Archive for rage

Self-destruction drive

Posted in health, mental health, personal with tags , , , , , on December 17, 2013 by theweirdphilosopher

Something I have great trouble with when I´m in this depressive, masochistic mindset described yesterday is that I´m having a hard time keeping the rules I made up for my own protection, that is: To not read anything that could trigger more rage and humiliation or increase my inner tension.

About two and a half months ago I stopped reading that one psychotherapy forum I was definitely too invested in emotionally. I´d spent too much time being angry at the people there, or feeling sorry for some obvious victims of therapy and trying to formulate my answers in a way that kept me out of fights while getting my point across. Aside from the aspect of time-wasting, though, most importantly I wanted to remove myself from those peoples´ voices and opinions. I was hoping that my new real life duties and the study of science would speed up that recovery. Maybe even allow for my previous ability to think rationally to return. Instead, however, I became depressed.

I always have withdrawal symptoms when I´m online – the Internet seems boring, something seems to be missing, I don´t have any place to visit. For a while I could replace it with the NaNoWriMo forums, but that´s pretty much over now (and besides, some stuff on there made me angry, too). This kind of drama addiction really runs deep. I still feel like I was pulled away from a fight I needed to win, or from a puzzle I needed to solve, and at times I rebel against it on the inside.

On really depressed days, however, I don´t want to return in order to finally prove all my thoughts right; I want to return in order to get myself hurt. I want to read things that trigger me in the hope that finally something inside of me will break and that rock-bottom humility, that icky moral masochism will take me over and not go away again, no matter what happens.

When you support an inconsistent football team as a fairly new fan, you might find yourself always  wavering between extremes. When your team wins, you think everything is looking up, everything is going to be okay, you´re never going to lose again. When your team loses, you are convinced that you´re going to get relegated, or at least that you´re permanently a mid-table team and that all your wins were down to good luck or bad opposition.  I feel like I´m a little bit like that, and that´s exhausting. Instead of aiming to not let defeats drag me down so much, I aim for not rising so high when I win. Maybe that makes sense, it might be more economic, who knows. (But then again, is it, really? Constantly having to suppress happy thoughts and visions of success? Getting OCDish about it and knocking on wood every time I have one? That´s annoying and destracting.)

But there is more to the urge to make myself miserable. To some extent it is just very morbid curiosity. When I´m depressed I feel both more ill and more sane. I feel like I finally have the opportunity to get intimate with what I´m running from when I´m not depressed. I kind of hope that this way I don´t have to be afraid anymore in the future, that I will be free. But I´ve shown yesterday how this is an illusion, how my demons will always and forever pin the fault on me. If it doesn´t shatter me, if it doesn´t change me, I´m doing it wrong. Still, I just haven´t given up on the possibility that I could free myself if only I could make myself agree with every accusation and then see how long it really stings. If it wasn´t for that other part of me that says: “But if those accusations don´t demoralize you anymore, have you gained inner strength or have you lost your morals?”, I might just do it.


A journey to all the dark thoughts

Posted in health, mental health, personal with tags , , , , , , on November 24, 2013 by theweirdphilosopher

Recently, I sent to a penpal of mine a description of my current depressive episode. She replied that she could not imagine that a psychotherapist could not immediately conclude a diagnosis from my, as she put it, lucid self-analysis, and devise an effective cure – effective provided the patient cooperates.

She knows that I have a bad history of psychotherapy attempts, and she appeared to try and empathize, telling me she didn´t want to persuade me to see a therapist again. And yet the tiny little qualification she made with regards to effectiveness speaks volumes about how many worlds we are apart. She has swallowed the blame-the-patient approach to therapy failure hook, line and sinker.

Ever since last weekend I´m struggling with what to answer. Part of me wants to be honest and tell her, without rage, in what way exactly I have been hurt and why I cannot believe anymore those were just instances of bad luck or black sheep. I can also predict, however, what is likely going to happen next: With the best intentions and in the solid belief that she is helping me she will tell me in what way she thinks my views are distorted, how she experienced her own (mostly positive) therapy and that I must have gone through some really tough shit in my family of origin if I interpret the well-meaning offers of highly ethical experts in such a self-defeating way. She might ask me if I´m sure that what I read into their words isn´t just my own depression speaking. She will assure me that of course I´m not the kind of person they made me feel like, and therefore I must have gotten them wrong, because it will go beyond her imagination that other peoples´ perception of me might differ from hers (if anything, she will add: “Of course I don´t know how you behaved towards your therapists, but the way I know you…”). And then what? What do I reply to that without at some point starting to sound defensive, paranoid or closed-minded?

When I was younger I admired proponents of the moral minority. I identified with 19th century atheists, early campaigners for women´s rights and those who fought being outcasted because of their sexual orientation. I admired their passion, their spite, their all-encompassing criticism of society and I could the intellectual sharpness of their arguments resonating inside of me, making me feel good, strong and like a pioneer. When I myself got into arguments that dealt with issues which touched upon my own, very personal conflicts with commonplace ideas and demands, I did not feel strong and in the right at all. I felt stupid, childish and impotent. For the longest time I could not win such arguments, and yet my own most personal stakes were too high for me to accept a defeat. If the others were right, I could no longer live with myself.

For some time I thought that the sheer monstrosity of the suffering this caused me was proof enough that the others couldn´t be right. It could not be reasonable that someone should righteously have to experience that amount of psychic destruction. This argument, however, never seemed to impress anyone other than very soft-hearted people. Whenever I encountered yet another stone-cold rejection of my passionate appeals I could feel my mind both turning dull and starting to race with torturing thoughts; and some painful, hollow feeling seemed to be eating itself through my chest, making me want to cut it out. Not to mention the wish to hurt the person who´d caused it in some way or the other.

It makes me doubt myself a great deal that many of those feelings were caused by my defending of beliefs which I now recognize as false. If much of what those “others” said back then was the truth, then my sense of humiliation related to being confronted with reality. And while the reality of ten years ago might not matter to me anymore, it still matters to me that I might have a problem with reality. I don´t want to be the kind of person who cannot bear to live her life based on what is true. So what do I do if all evidence is pointing towards just what I dread most?

There is no way out of this. I can either ignore or explain away the evidence, turning myself into precisely what I don´t want to be; or I can admit that the evidence is accurate, but unfortunately that noble act comes too late to redeem me. The damage the evidence relates to is damage I have done long ago. I´ve already become the person I never wanted to be, and admitting it won´t change it.

Some might think this is stubborn. The past is gone, and everybody deserves a second chance. Unfortunately, past and present are not so dissimilar. I still very much identify with that old sense of humiliation, I´m still having similar experiences and I can not whatsoever guarantee it won´t happen again. The thought alone of second chances scares me, the life of a penant doesn´t seem a life worth living to me. If I don´t even manage to be halfways decent without practicing a stressful amount of self-denial, how am I supposed to be able to be super good?

My thoughts sometimes work in mysterious ways. I was thinking about how much I would want to ask my former professor for his opinion on my life story and everything I had done. I would not so much ask for a moral evaluation, but rather appeal to his creativity, as he is the one person I could imagine off the top of my head who I´d trust to have a happier solution to all this than life-long penance and self-enforced toxic humility. And at some point in our imaginary conversation he, flatteringly and ever observantly, said: “I think it will be very difficult for you to really get rid of your way of torturing yourself, as this is part of what makes you so lovable.”

Imaginary as his view may be, it struck a nerve with me. First of all, I realized it reflected my own opinion of myself. I would not like myself if I wasn´t like that. Paradoxically, I can only agree with myself when I talk about myself in a harsh, critical manner. It is a paradox I tripped over quite often in my life.

Then, however, I actually encountered that view in real life, in someone else. It was Athena who told me that my ability to self-torture was the one thing she had always admired so much about me. She told me this in a very judging fashion, when I had just started to violently try and shake that fatal “ability” off, and this hit me. If my torturing and dissecting and deconstructing myself is indeed what makes me valuable, lovable, worthwhile to others, then what am I supposed to think of those whose love and appreciation I am trying to gain?! What is so different, so severely wrong with me that I have to persistently scourge myself in order to earn what others get for free? Why are others allowed to just accept themselves the way they are and somehow it doesn´t taint their honour? What am I – some kind of example? Something that isn´t likeable but useful, as long as it does what it does best?

What might have been most healing about that imaginary quote was, however, that he kind of called me out on my own neglected infatuation with my self-torture. Not in a confrontative, humiliating way, but by validating me. Since that conversation was but a figment of my imagination, I can say authoritatively that he really meant what he (didn´t) say. He finds me lovable that way, but he told me so in form of a self-critical observation about what he enjoys, not in form of a sourpuss moral demand that holds me to different standards than everyone else.

It did not come across as him telling me that I was bringing my suffering upon myself, but rather it felt like a reminder that my being like that isn´t all bad; it is nothing I have to fight with all I have. I am allowed to be this way, play with it, use it to charm others just a little bit. I don´t have to be all sourpuss myself, either – but liberating as that sounds, it is starting to conflict with my need to genuinely self-torture. Here is where imaginary conversations crash hard against their own limits. I have not really been absolved by anyone. It is something I do myself, and on my own responsiblity. As it is, there is no one out there looking at me that specific way. The conversations feel so real that it is sometimes hard to remember that. Again, I appear to have a problem with reality; and yet the conversation with Athena was real, and isn´t my anger about it somewhat righteous, too?

I feel like I´m, in a way, on to something when I say that there was a certain tendency in people in my life towards reinforcing a specific trait of mine more positively than good for me. This positive feedback created a certain pressure to remain that way, but also, I was held by standards set by my best self-critical behavior and those cannot be met at all times without cutting oneself off from life and emotions. “You can be so mature oftentimes, why can´t you be so mature now?”  My maturity, maturity in general became my nemesis; the very thing that made me feel like a failure in comparison. I was mistaken to believe it was the maturity of others I that pathologically envied and raged at; it was my own former behavior others measured me against that I could no longer live up to. Most of the people who confronted me back then were a lot older than me, and yet I feel like a failure for having been less mature than them – and, essentially, they, too, treated me like one because they were expecting me to act differently. Much of my immature behavior back then, however, did not so much consist in trying to get my way in ordinary teenage matters (going out, allowances etc.), but it was solely about the right to be immature, stupid and unreasonable. Maybe that explains some of the more outrageous things I said back then, things I cannot and couldn´t really agree with but which to defend seemed necessary.

My mother seemed to admire me in many ways, and that can be scary. When I think of her – sometimes almost shy – smiles and looks, I feel both lonely and awful, like I´m a person who intimidates others. It is difficult when you feel that a person really wants you to like her. My mother keeps on saying that I imagine her to be more vulnerable than she really is, and maybe that is true, but that doesn´t change my feeling of uncanny omnipotence. I do have a way of feeling responsible for too many things, too many peoples´ moods, and for believing that my own thoughts and feelings can cause terrible things to happen.

As I think these thoughts, I´m torn between two ideas:

1) I´m not really that important, my mother didn´t really admire me, she was just wisely humouring me because I was a demanding child with a terrible temper. My belief that my thoughts can make things happen shows that on a deeper level I´m narcissistic to the point of delusion.

2) I should have recognized the power I have earlier and used it more wisely, I must have caused so many terrible injuries, and most of all, my helpless, loving mother.

Neither idea does me any favours. They merely offer me the choice between a sense of guilt and a sense of ridicule. Neither idea takes into consideration what I want, or that I even am a being of my own with personal feelings that can just as easily be damaged as anyone else´s.

I´m not sure where all this takes me in terms of my original question. Maybe towards the conclusion that I´ve been so conflicted for so long that I really don´t need to try and resolve my issues now by telling my penpal what psychotherapy does to me. Or that I cannot trust myself at all, so that I should better not ever say anything about anything.

Or, of course, that I have no obligation to always be wiser and more mature than everyone else, although there was a certain pressure to do so that did not originate in myself. I can respond emotionally and take this risk that I make a fool of myself, and it will be no more of a shame if I do it than if anyone else does it. I´m afraid, however, this remains a very theoretical option, as my penpal, too, has an ever so slight tendency towards idealizing me – and that never ends well. When someone idealizes you for being something they value, they will never forgive you for managing to convince them that you are not like that, and their admiration will turn into vitriolic disdain if you try to tell them this is actually okay. In their eyes, it will make you weak – weaker than they themselves think they are for not fulfilling their own ideal.

Some people seem to understand themselves as the helpers of “genuises”. They enjoy the thought that they might be able to understand a genuis better than he understands himself. Instead of climbing all those other social prestige ladders that all too slowly lead up to the “genius” and trying to earn themselves a place of their own, they jump to the top of the invisible hierarchy and merely try to get one up on the person up there. All they need is someone who is clearly bright and creative, but just as clearly suffering and somewhat dysfunctional. What could prove their own, the helpers´ intelligence more convincingly than their ability to understand the mental workings of a misunderstood, outcast genius? It seems to indicate an intelligence that is superior not just to oh-so-ignorant society, but even to that of the object it studies. I feel a certain sense of caution towards people who call me a genius without a trace of sarcasm or hostility in their voice. It seems perfectly natural to me to have a great problem with the idea that someone else might be more intelligent than oneself, so those who have no problem whatsoever with that appear to be unnaturally superior to average people in at least one department: Self-confidence and how to display it. And it seems like a good idea to be just a little bit wary of such people. Clever, convincing displays of self-confidence are, after all, key to social dominance. Maybe it´s the sum of my experience, maybe it is sheer envy of the pure, selfless souls of somehow more mature people – I don´t know. If I dare trust my gut, however, I´ll remain cautious to spill my guts when people assure me one time too often that they think I´m brilliant and wise. I´m quite sure that their respect and adoration don´t go far enough to a) change their minds on things and b) not use everything I said against me should I develop a will of my own.

I think with those last bits I´m being horribly unfair towards my penpal. That was more directed towards a long-time friend who managed to both put me on a pedestal and look down upon me. It is amazing, though, to understand where so much of my paranoia is coming from. I discount many of my thoughts and perceptions as narcissistic and judgemental, but once I try to understand how I reached those conclusions, I find that they were formed based on observations and experiences which are perfectly valid.

I still don´t know what to write my penpal, but I think I´ll have an easier time figuring it out now.


Posted in personal with tags , on November 17, 2013 by theweirdphilosopher

I always thought that my greatest flaw was arrogance, but I´m starting to believe I might have been mistaken – maybe because I was called arrogant so often. Actually, my real Achilles´ heel might be my propensity towards rage.

A good deal of my furious temper might actually be hereditary, though, as with any traits that run in a family, it is hard to tell what is nature and what is nurture. My temper isn´t solely a bad thing; much of my writing stems from being provoked by something and having to set it right. This is exhausting, though, as it forces me to constantly be more clever than those who angered me. Also, it is rather painful to be so easy to provoke. It makes you easy prey for anyone versed in psychology.

My rage is, in a way, a kind of stimulant. With the right amount of emotional distance it can inspire me towards putting a lot of work and thought into my writing and the result can be quite satisfying. If my rage goes overboard, however, it dulls my intellect, and that is one of the most torturous feelings I know. It makes me feel incompetent and powerless, and also, it makes me say rash, lofty or just plain incorrect things I´ll later feel ashamed of. I might have a furious refutation of whatever idea angered me echoing in my head, but I cannot seem to write it down coherently. It is a phenomenon that can cost me whole days.

My rage also makes me feel alone. It separates me from other people who all seem to have a different experience of most situations than me, and, even worse, it alienates them. They find me scary or immature and don´t want anything to do with me anymore. I realize it while it happens, and yet I cannot stop myself from raging. Their lack of rage and my isolation make me even angrier.

The most unforgivable thing you can do to me is provoke me on purpose, especially when you present yourself as psychologically superior (that is: smile serenely, refuse to be emotionally affected by anything I say or do, act as if I´m the only person in the world who would react the way I do). It fills me with so much hatred, with such a sense of humiliation that my mind seems to race on the spot: All my thoughts are revolving around it, my whole body reacts to it with inner turmoil, and yet it´s all going nowhere. I´m stuck in this state of mind and I cannot seem to free myself from it.

I´m so ashamed of this vulnerability that usually I instinctively deny it. It seems to prove something terrible about me. Sometimes – though definitely not today – I feel more tolerant towards this side of me. As soon as I encounter any triggers, however, I´m right back to where I started. Like I wrote before, this vulnerability doesn´t seem to go away.

Even though I feel so vulnerable and at times pathetic, I cannot imagine ever wanting to stop getting angry about things. It seems to tamper with my integrity, whatever may be left of it. I think, though, my sense of being forced to change that part of me unless I want to suffer comes from the power apparent psychological superiority has over me. My raging against my own vulnerability makes it feel like if “they” ever get one up on me, I cannot remain the person I am; so if I want to remain the person I am, I have to win against “them” first. I need either their permission or their defeat.

What I notice, too, is how judgmental I actually am. Again, this is a trait which I don´t think is solely bad. To begin with, I´m not sure if anyone can be completely non-judgmental in the first place. Those who believe to be, for example, still judge those who aren´t. When Dr. Stoneface accused me of devaluating this or that – wasn´t he, too, giving a moral judgment about my behavior? The tricky thing about therapy culture is that it pretends to be non-judgmental, while most of the time, in fact, it has its very own set of values and codes of conduct, and if you violate them, you will be judged, just that in this context it is called diagnosis.

My mother once said to me that it´s not enough for me to be right; when I think I´m right I won´t stop until everybody else agrees with me. She has a point there. When I´m thoroughly indignant, there´s just right or wrong. Another trait of mine that doesn´t fit my milieu of origin. It´s so low-brow, being a fanatic. On many occasions, I hated my family simply for appearing superior to me. They seemed to be able to fulfill the ideal of the academic who merely sees grey, nothing so radical as black or white. It was not really, however, an inability to differentiate on my part that made me look like a rambling maniac. Merely an inability to control my anger.

It´s like only now I can see how lost I was the entire time. Looking at my life under the aspect of rage seems like a promising perspective. Not for fundamentally changing, but for becoming a tiny little less vulnerable, maybe. It has to be possible to find out how that rage works and what exactly triggers it – without believing any of the explanations that trigger me.


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.






Paranoid visions

Posted in health, mental health, morbid, personal with tags , , , , on April 22, 2013 by theweirdphilosopher

Fear and confusion are increasing. I feel unable to describe what´s going on inside of me, and I´m not sure I want anything to do with it. I feel like I´m living in paranoid visions.

A vision of me seeking psychiatric help. A vision of everything I believed to know turning out to be false, of me having to learn that I´m thoroughly paranoid, that everyone I perceived as cruel only ever wanted to help me. The idea that my suspiciousness might be part of crazy.

It what I wrote in the last paragraph is really true, then I don´t want to live anymore. There seems to be no point in it. If all my feelings are completely dumb and paranoid and unrealistic, then I don´t see why I should stay alive. What for? To have a family, have a job, contribute something? If all my feelings and perceptions are nonsensical, then what exactly do I have to contribute? Intelligence? So others set the target, and I work on it? We have computers for that. If I fail in all that makes a person human, I don´t see what I´m supposed to be doing here anymore, goodbye. I´m not going to start some stupid cheesy “journey towards healing”, take pills throughout the last years in which I might pass as young, make myself dependent on so-called well-meaning people who tell me what is real and what isn´t and then work in some job that requires no qualification because that´s a mentally ill´s place in this world. It would be so bloody easy, wouldn´t it, if being insane automatically meant you have no wishes and ambitions anyway, right?

It would be so easy if only I could consistently stay sane and cover up what´s going on. Sanity IS covering up what´s going on on the inside. If you are me, then revealing it would be self-destructive, and self-destruction isn´t sane.


Not quite. What´s going on with me is that apparently I´m extremely angry, and that must have been building up for a while. I don´t know why I´m so angry. Maybe those visions make me so angry because their content makes me feel threatened. When I say visions, I mean: It´s like having a nightmare while I´m awake. I don´t believe I´m in some kind of hospital when in fact I´m sitting in my room, but in my head I can hear everything I assume the doctors would say. Most of the time I´m not thinking these thoughts on purpose, only sometimes, when I´m in the middle of such an internal argument, I mentally say what I believe they would say. Most of the time, those thoughts just come to me. They are intrusive and they cause me a lot of inner tension and aggression. I feel like lashing out against anyone who talks to me.

Good. So these visions…they make me angry. That´s most definitely crazy, thank fuck we have that settled. But they´re just visions. I don´t have to do this to myself. I don´t have to go out there and make people punish me like this. Because that, too, is something that goes with these visions: A nasty little belief that I have to make this happen to me. That I need it. That adds to the stress.

Now that I have this figured out, the vision changes. I go see a psychiatrist, I actually manage to tell her about these visions/voices, she thinks that just because I don´t believe they are coming from other people or because I can gain some minimal mental distance from them, they must be some kind of neurosis that can be resolved by looking at my inner conflicts. In other words: She might think there is some truth or some meaningful feeling behind these visions. She might think that I gain something from this, the primary gain that allegedly lies in neurosis, or that I´m just trying to evade something.

That vision makes me feel terrible because it 1) makes me feel like I´m being left alone in this inner chaos and 2) fuels the first kind of vision, the vision where everything is my own fault after all and I “just don´t want to see it”.

Actually, dealing with these visions as psychotic instead of traumatic in nature does not make such a terrible difference right now. It even helps me gain distance and tell myself this isn´t real. If my visions are madness, then what those voices say is madness. That´s quite comforting. It means, like I said, I don´t have to seek out this kind of treatment, this kind of mental breakdown that reduces me to a groveling hysteric sobbing what a moral swine she is.

I´ve heard in that long-ago lecture by Dr. Psych that delusions and delusional belief systems often rely on existing, fairly wide-spread belief systems. A textbook examply is religious mania, but there are also other examples: Alien abductions, current conspiracy theories, the Truman show… Mania attaches itself to whatever it finds. It´s no surprise that with me it was repressed memories and sexual abuse, since I had encountered two such cases some time before. Also, it´s no surprise that my visions deal with psychotherapy since many of its theories cannot be falsified, just like conspiracy theories. The ideas of Freud or Reich are questionable, and I´m by far not the only person to question them. I´m not completely off with the things I say about them. The problem is that I say them coming from a place of deep paranoia. I have voices in my head which interpret my thoughts, feelings and behaviors in a particularly cruel, pseudo-therapeutical fashion (though these voices are informed by what I read and experienced), and I have yet another voice in my head that tells me all this is what should happen to me.

What I feel when I write things like these is deep demotivation. So I´m merely crazy after all. And without some kind of mania my life is incredibly empty. I wrote that two days ago, how empty my life must have been for me to have a vision about the future, slip on another identity and forsake everything. It would be sane to go through with my plans. It would be sane to get a job that binds most of my intellectual capacities so I don´t have too much time to ruminate. It would be sane to get a job that forces me to work scientifically, that gains me recognition and a fair amount of money. It would not just look sane, it would keep me sane. I was my most sane when I was at school. It was always during the summer holidays that the breakdowns came. I need some outside structure that forces me to stay out of the twilight zone for eight hours at least. And yet recognizing how crazy I am deprives me of all motivation. Get a job just so I´m NOT myself? If I´m so bad, then why bother exist?


Again, madness is not myself, madness is not who I am. I´m defending something I´m not. The feelings I have because of my visions are part of who I am, but it is normal to respond with rage to the content of my visions. The visions themselves are something crazy, but my reaction is quite healthy and where ever I encounter such behaviors IRL I´d be a good person for responding with anger. Also, the fact that these visions aren´t real doesn´t mean anything that happened to me with Dr. Stoneface and Athena wasn´t real.

It´s useless. I cannot comfort myself like this, I don´t believe in it. It matters a damn whole lot just how crazy I am. If I´m completely nuts, if my perception was always distorted by such visions and voices and expectations, then maybe anything they ever did was brought onto me by myself.


Rage. Rage again, because I feel threatened and helpless again. I know no way out of this. All that might happen is that other visions, daydreams come to my aid, that a voice says: “Don´t worry, we´ll kill you!” That would be so damn nice of you, you have no idea. But that, too, is just a result of this inner tension. It is another outpouring of rage. Saying this doesn´t change anything, though.

Distraction, feeling like I can see through things, that´s the only thing that helps. Maybe my feeling in analogies is just the only way I can express my visions? I don´t know, I´m getting so tired.

I wonder if I should ask others what they think of my state. I feel like I need to keep it together in front of everyone IRL, because they cannot afford looking at me as a crazy person who needs help, for one reason or the other. They don´t want to lose me to a world of pills, institutions and big psychiatric terms. It should move me, but right now it only burdens me. And I cannot even be sure if that´s a realistic prediction based on experience and empathy, or if it´s just my paranoia speaking.


Embitterment, another tangible feeling, thank fuck. I´m tired of believing I´m crazy, I´m tired of visions of my own mental and intellectual deconstruction, I´m tired of ruminating, I´m tired of feeling attacked, I´m tired of BEING attacked in my visions, I´m tired of having no one to blame, I´m tired of having no one whose head I can bash in for this, I´m tired of being conscious of myself, I´m tired of myself, I´m tired of almost everything and remarkably enough some small little things can still make me want to live for another few days, weeks, maybe months. Overall, though, I wouldn´t mind to take a hammer and demolish all that I am.






A ridiculous dialogue

Posted in health, mental health, personal with tags , , on March 31, 2013 by theweirdphilosopher

I lack all drive and motivation. In a way I even crave complete apathy. Real apathy, that is. The way it is, I know exactly I need to make important decisions, but I don´t have the energy for it. I cannot imagine I´ll ever like anything I could do. I´m apathetic enough to not to anything, but I´m not apathetic enough in order not to worry about it. Oh, and I very much dislike myself.

Once again I feel like I´m stuck in a place of eternal condemnation. I need to feel ashamed for everything. And at the same time I accuse myself of exaggerating. I want to think “can someone please kill me” and I want to start crying, but right the next moment I know crying is a waste of tears. I don´t even come close to crying. There´s just a constant pool of aggression seething in my stomach. I feel how I´m poisoning myself and I hope it kills me. I hope I suffocate on my aggression and fall down dead. There´s just a catch: I can´t watch it. I´m suffocating as well, right now.

What I hear in my head is a constant choir of you´re the villain, you are everything you accuse others of being, you´re completely clueless, you made a fool of yourself. Followed by: Writing this is pointless, you´ve said this a million times, same old, same old, just die. Followed by: You´ll get people worried even though you don´t really want sympathy and help, good people, actual humans, they don´t deserve this, and you´re making it worse with every line you write.

So, for those accusations: The part that´s definitely true is the one about accepting help or even just sympathy. I feel like others must be more human (in the good sense) than me, less cold and solipsistic. Not only can they have such feelings for others, they also express them freely, while I always feel massive embarrassment in those situations.

It is pointless, it is pointless, writing this is so damn pointless, you´re only going to end up accusing people of making you this way and making you think you´re evil and you´re not going to feel one iota better, but hey, maybe you can see this insight as the beginning of a positive new start, of a change for the better!

No I can´t, fuck off. I´ll never be one of your puppy lullaby “I have changed” psychotherapy calender girls. I´ll never change. I´ll just remain that way and kill myself with anger.

See, you´re starting to recognize how absurd your own behavior is! That is GOOD!

*sigh* What´s so annoying about this voice in my head is that it constantly takes everything I think and twists it around so it fits its own agenda. I´m constantly trying to fight against a voice that sees every single one of my statements as a confirmation of its own view.

But that is illogical. There is no foreign voice in your head, YOU are making that voice! It is your own voice, though you don´t like what it says! Maybe you should listen to it, though! It could prove really insightful for you!

And of course, that voice is always pretending to “just want to help” me and, by the way, loves absurdity. I have nothing but gallow´s humor in my weapon arsenal. The absurdity of this makes me laugh, but, of course, that only marks the next target:

See, you yourself can laugh about this. Maybe it is the beginning of something better! Of you not taking this so seriously anymore, of you starting to loosen up a bit! You are fighting so hard all the time, that must be terrible exhausting!

Oh god, fake sympathy over a huge layer of schadenfreude! The hallmark of deniable sadism! Yeah, it´s exhausting as fuck, so how about YOU piss off! If you really pity me so much! I can´t believe such a bastardly mature entity would stay here and torture me just to win a power struggle! And no, you don´t need to tell me you only want to help, I´m a grown person and even if you think everything I do is wrong you need to accept I do it! That´s what good, mature entities pretending to be well-meaning therapists do!

You think the readers will all be on your side, don´t you?

Yeah, what actually makes me think so? I hardly come across as a very pleasant person, right? Maybe they will all take sides with that voice and because I´m so unstable and insecure and dependent on outside validation it will matter terribly much to me and I´ll start fights with all kinds of people and alienate everyone. That´s what happens to people like me, it´s what we deserve.

Oh god, that self-pity will make me even more unattractive. And I don´t even give a shit.

You think anyone will be impressed by that false bravado?

You get the drift. Just pick up on anything the other person says and make a derisive meta-comment. Categorize what they do in a discrediting way. While doing so, keep your voice concerned, sceptical, but concerned. Remember, you care for the person you´re trying to drive crazy. It just makes you so sad that she is completely off her rocker! Everything she says and does is an expression of her pathology. Everything is somewhat fake, somehow not right, and definitely nothing she could possible mean!

I actually know the debate style of that voice is inacceptable. This voice deliberately misunderstands me, misinterprets my statements in a way that runs contrary to my wishes. If I don´t want to reach a certain goal and this voice congratulates me on my first positive steps towards reaching that goal, this is just a slightly more complicated way of taking a no for a yes. It´s a complete invalidation of my perspective and I cannot even claim it´s an insult because it comes in the form of a congratulation. And if my anger becomes so obvious it can no longer be ignored or misinterpreted, there is a mixture of sudden shock tactics (“do you think anyone will share your view”) and condescending judgment (“you´re doing yourself no favours with your immature behavior”).

So if this is all inside of you, how do you treat others? Maybe you once were a victim but it must have left traces. It is impossible it hasn´t affected the way you treat others. Remember, people have perceived you as condescending more than once!

Translate: You do to others what you yourself complain about. You know how they must feel about it, just look at how YOU are feeling. You are just as bad as the people you complain about. Better stick with them, they are the only ones who are going to protect you.

Oh, but no, that´s a misunderstanding: There is a second chance for everybody! You can always change sides, but that requires a lot of self-critical reflection and a thorough change in attitude! You are more than welcome to see us any time and we can talk! It won´t be easy, though, and it will involve many sacrifices! You might prefer to stick to your old ways and defenses! Yes, that arrogant headspace you enter in bed is part of the sacrifices! Oh but no, that doesn´t mean you´ll never be happy again! I think until now you were never even able to experience true intimacy! You might be in for a lot of surprises! There is love and happiness on the other side! 

How do I even manage to write this down without throwing up? Is my emetophobia good for something for once?

You abuse humor to evade the crucial questions!

Oh my. Poor humor. It will need extensive therapy when it´s older.

Of course you can always make yourself look like the winner. You don´t have to let me say anything.

Look for a body of your own then and leave me the hell alone?

You´re boring your readers with your evasions. No one thinks they´re funny apart from you.

Another option would have been: “Well, see, now you´re doing what I want! You´re not as infallible to manipulation as you believe!” I wonder if I can DDOS this voice by giving it too many targets at once. It might get confused about which tactic to use. If there are too many ways to make me miserable, it might not know which one is most effective. And if I can make it contradict itself…

…then it will remark on how I sure as hell feel triumphant now. In a tone that annihilates me even though I´m right. Actually, this voice is a mere troll. I shouldn´t feed it. I should ask the mods to lock the thread.

It´s quite simple, really. I need to reduce the level of conflict in my head. Therefore, it is useless or even counterproductive to antropomorphize this voice. It is a malfunction of my brain, but it is part of me. I can do the same thing to it as it does to me: I can play down its importance, I can refuse to take it seriously, I can nobly refuse to fight, I can suffocate it by viewing it as an affirmation. It is part of me. A sad, ill part, but part of me. I need to cure it. Care. Help. Yes, that is a vicious chuckle in the back of my throat. Seems I´ve found a way to torture exactly the part of me that I hate. Maybe humor has won for the moment. The sick, nasty sense of humor that perverts everything it is helpless against.

I feel like I´m sitting on a powder keg, and I´m not sure how much sense it makes to post this, but whatever. I guess it might be sort of interesting to get a fairly uncensored look into my head, whoever´s side you take. I guess I´m even serious about the malfunction part. There is no one else living in my head, but I still stand by the view that the thoughts uttered by “this voice” do not reflect my own opinion.



Rip and cut and mutilate

Posted in health, mental health, morbid, personal with tags , , , , on March 27, 2013 by theweirdphilosopher

Warning: This post is incoherent, disturbing and contains references to self-harm, violent urges and murder.

I sometimes wonder if I´m dangerous. Working with knives and preparing meat really cheers me up. This in itself probably isn´t dangerous, but sometimes when I feel this weird inner tension, frustration, however you call it I actually feel an urge to take a knife to something. It´s not that I want to kill or torture anyone, it´s just that I look for this meditative, fascinating, calming experience. I´m fully focused, I have no problem severing fibres and removing little blood vessels even though I´m normally rather clumsy.

This isn´t anything I can really talk about. I feel stupid even writing it down. I neither want to dramatize it, nor do I want to play it down. In fact, I don´t know what to think about it and that´s the problem. Of course it´s sort of ridiculous to feel like a potential serial killer because I enjoy preparing meat. On the other hand, though, this urge simply bugs me. And I´ve read enough about serial killers to know that a combination of sadism and depression/frustration/anger issues is kind of explosive. I have both. Sometimes I think it´s just a matter of gender that I turned out the way I did. With scars on my arms, instead of a police record.

What if I talk to someone about this? Some will think I´m trying to look badass. Others will want all kinds of guarantees and promises and commitments to lawfulness from me. I want neither kind of reaction. I neither want to be treated like an immature show-off, nor like a ticking time bomb who needs to be monitored closely. I don´t want to be treated like a villain or an idiot. I didn´t harm anyone. I don´t intend to.

If someone told me I´m okay and not dangerous and that I just worry too much I´d be angry of sorts. I´d probably insist it´s not that simple/harmless, but if they took me seriously some kind of self-protective instinct would kick in and I´d assure them I´m actually not dangerous at all. I think what would be behind my insisting and provoking is this very same tension. I don´t want to be left alone with it. It´s not fair to leave everything to my ethics and self-control. It´s not fair to overlook the intensity of this urge just because I´m a girl. What am I supposed to do? Sit around and chew on my wrists?

I get this tension sometimes. It usually passes on its own, even though I can´t believe it while it lasts. This tension has nothing to do with my BDSM leanings. They aren´t born out of frustration. I top best when I come from a place of mental equilibrium. When I´m asked to and feel okay with it. If I want a reaction from my partner too much I will not be able to produce it. I need to have a certain distance towards the scene in order to control and manage it. If I go in there needy I don´t get nearly as much out of it. And then the tension rises, turns to aggressive impulses which I need to control, much to my frustration. In such situations I simply want to punch myself because why the fuck do I have to be this way? Why can´t everything just be easy? Why do I have to be so I don´t even know what? Primitive? Greedy? Brutal?

I have no idea how I come across writing this. I  mean – do you think I´m some kind of animal who should be locked up? Do you think all my more humane sides are just some kind of fake? That I´m incapable of love, that I´m some cold, dead monster? It is what I think of myself when I´m in these moods, how I perceive myself, but it simply has to be a misconception!  Otherwise – otherwise I mustn´t even think anymore because I cannot think without making “excuses”. As a human monster I´m not allowed a perspective of my own. Do we grant serial killers a perspective of their own? Or do we dismiss everything they say as excuses, as some kind of con? I think there is a certain style of condemnation that does not just condemn the deed, or even the person, but also all of this person´s feelings. We can call a person a bad person, but even bad persons might have some ordinary feelings. If we dismiss those feelings as fake and illusions and bullshit – what happens to said bad person? She cannot feel anymore without berating herself. Cannot think anymore. Her moods only add to her guilt, as they distract her from the reality of what she is. A monster who cannot feel. Moods and feelings are a scam, mere resistance against acknowledging reality.

I´ve always carried this sense of guilt with me, for as long as I can remember. This idea that I´m some kind of very bad person. And maybe that´s no surprise if I carry all those aggressive impulses in me. This tension, my strong reaction to things. Maybe I have a damn good reason to feel guilty. Why was I always so easy to set up, so immature, so easy to provoke? In my better moments I say that people have no right to provoke me, I can pin down when and where they crossed boundaries, but I never know if I´m being reasonable or not. What if I´m just hypersensitive? What if I´m the exact kind of person I always despised and feared – the little gangster who feels provoked at the drop of a hat and immediately draws his knife or beats you up? Do I have a right to despise those people? Do I deserve everything I get? Do others have the right to despise me? Hate me? Judge me? Make decisions about me?

The idea that they even do so is just a vision of mine, isn´t it? Another craziness, why do I have to be so crazy, why is there nothing sane about me? Only as long as I steer clear of feelings, it seems. All my feelings are somehow exaggerated, neurotic, pathological, worthless. I´m delusional of sorts because I hear judgment in everything. Sometimes when I read discussions online that upset me I need to remind myself that the people arguing don´t even know me, so their judgment and aggression cannot be directed against me. I guess I´m just that delusional, I believe everything relates to me somehow. The only thing that separates me from psychotics is that I only feel like it is, I don´t think it really is. The “feel like” is the fine line between severe neuroticism and official insanity.

I should probably have listened to Dr. Stoneface. All those theories by Kernberg are probably true. I simply am inherently destructive. I never believed in genuine goodness, did I? Maybe I was just born with an embarrassing surplus of aggression, greed and selfishness. Tough luck, and now everybody else has to put up with this. I cannot burden others with my style of being. My emotions are unreasonable, unacceptable, they need to be neglected and I need to learn living while my emotions are neglected by others and while I need to neglect them myself. I cannot get myself what I want. I cannot even feel without committing a crime. I need to accept that I commit fallacies when I feel. That I will be unfairly angry. That my feelings are crazy, invalid, that they correspond to nothing out there in the real world.

This last thing would somehow be bearable if only there wasn´t this stern, merciless voice in my head telling me that this is my fault. That my emotions are the way they are because I´m too lazy to be sane. Or too selfish, I don´t know. That I´m responsible for them. Responsibility is a word that cuts me down to the core and all I hear in my head is the echo of someone shaking theirs, shaking their head at how flawed and weak-willed I must be if this word or anything reminding me of my responsibility alone evokes such a reaction. It is something I ought to accept, it is mere reality, do I have a problem with reality?

Ugh. Way to get the tension out. Stop fighting, just take it out on yourself. Say everything the mean thoughts in your head tell you. I feel like what I said in the last two paragraphs is a farce, I felt it even while I said it. It was satisfying on some level. Just what is wrong with me? Am I so cruel that my cruelty has to go into something, and be it destroying myself? Do I need to interpret everything the wrong way just because I need war, enemies, drama? Does it satisfy me to feel like the victim because I cannot be the perpetrator?

That tension has to come from somewhere. It probably comes from a whole lot of everyday life stress, and who knows what else. Maybe a predisposition. Maybe a whole lot of experiences that would have made anyone like this. Why anyone, anyway? On the one hand we accept that everybody reacts to stuff differently, on the other hand we only take events seriously if “anyone” would have reacted strongly to it? How does this even make sense? Is that the line between sanity and madness: If anyone would react as strongly, you´re sane, it was just a real bad thing to happen. If you´re on the wrong end of statistics, though, then your suffering is neurotic?

Whatever. I got carried away. I wanted to talk about these urges for once, since I normally don´t. Just – explore this issue mentally. Then my hang-ups got in the way of that. Berating myself has kind of reduced the tension, and the urge is not nearly as intense anymore. I´m sort of okay. There is still some allure to the thought of – well, sort of dissecting something, but it´s okay. I kind of secretly enjoy that I´m like this. Other people get grossed out. I sense a potential source of confidence. Just having a knife in my hands makes me feel better. Which is why for a long time I refused to use razor blades for cutting. I guess if I hadn´t been a vegetarian at the time I started I might never have started. Then again, my temporary vegetarianism might have been an act if not of hypocrisy, then of definitely not wanting to be who I am. I tried to convince myself that displays of meat made me feel sick, but in fact I´d always been fascinated by animal intestines at the butcher´s, especially as a kid.

At any rate, when I started cutting I was utterly angry. I had the impulse to stab something, stab my hand, but at the same time I couldn´t bring myself to do it. I hated myself for it but in fact I simply had some sense left. I might have seriously harmed myself, rendered myself unable to use my hand. I knew that, and also I was scared of the pain, so I sat there with the knife raised and didn´t know what to do. Instead I tried to cut and I couldn´t even do that properly. I ended up with scratches more than anything else. I was accused of merely wanting attention, but my rage was very real. I just couldn´t act on it. There were other occasions when I wanted to throw something but simply froze because something inside of me seemed to ridicule me, the entire situation, I don´t know. I was both extremely emotional and completely distant.

I think the only way to get my feelings out, safely or otherwise,  is by learning practical skills which help me express them. I can release my frustration in a controlled manner by dissecting my meat before cooking it. I could release all kinds of feelings once I learned how to sing. I´m eager to learn all singing styles so I can express everything. I find it more of a relief to express feelings through borrowed notes and lyrics. Feeling in analogies once more. Or, in BDSM, I express feelings through others. I make them feel what I would like to feel but can´t, and by empathizing with them I get to feel it, too. A little. A lot. I can´t be sure, but it´s enough for me to be happy and exhausted afterwards.

When I could still write I used writing for similar purposes. I spat it all out there, tried to make it perfect, enjoyed the thought of how people reading it would feel. Enjoyed how it made me feel. In a way, I´ve spent my life perfecting ways to distance myself from my feelings and then enjoy the controlled, beatified version. Artsy, isn´t it. Maybe it´s a struggle for survival. A struggle for neither feeling everything too much or nothing at all, I don´t know. I don´t know how other people express feelings. Or even how they experience feelings. Maybe that´s why I ask so many questions. Or suggest things. “When I do xyz, you feel [….], don´t you?” And when they say yes I feel confirmed, validated, like I have a connection to humanity. Like I can´t be that far off. If I can guess so well what they feel.

But do I make everyone feel the way I feel, or want to feel? Do I always express feelings through others? Do I force them on others? I don´t know. I mean – I don´t think so. Most definitely not on purpose. What I do in BDSM is very controlled. I know what I´m doing, I´m using certain styles of communication, though it all comes to me instinctively. I´m in sync with my partner, I know what to say and what effect it will have.

Dr. Stoneface seemed to think I was making him feel the way I felt. But if that was true I definitely didn´t do it on purpose. In BDSM I´m the therapist, not the patient. And I never felt sure what effect my behavior would have on Dr. Stoneface. Until this day I can´t tell for sure what he felt. I can only guess. This is vastly different from situations in which I feel in control. I don´t know if he thought I felt in control in therapy. I felt extremely insecure, so I withdrew into myself and defended that fortress.

Am I toxic? Do I poison everyone who gets into contact with me? I don´t know. I feel like I do not just make others feel things, first and foremost others make me feel things. I feel like I´m overrun with peoples´ feelings. Sometimes I don´t even know if what I feel are my feelings or if what I spit out here are the feelings of others I sympathized with. I feel like I can imagine feelings so well that it doesn´t make difference if I really feel them or not. Is that empathy or fantasy?

Can I even justify posting here? If I´m so toxic, am I doing anything other than make excuses? Am I anything but a walking offense to the victims of people like me? I´m not asking this in despair, those questions are nothing new, they´re always somewhere in my head and it feels good to get them out there for once. I´m allowing myself a perspective of my own, I´m struggling for room and I´m finally finding some. I´m putting this out here because that way the worst can´t happen to me anymore. I cannot be annihilated anymore. Hopefully.

I´m writing just to reduce the tension, because otherwise I´d be punching myself over one feeling or the other. Regret,over some silly mistake I made. Or self-loathing. There´s always something. I´m still not any saner than when I started. It feels good to get all the guilt and self-loathing out there, all those obsessive paranoid thoughts. If only I knew if they´re really paranoid. Maybe I´m not misinterpreting peoples´ behavior towards me? I´ll need to write a structured post on that soon. And I need to stop now because no one is going to read all this gibberish anyway.