thoughts explosion

2015 was hard.  So was the end of 2014.  So is now, but perhaps less so.  Depression and anxiety are like being held hostage by inept bank robbers in 1970s Brooklyn — wait, no, that’s the setting for the movie Dog Day Afternoon.  Okay, they’re still like being held hostage, but by, like… who were those people who kidnapped Patty Hearst again?  The PLO?  No, that’s not it.  The SLA?  Some kind of Symbiotic Lebanese Affirmations?  That’s like a weird foreign band of wacky dance music from the 1980s.  Maybe.  Who the fuck were those assholes?  It was something “Liberation Army.”  ANYWAY, it’s like being held hostage by those guys — Or, maybe I should have just gone with the Manson Family or perhaps just said “A cult.”

Okay, starting over.  It’s like being held hostage by a cult and you’re brainwashed and/or develop Stockholm syndrome and you totally believe everything they tell you about how you should totally go rob banks, or do weird sex stuff, or commit bizarre ritualistic murders because it’s just all part of the fucking plan, so GET WITH THE PLAN.  And they tell you if you try to escape they’re going to kill your whole family or that you’re worthless or should willingly get in this cage and, worse yet, agree to keep yourself in that cage at all times even though the door to it is unlocked, and sometimes maybe even wide open, so you just stay there staring stupidly out at the world around you through the bars and invisible barriers constructed for you and also by you.

But in reality, it’s not robbing banks to fund the revolution or anything so romantic and Che-esque, it’s just shit like your cult tells you constantly that you’re unworthy of life and breath because because and should just fucking die already, so get with the plan.  Or, on better days: curl up in a ball in your closet because life and humanity and the universe are meaningless.  “There is no future.”  “Everything is futile.”  “We’re all ephemeral, useless particles floating in a dust cloud of our own abject failures.”  “You are your mistakes.”  “You are your problems and relationships and chemical imbalances and physical and mental illnesses.”  “Death lurks for you around every corner.”  The Bell Jar had it exactly right — just trapped underneath a jar so that no matter where you go or what you do, you are still stewing in one’s own sour and putrid thoughts and emotions (to paraphrase).  As if any of you could doubt a woman who gassed herself to death on the subject of depression.

This description isn’t perfect or all-encompassing.  It’s just the tip of the chemical imbalance iceberg.  There’s much more to it than “just” thinking these thoughts and countering them with fucking crystals or positive thinking.  Something evil inside is trying to work me like a puppet and it dictates all the sickness inside and that which manifests on the outside.  It can’t be bargained with, it can’t be reasoned with, it doesn’t feel pity or remorse or fear — oh shit, that’s The Terminator.  But fuck it, I stand by that.  And it will not stop, until I am dead.

There is no “fixing” it or just “stopping being this way.”  There is only trying, vainly, to manage it.  I’ve been ill and it’s eating me alive.  So that’s where I’ve been and am and suspect I always will be.  Dropping off the face of the earth, hiding, refusing to use the internet or talk to people, not eating and wasting away, making tentative plans for a hermit bunker that isn’t so Unabombery.

And something happened when I dropped out of civil society (alas, I did not become a feral jungle cat.  That would have been much more fun): no one noticed.  No one contacted me asking where I’d been, why I didn’t use stupid internet accounts anymore, how I was doing, do I want to — oh I don’t know — DO ANYTHING.  This just reinforced my thinking and feelings that if I just disappeared or died, nobody would even know.  When they found my partially eaten corpse during the spring thaw, they’d be like, “oh too bad.”  But they wouldn’t have noticed the intervening weeks and months where I’d been missing and being gnawed on by various animals.  The coroner or funeral home probably wouldn’t even bother wrestling my face away from a testy raccoon that had cut it off my head to wear as the ultimate warlord mask in a Mad Max Raccoon Wasteland Society so that they could sew it back on and even attempt to give me an open casket funeral.

It’s a series of paradoxes that I have trouble dissecting, organizing, or putting into chronological order.  I crawl within myself both to save myself from external terrors and because the cult is telling me I have to; I both want and shun help; friends and doctors in theory “care” but in practice do not because they continue to leave me alone in myself (even when they find out my cruel secrets after some emergencies and an urgent care visit).  Which is what I wanted.  But it’s crushingly lonely.  And the cycle continues.  And the depression reinforces the anxiety.  And vice versa.  And the anxiety is so CRUSHING in of itself.  And then words don’t make sense anymore, like right now.

Frequently, I’m reminded of that Twilight Zone where the last man in the world just wants to read peacefully and then his goddamn glasses break and he heartbreakingly cries something like “there was time now!” for all his reading, the one thing in life he enjoyed, but now he fucking can’t because human eyes are basically ornamental at this point and ironically he actually needed other people the whole time but didn’t know it.  I’m reminded of this because the stagnation my illness puts me in, I can’t function.  Things don’t make sense.  I can’t focus on thoughts and words to read.  And that’s the one thing I could do to escape this madness.  But I can’t because my fucking glasses broke.  I’m surprised I could keep it together this long right now.  But this post has been, after all, like a year and a half in the making, so it took that long to form some coherent thoughts that then mostly felt like they devolved into quotes from TV shows and movies.

But where deciphering weird little symbols on paper or a computer screen has failed me, I have found weird solace in blood, violence, and mayhem.  Not of a real-life Clockwork Orange variety, but fictional gore that oddly settled the gore within.  So I’m either getting better or worse.  I don’t know.  Honestly, I didn’t even realize I was still writing this.  And now I’m wondering if I’ll have to courage to post this unedited or at all.

Aside from all this jabbering, where I’m attempting to connect with something, someone, or maybe just myself, I did have one thing that I found today that I just FUCKING LOVED TO DEATH and made me happy so maybe I’d just post it at the end for some reason.  To lighten the mood?

It’s where this girl loses her shit with Ted Raimi.



~ by hollaphonic on 02/03/2016.

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