and your electron microscope

Category: personal

Why don’t you just do something?

“why don’t you just x?”

I hear a lot of that. For many it’s a default response and I suspect in many cases it’s born out of a well meaning frustration.

Believe it or not there was a time when I wasn’t in the thrall of the malignant sadness and I knew others who were.

Despite having experienced the lick of the black dog myself I acted in much the same way people have to me. Told them they had to leave the house, had to stop hiding away and face things and asked them why they didn’t just do x?

You see one of the great tragedies of being well is that sometimes you can forget the lessons learnt inhabiting the lonely and painful shell of depression. As a psychiatrist once said to me she heard a musician talking about depression. In the throes of his illness he wanted to cut off his own hand but now better looking back he just wanted to grab people he saw with the illness shake them and tell them to do x.

He had lost the link to the experience and the understanding. He had lost the understanding that when you can’t even get out of bed, when leaving the house is a gargantuan endeavour that being told you should do x or being asked why don’t you do x is no better than a shiv.

Worse a shiv wielded by a visitor to your lonely cell who should bring some form of comfort. But brings only a reminder of the pathetic shadow that sits doing its best to imitate who you once were.

People with depression don’t need advice, they don’t need to be told to do things.

As shocking as it may seem they probably already know.

They just can’t.

It may seem like they are just picking a scab that will never heal. But it’s support that’s needed not advice.

CBT 1

I dunno if I would really do this were it private. So here it is public. Probably ill advised but hey what post on here these days isn’t?

Mind over mood. Worksheet 1.1

Environmental changes/Life situations
Near enough two years sober.
Stress over money (specifically large debts and worries over affording rent)
Finding new flatmate stressful
Relationships not working out and ending.
Leaving my schizophrenic mother after a pretty harrowing psychotic episode directed at me.
Issues of addiction.
Family keeping things from me.
Family generally not being expressive of emotions.
Problems relating on much more than a superficial level with most people.

physical reactions
Low appetite.
Sleep pattern out of whack.
anhedonia
Headaches
Irritability
Tiredness
Agoraphobia

Moods
Sadness
Guilty
Shame
Scared
Lonely
Paranoia
Self Loathing

behaviours
Starting stupid arguments
Self harm
Pushing people away
Languishing in the house
Trying to do too much and setting myself up for failure.
Not getting out of bed
Avoiding work
Avoid meeting new people
Avoid using phones
Passive Aggressive snark
Relying on other people rather than myself to lift my mood.

thoughts
Think it would be better not to be here then condemned to always come back to the bleak square one.
Find myself disgusting physically, intellectually and morally.
Hate myself for abandoning my mother for 15 years
Hate that I have to sometimes cut myself to feel normal
Think everything I’ve ever done is shit and constantly seek approval and praise to briefly convince me it isn’t.

That will probably do for now.

A story of me.

At one point or another the illness get’s too much and the mask has to slip.

So you all get to see the pathetic, petty, selfish fuck up and human cunt garbage that hides behind the pretence of me being a reasonable, even likeable, human being. In reality I am just a hateful mess of guilt, shame and recrimination.  I am an idiot who does a half hearted impression of someone with half a brain I sit here and wait for everyone to find out just how stupid I am. I am Beyond ugly, physically repulsive, a distended and corpulent mess of fat, stretch marks and scars. My reflection makes me want to vomit. I am a consumer, a machine for taking without giving back. I am without a doubt a spectacular waste of all the oxygen and other resources that goes into maintaining myself as this useless blight.

But why? Did Mummy not love me?

I’ve now spent more than half my life wondering that. She’s ill you see. Far more ill than I am. A delusional schizophrenic diagnostically. I wonder many things about Mum. Does she believe I exist for one? Does she ever think about us? Does she still believe the malevolent forces of the SQA (the Scottish Qualifications Authority) are moving against her and hiding secret messages in number plates? Does she still think there are recording and listening devices hidden in the TV and Radio? Does she still sleep with a knife under her bed?

Is she still looking for Batman?

Did she ever hear me knocking 0n the door every time I went up just to try and see her over the past 15 years? Was she always out or did she just ignore me?

Twice I’ve been in love (properly anyway). Once was passionate and bordering on mutual self destruction – it ended messily. The other was stable but amazing. So of course I had to run away. Run away before the mask slipped.

It’s all getting a bit disjointed now.

I don’t like myself very much and I want everyone else not to like me as well because that makes it easier.

I don’t drink because I know that would probably let me jump over the last few hurdles that stop me from not being here any more.  But it worries me how much I want to be drunk.

Preaching the end of me

What can I say.

I’m low.

Maybe as low as I’m likely to get at present. Engaged in a constant battle with intrusive thoughts about self harm and suicide. Actually tempted to jump off North Bridge today. Though obviously I didn’t it still scares me that it seemed easier to walk up to the edge than walk away from it (so to speak).

I’m fed up with other people being shit. I’m fed up with other people being indifferent.

I don’t appear to have any support mechanisms anymore. I appear to have systematically burnt all my bridges with any old friends or otherwise just conspired to being shite at maintaining friendships.

I just feel alone all the time.

Though the only person I hate more than you is me.

I’m fed up with my own inability to cope and I’m fed up of going through this time and time again.

What’s the point in getting better to just go back to square one at the slightest setback?

Can’t help coming back to the same question “why am I still here?”.

The only answer I have thus far is cowardice.

I’m pretty sure I won’t do “anything stupid” (though frankly I fail to see how ending this cycle of misery could be considered anywhere near idiotic) but who knows maybe one day?

The Black Spot

I thought about the full stop again today, the end of the sentence.

The last few weeks have been punctuated by feelings of being in parenthesis. Being somehow separate from everything and still unable to escape this melancholy period.

Depression is something like vanity for masochists sometimes. When your happy for everything to be your fault. To be the malevolent singularity around which the world revolves, to be the cause and effect of everything that could ever go wrong for everyone.

You ask people if they are alright or if things are going well not out of kindness or concern but out of paranoia. To reassure yourself you haven’t upset them and put your own mind at ease.

Sometimes I would be happy just to remain functionally miserable. To force a smile and wear that as armour against the world while the soft centre fails to hold. But that’s not always an option unfortunately.

I worry the sadness seeps out of me and infects others around me. So at first they become wary and eventually become frustrated and driven away by my constant trials and tests.

Faults in friends become deadly wounds piercing my sides like spears. I start to despise those closest to me and those who have drifted away overtime.

But at the same time I need people to like me, to need me more than ever.

So I can drive them away. They have to prove they care about me so i can conspire to make them not care. Why? Well people, friends, social networks they all get in the way of the end of the sentence.

So I Strive not to be missed and aim for shrugs where the bad news breaks rather than tears.

I’m waiting for the end of the sentence – but I’m still not sure I want to write it myself.

20110703-024327.jpg

insight

hello good evening welcome there will be no punctuation this is punctuated enough this is an insight this I hope is as difficult to read as difficult and as easy as it is to think phasers to stun engines to full power shove in more coal fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fuel fire life is a sentence this is neither life nor something like it this is word soup this is my brain vomited out into a continuous flow this is what I’m thinking this is what my brain is like she hates me he hates me they all hate me they like me but I don’t like them I need them those sycophants and their fake plastic grief she doesn’t like me she doesn’t need me he doesn’t like me he doesn’t need me nobody needs me everybody feeds me worms fire fire fire fire standing in a line waiting on a magic bullet waiting to kill the Kennedys waiting to become a Kennedy waiting to be anyone everyone and nonone this is shite all of this is shite all of everything I’ve ever done is shite there is no future without hope there is no hope without everything I can’t obtain have or cherish there is no hope no hope no hope no hope no nope no hope no hope I write this as it comes I write this as if it’s coming the end perhaps who can say there are no question marks either everything is rhetoric although some of it is nihilism an evolutionary niezche heh ideas above my station pay for that later that wasn’t me fault that was that wasn’t I’ll take the blame if you want another rod for my back I’ll cut to impose a straight line but no line in nature is straight she hates me she doesn’t need me she left me he’s still here but doesn’t understand me I don’t understand me word soup word vomit same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat there’s a scratch on the record there’s a scratch on my brain there’s a scratch on the record there’s a scratch on my soul I don’t have a soul noone has a soul what are you a dualist there are still no question marks this is my brain this is what I think this is what I…

BLANK

FLAT EFFECT

Anxious back again it is there is no form because form dictates function and I don’t function I exist I will forgive everyone but myself I will hurt everyone including myself don’t rely on me to make sense to make sense is to make sense is to make sense is to make sense a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose is plagiarism engines burning can’t sleep midnight oil candle both ends both ends one end no question marks no questions what’s a question and what’s a statement what is rhetorical and what is panic panic panic panic panic panic panic panic panic panic anthology of madness this is what I’m thinking writing as it comes writing before it goes seizing a moment because I can publish and be damned an empty threat when damned you already are word soup brain vomit the spew of a mind that’s broken there’s a scratch on the record there’s a scratch same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat same four thoughts stuck on repeat this is shite everything you do is shite you do not create you have neither the skill nor the gumption you have no talent you are a jack of no trades everything you do is shite everything you do is shite everything you do is shite you are shite you are human cunt garbage you are vaginal waste you should have lined a rubber you should like yourself more less one of the two you don’t like yourself why don’t you like yourself you know why you don’t like yourself all you’ve done and the nothing you’ve achieved you change the world by respiring you do more to enforce the status quo then you could ever hope to rally against jack of no trades master of shite your good at misery your good at self harm stick to that stick to that stick to that get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck get stuck

Move engines to .

BLANK

FLAT EFFECT

SAD

666 words

An experiment if you like, a confessional if you speak code.

Living on borrowed money, borrowed emotions and bored time, heh brother can you spare a dime and some motivation and some self esteem for which you’ll be paid in kind?  There’s not much to be said for having a broken brain or a useless mind. Just ask Phineas how that turns out – gnarled and changed on the tramway lines. Smiling at strangers, rejecting your friends an alien to your family – an old dog in a rusty cage travelling along straight lines.

H.M. is stuck in the moment in this world all mortals are immortal after all it’s only other people change and other people die. We have made a pretty noose of our own perceptions and we  lie to ourselves just to like ourselves and pretend we aren’t part of the problem but rather part of the solution. We are a self limiting condition. Life is a sexuality transmitted disease and you shouldn’t but you always bite the hand that feeds.

What do you want to forget? What do you want to remember? Swap those and see how far it gets you.

If music be the food of love then why does even it taste bland? These emotions and experiences are distinctly second hand. The mirror taunts – I won’t look even myself in the eye. Make nice with the demons in your soul – their minor beasts not even fit to be hell hounds. Hells puppies – yapping and ineffectual – but they have you licked. So small and insignificant these straws that break our backs.

Death is not as big a threat to me as an empty bed.

Never underestimate how much of this experiences isn’t yours alone, that no experience ever is, a thousand others have walked in your shoes. That’s why they let in the damp. An individual soils themselves on street corners and tells you that the world is ending. A man of faith tells you your soiled and that the world is ending. Meanwhile the world is ending – just on a scale that you cannot comprehend even if you try.

Worry not, everything is ending on a scale we cannot fathom. The nature of everything is transitory. Embrace your short termism. CONSUME, CONCEIVE, CONDEMN.

Think not of the future lest it think of you.

Human civilisation is not the world. It’s an aberration of the natural order – the final stage of a virus before it kills it’s host – we are nothing but an error term for existence.  Unintentional agents of entropy who’ve laughably convinced themselves they are bringing order. Nothing more than librarians in an inferno.

The dewey decimal system is evil. Don’t fear burning books – fear burning all the books. Burn flags whenever you can. The monks will burn themselves.

The past is a jealous lover eyeing the present with malice of forethought. It will tear you apart and weigh you down. An albatross on a sinking ship. Try to cast yourself anew forgetting crucially that we are NOT blank slates. I tried to love in and live in the present but the past wouldn’t let me.  The present was too easily scared off by. NO FUTURE. BELSEN WAS A GAS. Blackpool less so.

We are meat not construct. We are flesh not ideal. We are ghosts in the machine but the machine is also the ghost.

Form is not content and style is not semantic. Language is a slow moving fluid. Glass. It’s transparent and obsidian.

You can bury the truth in words, obfuscate it with endless lies but your brain lies to you for most of your life – if it ever tells you the truth don’t listen – you’ll never get out of bed again.

BARK never BITE. BARK never BITE.

GUTLESS.

Recrimination is a dirty word. Reconciliation a pretty fairy tale. Death may be a door but it is only one that closes.

Well what did that achieve? Very little.

I never finished it. But I never started it either.