1.
Researching this book has made me increasingly paranoid about ending up on some government watch list.
For example, today's goal: figure out how to take down a power grid.
Hypothetically, of course.
It doesn't help that most of my sources are totally paranoid about the government as well.
2.
I wonder what she's thinking as I talk. What does my internal world sound like to someone on the outside? I recognise the look on her face. Just about every doctor I've ever see has that look: I am not equipped for this.
I struggle when we review my previous therapies and diagnoses. One is the different systems. Two is my tendency to dismiss the ones I don't find credible. Three is the fact that I can put on the act of a very stable, grounded, fully functional human being when I want/need to.
(Want and need are one and the same, you see.)
I've never told any of them that, and I won't tell her. I don't let them know I will lie, scheme, manipulate to get what I want.
No, omit. Omit, tweak, censor. I never outright lie.
Honesty and I have a funny relationship. I won't accept any measure of dishonesty from others. I latch onto minute details, and call them out on the slightest variation. (Yesterday you said he was angry, today it's upset. Which is it?)
Concealment is dishonesty, but it's perfectly alright for me to conceal information, and I'm not dishonest. (If the information is requested, it's given, but it's not my fault if you don't know what you don't know.)
It's a habit I have with people to tell them they have to ask what they want to know. It's like a badge, a key for people that I like: here is how you get my secrets. Ask and I will tell you everything.
Have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?
No, not officially, but I'm aware how closely I follow it. I'm aware of the highs and lows, and that already because I'm starting to feel good again, I'm thinking I don't need to do any of this.
I have to keep reminding myself of black days. I don't want to have those anymore. They're gone now, but I know they'll come back so I have to do this for when that happens. I have to keep telling myself that.
They'll come back.
They always come back.
3.
As this goes on, I'm having to resist the urge to edit what I've written. Make it sound better, more insightful. Or whatever.
I also do not consistently use one spelling or another. Last week it was realize, today it is realise.
I want this to be authentic. In the moment. It doesn't work any other way. What would be even better is posting the actual pages (I write by hand), but I won't.
I worry about how many secrets I'm letting go. I protect myself by keeping these things to myself and a limited few. How does that change if anyone can know?
This has to be authentic.
I decided this would always be honest, so it will. That's the rule.
4.
I have mad coping skills. Sometimes I wish I weren't so resilient, wish I could be the one to fall apart so someone else can pick up the pieces. Usually when I get worn down from doing that for everyone else. But in the end I don't, because I know I'm better at weathering the storm than most people. I can be bent in half and twisted in knots, but I don't break.
Expert compartmentalisation, maybe.
5.
I feel like such a dork in front of my supervisor sometimes.
6.
I am so tired. Sleeping isn't going great - waking up every hour or so - but I an't miss the sun so I drag myself up to sit in it and feel like a zombie who can't string together even the most basic motivation.
My to-do list mocks me.
There's work I need to be doing - that I want to do, but even if I do it now, I'll have to do it again later because nothing is sticking.
I'm so frustrate with being patient with myself.
7.
I wonder if we'll ever find out way back home again.
Does it even still exist?
I want to say I miss you, but those are just words, and words don't mean anything. Neither one of us believes them.
8.
Lounging in sunspots is not luxury; it's necessary.
I still feel guilty.
9.
Could two opposites be so opposite to each other that they end up being the same?
10.
3:03 AM. Last (second to last; I'm going to have another) cigarette. Standing on my faux balcony (hovering in the six inch space between door and railing), thinking that my creative epiphanies have to come the moment I decide I'm going to bed. An ageless nameless voice cries out, then again.
The sound echoes over the parking lot and I can see the vibrations bouncing off the leaves. It comes from everywhere. And the right. Definitely from the right. Eventually I realize it's not just a sound. Mum. It's not a man, either. A woman or a boy (fourteen, brain supplies). I wonder if I should go investigate. But I don't have shoes on, and we're on the 4th floor (American). Just as I'm putting together what I'd need to do to go out and running through the debate: am I really a good person, or just someone who wants to be seen as a good person? (The answer is B.)
It stops. Total silence.
Now I really wonder if I should go check, but I'm also relieved. Silence is ignorable.
My brain does this:
the word "mum" +
androgynous voice +
slightly lower pitch =
adolescent boy with nightmare.
This is what I choose to believe.
I picture a woman having her head smashed in with a rock over in the park near my flat.
It's to the right.
11.
I need to learn to trust my process. I keep trying to wedge myself into the standard habits: read everything, write every day, have a creative atmosphere - and it just doesn't work. I end up feeling guilty and panicky I'm not getting anything done. Eventually I retreat into mindless television and video games.
I goof off.
I feel guilty about that, too, but it's better than pretending to be doing something.
After a few days, sometimes a few weeks, it all comes together in a burst.
Goofing off is my process. And it makes sense. Pretty much all my behaviours and habits are designed to keep my brain - the thinking part - occupied and/or distracted. Basically, out of my way so I don't have to deal with meltdowns over an overly detailed text message or that object A isn't placed properly in relation to object B.
Except when I work - when I try to work the way I'm supposed to. Think Brain is given permission to run wild, and nothing gets done because Think Brain knows shit.
So it makes sense. While it's distracted with killing radiated humans or doing a sitcom marathon, Picture Brain gets to do its thing in peace.
Think Brain has something to do with the not reading as well. It takes too long to get through the page with my brain jumping off in a different direction every paragraph.
The thing is, I know this. This is not the first time I've had this revelation. I just keep forgetting. It's like every time I start back at the beginning and come to terms with myself, and not what I think other people expect me to be.
Which is something that translates into every part of my life. I hate how much I think about what people's perceptions of me are, more than I pay attention to who I really am.
12.
Keeping this record is terrifying. But it's also useful. Promising to be honest was the kicker. A good 80% of my problem is too many things clogged up in my mind and nowhere for them to go.
That's probably where the fear of voicelessness comes from.
I can't say them to other people because they can't keep up - no, they can't follow is better, because my synapses take shortcuts they (the people) don't know are there. So they ask questions, and make interjections, or want to share themselves and it throws me off track. Because I have to focus very hard to live stream my thoughts. It requires translating these multi-sensory concepts into flat, limited words, and it's always easier to write in another language.
And there's no point saying it to myself, because that just creates loops, and that's not good. Sometimes I write notes that'll never be delivered, but that's just a temporary fix, because I know the thought was never really communicated, so it creeps back.
At some point, every one of my close friends has received a very raw, very honest (usually also very long) message (email tends to be the favourite but Facebook is catching up) outlining all the things I finally figured out how to say. Afterwards, I'm embarrassed and avoid it at all costs. The mental equivalent of drunk dialing. Though I guess it's usually drunk texting now.
But I've promised to be honest here. And accurate. Taking that seriously gets all this shit out of my head so it doesn't build up. Not all of it - for every thought I write down, there are about ten or twenty happening at the same time that I don't catch (though 10 & 11 happened simultaneously). But it gets out enough.
Researching this book has made me increasingly paranoid about ending up on some government watch list.
For example, today's goal: figure out how to take down a power grid.
Hypothetically, of course.
It doesn't help that most of my sources are totally paranoid about the government as well.
2.
I wonder what she's thinking as I talk. What does my internal world sound like to someone on the outside? I recognise the look on her face. Just about every doctor I've ever see has that look: I am not equipped for this.
I struggle when we review my previous therapies and diagnoses. One is the different systems. Two is my tendency to dismiss the ones I don't find credible. Three is the fact that I can put on the act of a very stable, grounded, fully functional human being when I want/need to.
(Want and need are one and the same, you see.)
I've never told any of them that, and I won't tell her. I don't let them know I will lie, scheme, manipulate to get what I want.
No, omit. Omit, tweak, censor. I never outright lie.
Honesty and I have a funny relationship. I won't accept any measure of dishonesty from others. I latch onto minute details, and call them out on the slightest variation. (Yesterday you said he was angry, today it's upset. Which is it?)
Concealment is dishonesty, but it's perfectly alright for me to conceal information, and I'm not dishonest. (If the information is requested, it's given, but it's not my fault if you don't know what you don't know.)
It's a habit I have with people to tell them they have to ask what they want to know. It's like a badge, a key for people that I like: here is how you get my secrets. Ask and I will tell you everything.
Have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?
No, not officially, but I'm aware how closely I follow it. I'm aware of the highs and lows, and that already because I'm starting to feel good again, I'm thinking I don't need to do any of this.
I have to keep reminding myself of black days. I don't want to have those anymore. They're gone now, but I know they'll come back so I have to do this for when that happens. I have to keep telling myself that.
They'll come back.
They always come back.
3.
As this goes on, I'm having to resist the urge to edit what I've written. Make it sound better, more insightful. Or whatever.
I also do not consistently use one spelling or another. Last week it was realize, today it is realise.
I want this to be authentic. In the moment. It doesn't work any other way. What would be even better is posting the actual pages (I write by hand), but I won't.
I worry about how many secrets I'm letting go. I protect myself by keeping these things to myself and a limited few. How does that change if anyone can know?
This has to be authentic.
I decided this would always be honest, so it will. That's the rule.
4.
I have mad coping skills. Sometimes I wish I weren't so resilient, wish I could be the one to fall apart so someone else can pick up the pieces. Usually when I get worn down from doing that for everyone else. But in the end I don't, because I know I'm better at weathering the storm than most people. I can be bent in half and twisted in knots, but I don't break.
Expert compartmentalisation, maybe.
5.
I feel like such a dork in front of my supervisor sometimes.
6.
I am so tired. Sleeping isn't going great - waking up every hour or so - but I an't miss the sun so I drag myself up to sit in it and feel like a zombie who can't string together even the most basic motivation.
My to-do list mocks me.
There's work I need to be doing - that I want to do, but even if I do it now, I'll have to do it again later because nothing is sticking.
I'm so frustrate with being patient with myself.
7.
I wonder if we'll ever find out way back home again.
Does it even still exist?
I want to say I miss you, but those are just words, and words don't mean anything. Neither one of us believes them.
8.
Lounging in sunspots is not luxury; it's necessary.
I still feel guilty.
9.
Could two opposites be so opposite to each other that they end up being the same?
10.
3:03 AM. Last (second to last; I'm going to have another) cigarette. Standing on my faux balcony (hovering in the six inch space between door and railing), thinking that my creative epiphanies have to come the moment I decide I'm going to bed. An ageless nameless voice cries out, then again.
The sound echoes over the parking lot and I can see the vibrations bouncing off the leaves. It comes from everywhere. And the right. Definitely from the right. Eventually I realize it's not just a sound. Mum. It's not a man, either. A woman or a boy (fourteen, brain supplies). I wonder if I should go investigate. But I don't have shoes on, and we're on the 4th floor (American). Just as I'm putting together what I'd need to do to go out and running through the debate: am I really a good person, or just someone who wants to be seen as a good person? (The answer is B.)
It stops. Total silence.
Now I really wonder if I should go check, but I'm also relieved. Silence is ignorable.
My brain does this:
the word "mum" +
androgynous voice +
slightly lower pitch =
adolescent boy with nightmare.
This is what I choose to believe.
I picture a woman having her head smashed in with a rock over in the park near my flat.
It's to the right.
11.
I need to learn to trust my process. I keep trying to wedge myself into the standard habits: read everything, write every day, have a creative atmosphere - and it just doesn't work. I end up feeling guilty and panicky I'm not getting anything done. Eventually I retreat into mindless television and video games.
I goof off.
I feel guilty about that, too, but it's better than pretending to be doing something.
After a few days, sometimes a few weeks, it all comes together in a burst.
Goofing off is my process. And it makes sense. Pretty much all my behaviours and habits are designed to keep my brain - the thinking part - occupied and/or distracted. Basically, out of my way so I don't have to deal with meltdowns over an overly detailed text message or that object A isn't placed properly in relation to object B.
Except when I work - when I try to work the way I'm supposed to. Think Brain is given permission to run wild, and nothing gets done because Think Brain knows shit.
So it makes sense. While it's distracted with killing radiated humans or doing a sitcom marathon, Picture Brain gets to do its thing in peace.
Think Brain has something to do with the not reading as well. It takes too long to get through the page with my brain jumping off in a different direction every paragraph.
The thing is, I know this. This is not the first time I've had this revelation. I just keep forgetting. It's like every time I start back at the beginning and come to terms with myself, and not what I think other people expect me to be.
Which is something that translates into every part of my life. I hate how much I think about what people's perceptions of me are, more than I pay attention to who I really am.
12.
Keeping this record is terrifying. But it's also useful. Promising to be honest was the kicker. A good 80% of my problem is too many things clogged up in my mind and nowhere for them to go.
That's probably where the fear of voicelessness comes from.
I can't say them to other people because they can't keep up - no, they can't follow is better, because my synapses take shortcuts they (the people) don't know are there. So they ask questions, and make interjections, or want to share themselves and it throws me off track. Because I have to focus very hard to live stream my thoughts. It requires translating these multi-sensory concepts into flat, limited words, and it's always easier to write in another language.
And there's no point saying it to myself, because that just creates loops, and that's not good. Sometimes I write notes that'll never be delivered, but that's just a temporary fix, because I know the thought was never really communicated, so it creeps back.
At some point, every one of my close friends has received a very raw, very honest (usually also very long) message (email tends to be the favourite but Facebook is catching up) outlining all the things I finally figured out how to say. Afterwards, I'm embarrassed and avoid it at all costs. The mental equivalent of drunk dialing. Though I guess it's usually drunk texting now.
But I've promised to be honest here. And accurate. Taking that seriously gets all this shit out of my head so it doesn't build up. Not all of it - for every thought I write down, there are about ten or twenty happening at the same time that I don't catch (though 10 & 11 happened simultaneously). But it gets out enough.
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