Reflection from December 24th, 2007 @ Age 26
Well, merry fucking Christmas Eve to you. I tell you what, I’m in the fucking wringer and I can’t get out. I’ve been swinging high and low for weeks now, and I can’t find stable ground. I have fury the size of Africa, and the slightest little thing will set me off flying. My mom moves my heating pad (which, incidentally—used to be her heating pad) from my couch where I watch TV, into her room at night, because her room is over the garage and motherfucking cold—and, when she didn’t put it back and I sat down to watch TV and saw this, I was infuckingfuriated. I, just now, couldn’t find my black skirt that I wanted to wear in my drawers—and, my mom folded my laundry and brought it up from the laundry room and I was irate, thinking she did something with it. Lo and behold, I, of course, found it about a half a minute later—when I continued looking through my drawers. And, the funny thing is, I don’t even fucking care about where my stupid black skirt is—and, I don’t care that my mom uses the fucking heating pad. But, I get in these fucking moods and I don’t want to be touched and I don’t want to be spoken to, and I feel absolutely out of control with rage and I feel like I can’t do a goddamn thing about it—because, what I want to do, is destroy anything that means something to me or to someone else. I want to destroy, because I have to suffer this motherfucking pain—that nobody else can see, but, I must suffer from nonetheless.
I cry everyday now, and I think about applying to take the bar exam and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to do it. I don’t know what to do, and I have no one to speak with—and, I feel alone and I have no friends in this town, and I’d just rather die than continue living this nightmare of a life.
I want to destroy, such that I may manifest my emotional pain that cannot be seen. I want to be numb, but I have to use the doctor’s drugs—I’m not permitted to use marijuana, which I already know, works. Sure, I’m fucking skinnier and healthier and more productive, perhaps, than I would be when I smoke pot—but, I have to live my life in a world I’d rather die than live in. At least when I smoke pot, I can live in peace in this godforsaken world. I don’t have to cry everyday, and I can see beauty all around me—instead of this fucking ugliness, I now can’t escape. And, nobody can see how much fucking pain I’m in—and, I can’t explain it to others, and they don’t get it. They say, everyone feels that way from time to time—except that, I’ve suffered from this all of my life, time after time.
I saw Johnny Depp’s new movie with Helena Bonham Carter, “Sweeney Todd,” and it was phenomenal. I love that it came out right before Christmas, too, because it’s all about how life makes you cold and hard—how life is unfair and cruel, and how it turns the greatest of hearts into stone. I want everyone to suffer, and part of me truly wants to believe that everyone does suffer. But, I want to know—that I am not the only one.
I fear that I am self-inducing these “moods” upon myself, and I fear that’s what others think—when I try to express my despair. This makes me want to internalize, and start cutting myself slowly to death. The most awful part of mental illness is that others judge you, and minimize your pain—because they cannot understand the torture we go through, swinging high to low all fucking day. They think, somehow, that our moods are within self-control, and perhaps to a point they are—but, when someone suffers as I do for years on end, their entire goddamn life, there simply must be more to it than that.
I mean, I think I’ve been very open-minded about the whole situation—agreeing to the therapy and the IOP, and to AA. But, man, I cannot find me some relief. I’m beginning to think it’s impossible—I want to believe it’s impossible. If relief is impossible, that means I will feel free to kill myself—knowing that it’s the only way to free myself, from this crippling disease.
And, now, I swing to mean…
I think, what a fucking self-pitying bitch I am—forsaking all that is good in my life, for nothing! All I want is more more more, and I am simply incapable with being satisfied with all that I have. Part of me feels that way, too—and, it wreaks havoc on the suffering side.
I don’t know, I don’t think I’m making any fucking sense—I feel like a rambling idiot, and more and more, eternal darkness seems a viable option. I think part of me likes to indulge in the dark side—but, then, the dark side turns on me and is cruelest of all. For example, part of me wants to list, right here and now—all of the good that I’ve got going in my life. But, the other part of me, wants to ignore that—so I can continue to suffer in peace. It’s ironic, in a way.
I’m done. Except to say, that I sent Martie a Christmas card, and part of me feels fine about it—and, the other part of me is furious that I’d do something kind, for that crazy bitch. But, it’s too late now—the mail has gone.
No, there is more…
I feel like I have this tendency, to get obsessed with different things—I get attached and derive pleasure from repeating it over and over, and then I am tired of it and I am done with it, and will have it no more. This’s happened with Dave, for example, and that movie “Across the Universe”—and, Led Zeppelin there for a while, and Jeff Buckley…
What else? I do it with food, like Dairy Queen ice cream cones dipped in cherry—and, Arby’s curly fries, and the like. I truly believe I am obsessive/compulsive, and I should probably be treated for that as well. I am bipolar, obsessive/compulsive, depressed, socially retarded, etc. I am a mess. And, that’s the funniest part about it—because, I look like a real fucking winner if you take my physical appearance and my resume into question. A real fucking winner.
I find it soothing, when I can control my immediate surroundings, at home—because, then, at least I feel like I have some refuge from this awful world. I don’t have that, living at home—well, I guess to a point, I do…
But, not like I did when I was living alone. I think it’s good for me to live alone—but, financial circumstances will not permit doing so. I think that’s part of the reason I fly off the fucking handle, when my mom moves the goddamn heating pad—because, it represents the lack of control I have over my most personal of surroundings.
I want to feel numb—numb, and happy. I want some pot, and I want some wine—so I can feel numb and happy, and leave this awful place. I’m tired of suffering, and yet my mental illness keeps me from peace. The doctor’s drugs don’t work, and I’m not allowed to smoke pot—and, if I want to take this motherfucking bar exam, then I’m not allowed to smoke pot or drink wine. My life is not my own. I really hate that—when my life is not my own.
Except that, there’s one more thing…
Reading through my old journals, it makes me sick to see the extent to which I became obsessed with the program and “god.” It makes me fucking sick, to see how easily a human being can be manipulated—when they find themselves in need of something to believe in. I hate it, but, it helps me to understand these religious fucking fanatics and whatnot. I think the need for something to believe, the need to find meaning in this life—in order to justify all the pain suffered, is one of the most powerful forces upon us.
I’ve cleaned the bathroom, done my laundry, cleaned out my desk, organized all my paperwork, vacuumed the stairs, taken a shower, typed up some old journal entries—and, now, there is no more time left to blow. I’m going to start on my motherfucking bar exam application. Motherfuckers. I’m wondering if it would be a terrible thing to push it off until February 2009? Seems like a nice long ways away…
Hopefully, enough time away, such that I can get my house in order—and, feel prepared to study for and take it. I don’t feel ready to take it this year. Actually, technically, it’s still next year…
This imposes on me at the outset a very tiresome bit of demolition. It has actually become necessary in our time to rebut the theory that every firm and serious friendship is really homosexual.
The dangerous word really is here important. To say that every Friendship is consciously and explicitly homosexual would be too obviously false; the wiseacres take refuge in the less palpable charge that it is really—unconsciously, cryptically, in some Pickwickian sense—homosexual. And this, though it cannot be proved, can never of course be refuted. The fact that no positive evidence of homosexuality can be discovered in the behaviour of two Friends does not disconcert the wiseacres at all: “That,” they say gravely, “is just what we should expect.” The very lack of evidence is thus treated as evidence; the absence of smoke proves that the fire is very carefully hidden. Yes—if it exists at all. But we must first prove its existence. Otherwise we are arguing like a man who should say “If there were an invisible cat in that chair, the chair would look empty; but the chair does look empty; therefore there is an invisible cat in it.”
A belief in invisible cats cannot perhaps be logically disproved, but it tells us a good deal about those who hold it. Those who cannot conceive Friendship as a substantive love but only as a disguise or elaboration of Eros betray the fact that they have never had a Friend. The rest of us know that though we can have erotic love and friendship for the same person yet in some ways nothing is less like a Friendship than a love-affair. Lovers are always talking to one another about their love; Friends hardly ever about their Friendship. Lovers are normally face to face, absorbed in each other; Friends, side by side, absorbed in some common interest. Above all, Eros (while it lasts) is necessarily between two only. But two, far from being the necessary number for Friendship, is not even the best. And the reason for this is important.
Lamb says somewhere that if, of three friends (A, B, and C), A should die, then B loses not only A but “A’s part in C,” while C loses not only A but “A’s part in B.” In each of my friends there is something that only some other friend can fully bring out. By myself I am not large enough to call the whole man into activity; I want other lights than my own to show all his facets. Now that Charles is dead, I shall never again see Ronald’s reaction to a specifically Caroline joke. Far from having more of Ronald, having him “to myself” now that Charles is away, I have less of Ronald. Hence true Friendship is the least jealous of loves. Two friends delight to be joined by a third, and three by a fourth, if only the newcomer is qualified to become a real friend. They can then say, as the blessed souls say in Dante, “Here comes one who will augment our loves.” For in this love “to divide is not to take away.” Of course the scarcity of kindred souls—not to mention practical considerations about the size of rooms and the audibility of voices—set limits to the enlargement of the circle; but within those limits we possess each friend not less but more as the number of those with whom we share him increases.
In this, Friendship exhibits a glorious “nearness by resemblance” to Heaven itself where the very multitude of the blessed (which no man can number) increases the fruition which each has of God. For every soul, seeing Him in her own way, doubtless communicates that unique vision to all the rest. That, says an old author, is why the Seraphim in Isaiah’s vision are crying “Holy, Holy, Holy” to one another (Isaiah VI, 3). The more we thus share the Heavenly Bread between us, the more we shall all have.