corrupt I was. Condemnation bears hope, it means that I could or one day can be feeling better if only I change. And maybe there´s something else to it, too, maybe it gives release the way self-harm does. Emotionally hurting oneself, then reaching some kind of catharsis. If you want a more harmless analogy, take a crying fit. Or maybe it´s just a way of taking all my fears (“I´m useless, I´m a bad person, I´m wrong, I´m lazy, I´m a failure, I will always feel this terrible pain and nausea, I am completely alone”) and calming them by stating they´re true. Yes, I am useless, wrong, lazy, a failure, a bad person. Yes, I am alone and I will always suffer. I no longer have to worry any of this might be the case. All of it is.

Again, though, this is a way of killing anxiety that reminds me of ways described in this entry. It seems like a brute force method of invoking a kind of catharsis that cannot last. I will – hopefully, but also likely – at some point feel better again. I will feel independent, brilliant, strong and epic, and I will be ambitious. I will be sarcastic and impatient and demand too much from myself, or I will be cranky and apathetic and refuse to do anything other than watch cartoons. So what is the point of being all lofty now and turning my soul inside out so everyone can see the ugly underside? It seems almost unhealthy, hysterical, dangerous; like a step back.

If I feel the strong need for something like “confession”, then maybe I should engage in it, but in a more reflected way. I think it is a very masochistic drive which I shouldn´t mistake for my route to salvation. Or at least I shouldn´t believe all the nasty things I say about myself when I´m in that state of mind. It´s feelings and fears I have, or maybe just a need to put myself down. Maybe I´ll find a way to express all that without losing sight of my motivation and the drive behind expressing it.

I´m sorry this is getting so boring and theoretical, I guess the part about the homesick little child living inside a tough-as-nails twen was more interesting. I´m also sorry, by the way, if this entry doesn´t even make the remotest sense. I haven´t slept in a while.

Well, it was an attempt at resuming my blogging.

The cruel roots of writing and society´s unwillingness to be tortured – or something like that

Posted in morbid, personal, rants with tags , , , on October 31, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

I´ve just had a perfect inner monologue going, but it seems impossible to write it down systematically as it involves too many great questions and answers which all seem to be entangled with each other. And yet I feel obliged to try. I´ll just start somewhere, then.

I´m being torn apart between resigning myself to being a cynic or going on looking for some deep, authentic sincerity inside of me. I understand this needs explaining. Take this example: Some people believe there is such a thing as a dream job, and the dream job is not just a great or prestigious job, but something that helps you fulfill your mission in this world. Which requires that you have some kind of mission. That there is something you were born to do. And then there are others who think that most people who got great jobs got them by accident and grew into who they became. They weren´t meant to be – whatever, a successful start-up founder – it just so happened that they became successful founders. It´s not like their path had been laid out in front of them through divine revelation (or tons of soul-searching) some time in their early twenties. It was made by walking, and they never knew what would be around the next corner. In fact, they created it, and they could have done something entirely different. It´s not like they found their true mission in life and everything else would have been false and misguided. They might just as easily have become artists, and that would have been just as right.

As much as I rationally favor this second, “cynical” opinion, I cannot seem to stop searching. Emotionally, I need the belief that there is one true way for me and that I can find it. In a way, this is nothing but trying to get around making decisions. If only one way is right, and if this is absolutely clear and obvious, then there is no reason to choose a different path. If there is more than one way, and they are all equally worthwhile, making a decision feels like cutting myself off from life. Not even because it might be the wrong decision in the sense that my life could go awry. Or well, maybe in some way. But it´s not the only problem. It just feels as if I´m deciding on what not to use my abilities, and I can´t help wonder if I´m wasting them. Should I write when I could be a scientist? Should I write when I could be an entrepreneur?

It is interesting, and I´m only realizing this now, that I always seem to be thinking of “more worthwhile” stuff I ought to do instead of writing. “But…I´m fairly smart, why don´t I try to cure AIDS instead? Everybody can tell a bloody story, and even if they can´t, it´s not such a great loss!” It makes me uneasy how self-important this sounds, and often I think that it would solve all my problems if I was a self-conscious little girl who is humbled by every tiny bit of success because she always expected to fail. But I´m also sick and tired of being modest when it means that I cannot even admit to myself what my problem is. If I´m really that arrogant then the world ought to see it so at least they don´t mistakenly like me for something I´m not.

So, yeah. My problem with finding a life mission is that I think I can do nearly everything, and I don´t know which problem is worthy of my skills. I´m just fairly convinced that writing is not. I could never feel that awe and respect for literature some people seem to feel. For single works, yes, but not for LITERATURE as a whole. So it doesn´t seem okay to see writing as my whole life mission. It is something I want/need to do while I do something else, but not as my main occupation. I wouldn´t respect myself if I was only a writer, and this is coming from someone who hasn´t even finished a single novel. Quite rich.

Maybe this is not so much of an attitude problem on my part, but on society´s part. Maybe society just doesn´t respect writing a whole lot. Sentences like: “Yeah, everyone can do that!” are not coming out of nowhere. Writers are some kind of luxury, they are there for entertainment. If we lived in a world that fears their writers…

To be honest, I don´t know exactly where that came from, but it captures something important. If books could scare people, if people were frightened to get caught up in a book because they don´t know what it might do to them, if they were scared of what a book might tell them about themselves, if institutions lived in fear of how they are judged in the latest novels…if a book could be a public event of the magnitude of 9/11…

I´m not a nice writer, in fact, I´m a highly sadistic one. I read that´s okay, you have to be mean to your characters to write gripping stories, but for me, characters are just a means to an end. It´s the reader I want to get at. It´s him I want to play god with. And I use myself as a human guinea pig to test my ideas. If I shudder and wince and wish it wouldn´t happen, it´s probably good. Writing is the sublimest display of my ugliest face.

I´m hardly the only writer who´s like this. I guess many others would say the same thing, and sure there are some who would merely use nicer words. They might say they want to move the reader. But moving the reader does seem to imply drawing him in, getting him attached to some character and then cutting him a wound, even though you might stitch it back up in the end and bandage it with a big, fat happy ending.

I have a feeling, though, that readers are not really willing to be toyed with. Maybe they once were, but they aren´t really, today. They want to be smart, stoical, blasé. They don´t like to be moved. They´d rather look like cynics. Sometimes I feel like authors are waging a silent war against readers who think they have seen it all.  Maybe not all readers, no. I think what I´m having in mind here, though quite implicitly, is a sophisticated audience. Intellectual readers. It would be such a compliment to inspire them to awe or stunned silence, but it is in their nature to talk. They always want to outsmart you and then condescendingly praise you for how well or skilled your novel is constructed. You could write in your own blood and you would´t get an honest, emotional reply from them. I think it´s this, the public way literature is dealt with which discourages me so much. It´s what makes me feel that, as a writer, I´m a lesser being. The intellectual public simply refuses to let books move them. The single individuals, privately, might be moved, but in public they´ll always try to say something “smart” that reduces your writings to a footnote in literary history. They deny you the effect you have been searching for, and that is demoralizing. It feels like they´re playing with unfair means, because they wouldn´t admit they´re moved if they were choking down tears. It has nothing to do with literary quality.

With a public like this, writing is almost inevitably ineffectual. How are you ever going to feel like you´ve made an impact on the world? Feeling like you have no impact on the world is nothing “personal success” (fame, talk show invitations, fans and followers) can ever make up for.

 

 

A rant about my life, and what writing means to me (inofficially: Polishing up the facade, part 2)

Posted in personal, rants with tags , , , , on October 18, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

Self-harm triggers!

Almost a year ago I wrote a post called Polishing up the facade – part 1. I never wrote a part 2, but you can regard this as a follow-up, even though I´m at a point where I´m trying to polish up a facade which is barely even standing anymore.

I´m still busy selecting kitchen files and arguing with my parents (this noon it was my father who woke me up asking me about stuff and reminding me of things I had already explained to and discussed with my mother), and in the meantime my tutor (yes, I finally found a tutor for my thesis!) is writing me an e-mail telling me there´ll be a meeting with all of his students next week, so I will have to come up with some kind of list of references and a preliminary outline for my thesis to cover up for the fact that I haven´t been working on it so far. Additionally, I´m broke and it´s only the middle of the month. I have some birthday money left that should prevent me from starving, but I also have a dentist bill to pay. Maybe I can delay that until next month. No need to mention, by the way, that my room is still full of bottles.

For the last couple of days I´ve been having abdominal cramps which increased whenever somebody said something to me. At the same time, my thoughts were racing crazily. Uncharacteristically for an emetophobic I never even worried that this was a physical condition. It was blatantly obvious it was down to stress. I just had no idea what the hell to do about it that didn´t involve homicide. I did experiment a bit. I actually considered starting to cut again, not on impulse but deliberately like daily exercise, because my psyche is going to turn against my body in one way or the other, and I´d rather cut and get scars than have cramps and get Morbus Crohn. I´ve never been terrifically efficient at cutting, though, so I more or less dropped the idea.

I don´t think the whole moving/uni/being broke shit wouldn´t stress me out so much if it weren´t for the underlying problem. I know, after all, that I can move furniture, write papers and get a job. The underlying problem is that I don´t know why the hell I should be doing any of this. I just don´t want to. I don´t want to get a job. I don´t care what job it is. It could be the job of my fucking dreams, if that existed.

It´s not like I think all the jobs out there are boring. Actually, I find new interesting things every day. As long as I can explore it from afar, I find the world of work fairly fascinating. I just don´t want to be part of it.

Something about working feels like an insult. It doesn´t really matter whether it´s working as a waiter or as a manager. It just feels terrible that out there my only value as a person is in what way I can be useful to somebody else, and if I´m more useful than my competitors. That´s not because I´m stupid or lazy or shy of competition. I´ve won some competitions and lost others, but I am capable of competing.

I´m not lazy, either. Actually, I keep a remarkable amount of projects running. I have a comedy blog I post on daily, a football blog on which I compose detailed analyses of all our matches, another blog on which I´m writing a satire about two students and their first encounters with “the real world”, and actually I´m also working on a crime novel (I have about 80 pages written and I started last month). Lazy?

Any reasonable person would tell me to drop some of these projects to reduce my stress, but I can´t. I absolutely can´t. They are my only hope. If I succeed with any of them, maybe I will get around having to work, or at least I will get around confusing myself with a my work. Working itself is not such a chore to me. I don´t feel like going there, and there will be days when I´m constantly looking at the clock, but there are other days when it´s just fine, even in the boring jobs I´ve been doing. The problem is that I did those jobs knowing this wasn´t my life yet. Actually, I was a student, and studying would lead to something great. Yeah, but to what? Like I said, I do not want a job (well, sure, I don´t want to be unemployed and starving, but I do not dream of a job). Unfortunately, studying most likely will lead to a job, unless you start a company of your own, and for that I should have studied computer sciences.

I realize that as soon as I´m done studying I´ll be expected to get a job. Because that´s how you earn money, right? And then I won´t have time or energy anymore to work on my projects, and I´ll be sitting at work all day thinking: “So, when is this over so I can get started with my life?”, and then I´ll think: “Well, damn, this is my life!”

I don´t want to come to that. I wouldn´t quite kill myself to avoid it, but I´d do a lot of things below that. At least I think so now. I´d like to believe that I´d pick a shitty part-time job just in order to survive and still have enough time to work on my projects, but I´m extremely scared that I´ll start looking for high-end careers (and having the grades and a bourgeouis upbringing maybe even get one) because if I´m going to have to work anyway I might as well do something prestigious so at least people assume I picked a better life then them.

Maybe I´m being too hard on myself, it might well be that I´ll look into interesting careers because if I have to work I might as well work on something interesting. At any rate, though, it might be the end of what really matters to me. Because I´d always and forever feel like a failure if I pursued my projects just as hobbies. I always wanted to succeed with them. Be seen. I never wanted the rather private success of earning a lot of money in a prestigious job. I wanted to be a public figure who is seen and heard and listened to. Not in the sense that people do as I tell them, but in the sense that people are interested in what I have to say. Or write; I wouldn´t want to be bothered by paparazzi all the time.

I used to think that means I´m just in it for the fame and that I´m terribly superficial and actually don´t have to say anything at all. If that really was so, however, I´d have given up long ago because I get zero recognition for the work I do. I don´t even get encouragement. And yet I´ve been writing for years.

Sometimes all I want is someone who believes in me and likes what I do. Someone to say: “Have you been writing again? Can I read it?” And I can say: “Here it is, and let me know what you like and what bugs you!” Someone to ask me questions about my characters, and the story, someone who thinks aloud with me about what some character´s real motive might be. There are forums for that on the Internet, but I don´t want to publish my drafts for everyone to see. I´d like to have some guarantee that no one will steal my ideas. Besides, I need someone in flesh and blood, someone I can talk to. Preferrably someone who doesn´t write himself, as there is always competition among writers.

I used to be part of some mentoring program after winning a writing contest when I was a teen, but I strongly disliked the mentors. They were bossy, self-righteous and I felt like if I succeeded it would be their success, not mine, so I dropped out. Career-wise it was a giant mistake, as they had all the connections, but to me it felt like a matter of integrity.

The big problem with me and writing is that I must write as a form of rebellion. If I had sponsors or a scholarship or something like that, I couldn´t write anymore. I´d start writing something else, maybe, but not the book I´m supposed to write. At the moment I´m writing so terribly much because I´m supposed to be doing something else, and because I feel like this is my last chance at succeeding with writing before I will be swallowed up by a job.

I know many writers have their “day job”, but somehow I feel like I cannot do this. I´d feel defeated. Like someone else had won. I´d have to perform badly at my dayjob to make clear this is not who I really am.

If I translate this into psychological problems, in what way has that person won? What has been proven? That I have to subject myself to the logic of usefulness. That I cannot and will not be loved unless I´m useful. That this is an inescapable truth, a law of the world. Succeeding with my writing (both fictional and personal or philosophical stuff) might prove that the opposite is true.

Or maybe not even that I am loved for who I am, because few people who read what I write would know me personally. But it would mean that I can, just with my own mind, experiences and personality, can create something of value. I don´t have to work on someone else´s ideas. I can realize my own, and people appreciate them.

I believe one person who would have won if I fail as a writer would be my father. He has in one way or the other always discouraged me from writing because it is so hard to succeed, and that in order to succeed you have to write what people want to read. That always demoralized me, because my sole motivation for writing always was that I want people to like my ideas. Writing what I think others want would completely miss the point. Writing is a medium for my thoughts and feelings. If people don´t want them, they don´t want me. Writing according to some recipe just so I´m successful and sell a lot of books and get publicity would be so hollow and pointless. Of course I want success, tons of it, but with my own ideas and on my own terms.

I´ve been wondering why I need that kind of success so much, why I need my ideas and thoughts and feelings to be valued so much. I thought this made me superficial and vain, and maybe it does mean I´m missing something, but if I do, then what I miss is the most basic appreciation: That my own ideas and thoughts are worth something.

Why I´m not writing so much at the moment

Posted in personal, rants with tags , , , on September 8, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

I cannot write a blog entry, not for the fucking life of me. So what the hell is keeping me away from this blog? It´s been my ultimate outlet for months.

I guess I´m just incredibly tired of myself. Or – well, no, not really. I´m somehow impatient with myself and the world. I don´t want to compose long, intelligent entries. I demand from myself that I go on exploring the winded workings of my psyche, and at the same time I feel sick and tired of doing what is demanded from me.

I don´t want to make myself miserable. That is, to be honest, a fairly new feeling. Most of the time I was digging into everything that could possibly hurt, reading things which I knew were going to hurt me – but now I don´t feel like it anymore. Why did I do it? On the one hand, there was hope. Hope that I would get somewhere. I probably did, but at the moment that hope is gone. Maybe I just arrived somewhere, who knows. Then, I´m simply an adrenaline junkie. Being angry helps me to not be depressed. Fighting is better than complete apathy. Or, as I read in some Dexter fanfic: “It´s always nice to feel something, you know?”

But I guess I´m just sick and tired of that hope. And not just the hope, but the demands that come with it. “You must improve. You must work on yourself.” Yeah, that´s what I´m really tired of. Working on myself. Working on things that happened to me so I will one day be more self-confident, more open, more whatever. Allegedly more happy. And so this blog felt like an enemy. Like I couldn´t write casual things here. Like the only part of myself that could go here was the anxious, self-defeating, scrutinzing Me. Which is obviously bollocks, as Pissed-off-Me has written here before. Plenty. The differences in mood probably don´t look half as dramatic as they feel.

Also, I have this other blog, but I feel odd writing there, too. The fact that it exists really just shows I feel that parts of me are so outlandish and inacceptable that I have to put them into the special interest department because no reader of my regular blog will want to hear about them. This is something I´m tired of as well. Who would have thought people would be interested in and accept my therapy story? So if I can post that, why do I have to shut away everything intimate elsewhere? Besides, the one time I wrote on this blog about my issues with sadism I did encounter acceptance.

I guess these problems might explain my current absence from this blog.

Messed-up fantasies (not half as interesting as it sounds)

Posted in health, mental health, morbid, personal, rants with tags , , , , on August 20, 2012 by theweirdphilosopher

It would be far easier fighting through emetophobia and all my other problems if I felt there´s anything to fight for. As long as life is pleasantly boring we might just take it as it is, but if you feel like you have nothing in particular to live for you can´t help wonder what you´re fighting for when fighting becomes necessary.

There´s a small, tiny little entity inside of me who is desperate for something. For being seen, heard, loved, you name it because I cannot quite figure it out. I only know that as soon as I feel like someone close to me doesn´t love me or is mad at me that entity starts crying helplessly and tries to reach out for that person. Please, please love me; what do I have to do to make you love me again?

There´s no pride, no reason; nothing but the absolute necessity to feel loved and sheltered. To feel like I belong to someone. The ambiguity in this sentence is not arbitrary. I crave a connection, a bond; something that cannot be separated. It´s almost as if I wanted to be an extended part of someone else.

That entity is fine with being small and little and dependent. Doesn´t want to be a being of her own, doesn´t want to have a will of her own. No loneliness, that´s all that matters.

I´m starting to feel more and more that whatever it is I want I won´t get it. I´ve touched upon this in the last crazy stream of consciousness. So on some level I simply want to die because I don´t know what the fuck I´m still doing here. All the fighting amounts to nothing. All fighting seems to be a fight for independence and I don´t need that independence for anything. I don´t want anything, remember? No goals, no real ambitions, just that terrible loneliness to bear, an abyss opening up right under my feet and I will fall if I ever look down. What´s walking the earth is just a ghostly shell, an image of my mother, a despicable pointless smiling machine that pretends it is moving anywhere but in circles! I can accomplish things, I can make it look as if I have lived my life (maybe, I tend to overestimate myself here), but that´s that. I´ve never really felt at home in it. Nor in myself. So why don´t I just die?

That entity won´t let me kill myself. The idea feels like stabbing a toddler in the face. As if my loneliness would go away! I´d be dying alone, going into some grey nothing where definitely no one will be holding my hand.

So I dream about being murdered. I´ve stated before how real murder is different from what I imagine, and indeed I see it more as a mercy-killing. There would be this connection present, a mind-to-mind hotline allowing my killer to take all my feelings away from me, make them part of who he is and then dispose of the shell that is left. What he´d kill of would be my empty consciousness, void of all contents like thoughts and feelings. Just my awareness that I exist. The needy little child would be saved, as part of someone else´s mind, while I no longer have to feel anything or lead a meaningless existence. I guess if any feeling would be left in my mind before I die it would be gratitude.

I feel a certain fear that someone might be using this as an excuse to just attack and murder me. Use me as an outlet for aggressions. I just have that image in my mind and I feel like I couldn´t object. It´s what I wanted, isn´t it? I´ve offered myself up for this.

No wait, I didn´t. It isn´t part of the good fantasy that the killer is fulfilling an emotional need of his own. I didn´t offer myself as a punching bag, did I? But yes, there more or less is such an element. I assume that he will meet me with kind feelings, that he will want to do what he does. He will want to take in all my feelings, he will welcome them in. So…I feel like I am giving him something. He is taking something from me that he wants. He´s not just doing me a favour.

Or is it more like: If I ask for something I have to take the consequences? Like: YOU wanted to be murdered, YOU wanted me to rip those feelings out of you, so now don´t complain if it´s scary and it hurts?

It´s like I can never really wish to get what I asked for because it will always somehow bite me in the ass. I just feel incredible aggression coming from that second, ill-natured killer. Maybe it´s a good metaphor for how my wishes were dealt with, I don´t know. Like: Nobody will just try to do for me something good I´ve been asking for, they will always make sure I regret asking them. And I´m starting to wonder why, seriously. Is it that hard or horrible to do something for me? Do I always have to pay some lunatic price? If I ask something from someone, does it mean he can do to me whatever he wants?