26.04.15 :: 02.05.15

[Note for consistency: Previous week coincided with increase in meds, thus nothing more was accomplished than curling up in bed with crippling headaches and marathon watching mindless TV.]

1.
I keep having to do these things where I rate how I feel on a scale of 1-10.

First: I hate 1-10 scales. It's subjective (who really knows what 10 stands for?). As a general rule, whenever given that sort of scale (for anything) I stay away from 1 or 10 and stick to the middle numbers because they feel safer. Plus, if you say something is the best (or worst) what do you do when you encounter something better?

The most recent one is keeping a week-long schedule and rating each thing on how much pleasure it brought and sense of accomplishment using the 1-10 scale. By the second day, I'd created my own system of smiley faces to make me feel more comfortable about it, but by day 3, I'd given up entirely. Do I get a sense of accomplishment from eating breakfast? How much pleasure is there in brushing my teeth? The answer to both is none. In fact, the only activities I felt anything about were my driving lessons, hanging out with my flatmate and cleaning (all got this face :D).

Everything else is just flat. I don't feel good or bad about my activities; they just are. On average, I don't feel much of anything, except a sense of being empty. Or floating. Drifting. Just kind of taking it all in. And this is what I struggle with the most with this therapy thing. I can go a long time without really feeling anything. Before the meds, it'd get interrupted by the soul-sucking conviction that everything is terminally fucked and nothing will ever make it better (the more frequent path) or bouncing off the walls wanting to hug everyone and take on the world (less frequent, doesn't last as long). In between in just coasting.

Since the meds, I don't get the soul-sucking moments anywhere near as much. It's happened a couple times. It's hard to tell if the highs have been affected because they're so rare anyway, but I've had a couple of those, too. Mostly, though, I'm just living in blankness.

2.
What do you think will happen if you don't do x?

This is the recurring question. I don't have an answer because I don't think anything is going to happen. It's a physical sensation, like little blocks being stacked on me so I can't move - restricted - it's probably similar to a feeling of claustrophobia. I can ignore it for a little while. It's uncomfortable, but I can deal. I'm used to being uncomfortable. But after awhile (like a day, depending on what the environment is sometimes a little longer), but it builds up to a certain point where I feel the pressure digging into my skin. I keep picturing it as Lego blocks. And I can't take it anymore. So then I go on 5 hour cleaning sprees or rearranging furniture until it goes away. The feeling when there are no blocks is euphoric. Like the first time you get out of a car after an eight hour drive. Light. Like there's nothing caging me in. Energy can move freely around again. Because that's a lot of what it is. I put things in certain places because when they're in those places, the energy moves freely. When it isn't in the right place, energy is blocked and everything gets darker, no matter how much light is actually present.

3.
Today was hard. The question of a hypothetical door that may or may not be locked had me twitchy and squirming and really wanting to lock Adam's door just to make the feeling for away. I also had my first cigarette in a week. There's something about the motion of it that calms me down more than anything else.

Diazepam also does absolutely nothing for me anymore. So that's a fantastic bit of news. I'm not sure if I want to mention that to my doctor or just keep self-medicating. At the moment he's trying to limit the number of pills I take because my liver functions have been off for no explainable reason. It's a good thing I'm not a heavy drinker.

I think I can work with Adam, though. I think he's intent on torturing me, but I can work with him.

4.
I really have a passionate dislike of songbirds.

5.
I love the fact that I can have an anxiety attack - and not even a particularly bad one - and over 12 hours later I still can't sleep.

Seriously, my body hates me.

6.
So I looked through the list of people I went to high school with. Hardly recognized most of them. It's weird. Knowing I don't exist for those people anymore. I bailed first chance I got and didn't look back. Firmly and totally shut the door on that part of my life. It's sad, too. Some of those people I really liked but y'know. 14 years later we're basically just strangers. (Shit. I graduated high school 14 years ago. What the hell?)

7.
An inadvertent revelation during a conference panel. Beethoven was the topic of conversation - different regimes that have used it for their own particular (and conflicting) ideologies. Everyone kept referencing the humanness of Beethoven, the passion, the surge of sound and energy, and that's what appeals to people.

I hate Beethoven. Cannot stand it. Bach, however, I adore. To me, it's emotive, sweeping, captivating.

For the group, Bach was the contrast. Universally. They pinpointed him as precise, mathematical, reserved in comparison.

I just found it interesting listening to their descriptions of these two composers. I wouldn't have used any of the same adjectives. It felt strange sitting among thirty or so other people who all praised the emotion and humanity of a composer who, in my opinion, is just erratic and nothing more. It was just an instance of pretty much how I feel all the time: everyone in the room sees something I don't get.

8.
Today I have learned that I miss attending lectures. I am definitely not being stimulated enough intellectually under the status quo. I need to do something about that.

9.
The world frustrates me. Check your facts, people, and say only true things. You damage people when you don't.

10.
I don't know how many times I say, I'm not saving anyone anymore. I'm not going to do it. Then you raise your hand and I do backflips to give you whatever you might need.

You infuriate me like no one else in the world ever.

11.
You know who would be really helpful with my research?

My dad.

I really wish I could talk to him about it. 

Seeking a Little Less Authenticity

I spent most of today rolling around a concept for a blog that was somewhat (very) introspective and self-indulgent... and then I stepped into the wonderful world of the internet and promptly changed my mind.

A long time ago, I had a discussion-bordering-heated argument with a former collaborator on the topic of authenticity in relation to writing. He claimed, first, that to be a good writer you have to experience life. Fair enough. If nothing else, getting out in the world and seeing what happens in it is pretty good at triggering those what if questions. He went on from there, though, and asserted that writing could only be worthwhile if it was authentic, meaning if the person writing had actual first-hand experience of the thing s/he was writing on. His assertion was that authenticity always trumped talent, and the only way a writer could evoke the proper response, could convey something accurately enough, was if it had actually happened to them.

I respectfully and quite adamantly disagreed.

Much of my time is spent reading, critiquing and, yes, judging the work of amateur writers. There's quite a lot of talent in the amateur sect; what I'm about to say is by no means to imply there isn't.

But.

Yes, but. Among that wide and motley assortment of individuals penning their works between jobs and classes and families, and maybe even at the occasional stoplight, there is a particular strand that latches onto this idea of writing the authentic experience (we're talking fiction here, by the way, non-fiction is a different kettle of fish entirely). Most of the time, this centres around emotion in an equation that looks something like this:

words + strong emotion = talent/something worth reading

No. Sorry. It does not. Your angst is not art. The ability to experience emotion does not make you an artist; it makes you human. The ability to evoke emotion in someone else with something you create makes you an artist. 

Most of the time, when it comes to this subject, I keep my mouth shut. Surprisingly, on occasion, apparently I come across as not quite so soft and fluffy, or very coddling of sensitive egos. I'll openly admit I don't have much patience for baby writers, and I'm more likely to say please never write anything but a grocery list again than sugarcoat the garish flaws with noncommittal statements. So, being aware of this aspect in myself, I stay well away from the "emotional" writers. They tend to be sensitive and, well, emotional. I don't take them seriously as writers because they don't take their writing seriously. 

This evening in my traipsing about the internet as my "reward" for being so very studious all weekend (this is what I'm going with; I dare you to prove otherwise), I came across this question:

Does a person's creativity go hand in hand with emotional, mental, or physical turmoil? 

Disappointingly, but expectedly, the yeses had the vote. This pretty much epitomises the issue I have with "authentic" writing, "emotional" poets writers, and that very troublesome stock phrase "write what you know".

One person cited, in support of the pro argument, the sheer volume of love poetry written (so much so, in my opinion, that finding a love poem these days that doesn't make you want to slit your wrists with a Hallmark card is a bit like waking up to a unicorn in your living room), because it's a universal experience (I'm paraphrasing). The same person went on to say: "Why is there so much "emo" poetry written? Because it is an intense feeling that is felt so completely that it is easy to describe in words." Someone else claimed that one could truly write about the feeling of grief without experiencing it first; anything else is just speculation.

Oddly no one mentioned how the experience of losing a thumb or an ear really boosted their creative output.