Confessions of a #uselesseater
I want to tell you one of my secrets.
I'm agoraphobic.
Yep, a #uselesseater
For the past 6+ months I've been stubbornly dug into my school bus-abode like a blood-drunk tick. Unwilling to emerge for love nor money.
Just can't people.
And this is not my first barn-dance.
Why should you care, you ask?
Well if I ever run for political office you can say you first read it here... or mayhap I am simply compelled to confess my Truth. I want my foundational 'ness' to be self-evident. I also want to encourage others to come out of the ideological closet as it were. It's lonely in there.
This is a long one.
Get caffeine enabled.
Smoke 'em if ya got 'em.
These days, my Blog and the #Twitterverse are all the social contact the Bitch in my head will allow. (See elder posting re: “the Bitch in My Head” for reference if so desired) Perhaps it seems a feasibly controllable window of access to the relentless and terrifying Meatpuppet-Machine hungrily roiling 24/7 outside my school-bus-shaped-shell.
I'm only a figure-head at the end of the day. The Inspector General of Approved Fun-ctions dictatorially reigns my brain by fascist fiat in direct collusion w/a despotic Council on Domestic Trauma-Mutated Affairs (CDTMA). As they don't usually ask my permission for these regime changes, I am rarely read into project narratives, let alone consulted around what protocols are in active operational status. Hell, I barely have veto power. So, don't get me started.
At 26-ish yrs old, I was seriously teetering, yet still not locked, into the punishing talons of unnameable agoraphobic Dread. That year I lost primary custody of my kids to one of my abusers, lost a good job after I did an excellent 2 month rendition of the trademark Zombie-shuffle (yay anti-psychotics!) in the wake of a mandatory 72 hour hold (long convoluted story, another blog, another day). Unsurprisingly, heavy clouds o'shame began looming over every facet of my life. Seeded in part by a belief I had no fundamental value. Born of repeated trauma, this conclusion, albeit illusory, worked swiftly to invalidate ANY rationale proposing the slightest resurgence. I slept, ate, breathed and therefore withered within a miasm polluted by self loathing. I know too many can readily relate to this.
The Bitch in my head was more fanatically committed than ever to snap derisively at my proverbial ankles. Foiling every attempt to find my feet or achieve even momentary balance. Adding insult to injury, the mantra of recovery dutifully toadied was rendered moot by proxy of my unflagging and repeated failure to fit the configuration schematics of the Meatpuppet Machine Mold. Everything began to seem hopelessly, insurmountably, patently, pointless.
Still the Universe would not allow me to shuffle the mortal coil
and however anemic, impetus found the energy to form.
Slowly, I lifted my head.
In order to regain some MODICUM of tenable purpose, & having historically found a good deal of relief in artistic, musical or literary expression, I started a blog. Narrating observations of my mutilated microcosm in the fashion of an unhinged Xibalban travel agent. The total transparency of the process was founded largely by the idea that deception or 'secreting' truth of who you are, what you have done, how you've failed, what you believe and how you process etc. create avenues of unnecessary shame. (Not the same as Privacy, which is important to maintain competent adulting and whole health)
Shouldering this fashion of 'real' revoked Shame's backstage pass to my brain-battle in large part. An emotional state that seemed all at once trippingly ubiquitous in my every day. Not to mention counter-productive to the ends that I still require constitutional refurbishment.
My blog is a place I can publicly “Unmake” myself and then, in effort to deduce what verse I may yet contribute to the Play, I can begin again to author a more authentic role out of what is left of me. Which could, at least in the abstract, set about unlocking the perfidious puzzle box of solitary grief and confusion. Aggressively foisted on me by Cenobites born of Depression, Anxiety, Trauma and Rage that serve to keep me sequestered from the world. For safety reasons, you understand.
With nothing left to lose these days, most of me self-censoring operation protocols are on hiatus. No longer subject as often to the internal OR external dictates that threaten to Reject, Devalue or Socially Obsolesce my 'ness'. Writing as honestly as I can about where I am in my life, tells the truth and shames the Devil as it were. Sometimes wrong but never in doubt. Chips falling where they might and all that.
I fail miserably at live-action adulting on the regular, as is evidenced by much of my current circumstances. And I still make vain attempts to hide beneath trite platitudes from time to time or self-sabotage by biting off so much more than I can chew. But I find if I write candidly about it, even if only after the fact, it rules less effectively and for shorter periods.
Breaking News: Several witnesses reported sighting an authentic blue-collared Dreadnought Diva late yesterday evening. Local business owner Madge Templeton 36, of the Blue Ox Mobile home community told reporters she first heard the Dreadnought before she actually saw the creature disappear back into the wyld. Individuals are urged not to approach or engage the Diva in her natural habitat or risk potentially incurable contagion. In the event of intellectual contact, please report to the Center for Diseased-Mind Control immediately for decontamination and re-processing.
- this PSA courtesy of Lenny's Reefer and Discount Astronomy Supply-
and we're back!
In this vein of holding to a standard of authenticity sans shame, I find it freakishly difficult not to edit previous posts for content I may later find myself at cross purposes with. I'm frankly embarrassed by some of my fumbling attempts to explicate a Wyrd sentiment or the obvious holes revealed hindsight in my rhapsodic waxing's. But it feels sneaky or even more so, disingenuous to consider editing content after the fact. As if by retroactively trimming the mental fat of my past musings I'm committing a sort of literary gas-lighting. And not in keeping with this ever evolving modality of transparent self-care I'm espousing.
Though it is embarrassing from time to time to contemplate that a multitude of strangers can witness my naked cosmological phylogenesis at will, I still think it's valuable. For if not one splattered fluid, singed hair or shriek of misplaced outrage is omitted, not a single elephantine faux pas or hyperbolic re-invention of cosmic mousetraps lost to obscurity, I will get at least some righteous claim to feeling confident about sharing it.
That's right, it's really all for you dear readers,
should you still be so inclined to continue your dive.
You're welcome
& Thank-you.
Here's your complimentary mop and bucket.
For a limited time and the low low price of 6.95, we will personalize your bucket with the phrase of your choice.
Mine says “Get Back Up Slacker”
You do you, boo.
I do it for the dopamine.
~pauses to smoke~
My drive to understand what makes people do“things” started around age 11 and has evolved staggeringly in 30+ years spelunking the Encephalon and testing universally held principles. (you have the internet, look it up)
I need definitive answers to what truly defines crazy, why I have to wear the meatpuppet suit to be socially acceptable, where & how do the rituals originate and why do I reflexively recoil in abject horror from mucus and all things Wal-mart? Amongst other important treks for big T Truth.
I've been oft labeled as an inductive rather than deductive reasoner. Lemme 'splain;
In deductive reasoning a conclusion is drawn from a set of premises containing no more information than what is contained in the premises taken collectively. Too often the conclusion can be logically true, but the premise cockeyed. This always felt stunted, boring even ideologically puerile to me. Take the current uses of “racist” or "Christian" in both quasi-normative social definition and application as per example.
An inductive reasoner accepts that a posit may contain more information than the observers knowledge & experience upon which it is based can provide. The demonstrable truth of the conclusions verifiable ONLY in terms of future experience with subsequent certainties attainable only if all possible variables have been examined. This makes endlessly more sense to me. I guess it ends up meaning I'm ok with being wrong, as long as the derivative instrument to learn and demonstrate the truth is something I can draw a bead on.
“A thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions--as attempts to find out something. Success and failure are for him answers above all.” -Friedrich Nietzsche-
Failure is not a signal to pack up and piss off to less complicated environs. By sticking out this festival of fleshly frailty I can at least say I 'got skin in the game' rather than just warming an ideological bench *cough cough* pew *cough*. Perhaps some core indicators of why the social edict to suitably orient oneself within the current popular framework of normativity has always been maddeningly discomfited for me.
As I develop my cosmology, a comically cartoonish flowchart clicks open in my minds eye with cells of potential multiplying exponentially the longer I linger. Snippets of orthogonal thought with untested possible permutations spring to the fill the latent spaces. Sometimes in as infinitesimal a space as the ones found between one paragraph & the next. It's an exhausting but exciting challenge. And sometimes I throw up. Hence the bucket.
I find that in my rather bewildering near 43yrs planet-side I've never undertaken a thought-trek to its extremity. I don't even know if that is possible for anyone while still wearing this meatsuit.
Along the journey to untangle myself I have discovered intellectual overlooks of dizzying height & experienced crucial intersections of fundamental faith. It's true I have arrested motion entirely to obsess over esoteric patterns that may or may not exist in the pave-stones beneath my feet. (damn you reefer!) but I have also discovered once well established Rubicons of cosmological reflection demoted from concrete median to flimsy bullet-hole riddled mile-markers. An important distinction in the struggle to map my sojourn, blog-type fashion, on this ever unfolding journey. One whose sole purpose, is the intent upon someday touching the mind of God.
Yeah, I know.
No pressure, right?
~pauses to smoke~
These days, with terms being arbitrarily redefined, sometimes drastically, due to tectonic shifts in entire substrates of cultural, social and political engagement, you gotta be able to surf the interweb word-waves with confidence or be ready to eat your own teeth a la sea bed. The waves don't stop, so when you blunder, you can lose a great deal of hide in the inexorable tumble to find which way is up. And that's just to start swimming again.
“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.” ―Maya Angelou-
Explaining what I see and hear, how it feels and where my head gets stuck reveals more to me than I can achieve just banging around inside my own brain all day. I spose it's true that the act of teaching a thing helps you process it more effectively.
Part of my core ideology at this juncture may be contained, however sloppily, in this; When identity, awareness and subjective wisdom cease to further refine over time, you court the True Death. This can be characterized also as a sticky slough of ideological despondence that WILL suck you into a socially engineered hamster wheel of planned intellectual obsolescence. A foul and rife current sociopolitical trope leaving only enough brain function for your meat-suit to ape the 'acceptable' mechanics of live participation. Forever doomed to parroting other people's doctrines of Truth. Waste-paper mu-mu's falsely advertised as one size fits all. Any aspect left nekkid, identified as indication of personally bankrupt social currency.
I favor a 'sling-shot propulsion' method of breakthrough.
I think the latter demonstrates moxy.
I find the former to be personally lazy at best and socially irresponsible at worst.
-station-break for cocoa and the loo- smoke 'em if ya got 'em-
Admitting one's “crazy” is dizzing-ly shuddersome at first glance. But I believe everybody has varying quantities o'crazy in their bucket that contextually fluctuates over time. So, to my mind, there's no shame, only freedom found in its revelation.
Mental illness in it's fully manifest glory along with its accompanying panoply of bullshit ain't no easily transmuted byplay. To be honest, Crazy is inclined to steal the show. Demanding center stage while simultaneously trying to burn that motherfucker down. Instead of unpacking the dreaded shipping container of “oh dear god” we all drag from place to place, most plug the levy w/their thumb and pray. Waiting for someone to rescue them from the infirmity of their flawed flesh or for death to take them. Whichever comes first.
Rather than beginning to perform the excruciating necessity of personal inventory, many reach for drugs that come too easy in order to fog the banks of the struggle-scape. They can soften edges, quiet voices, order the disorderly... but they don't actually solve much when used for the long haul. Nothing can take the place of building tailor-made coping methods, engaging in behavior therapies, peer-work and various alternatives. Most of the drugs just delay the process of gaining clarity, let alone getting a handle on your shit. Of course, if you are at a crisis point, use them, use whatever you have to. Even self-imposed seclusion to a bus in the woods that reeks of the Devil's Lettuce... But use it as a tool, not a permanent solution. Though your friendly neighborhood Medicaid billable drug dealers will vehemently disagree, there are no “I win” pills. They will however, be delighted to occupy slot #1 on your speed dial for as long as you'll let them beta test their synthetic snake oils on you. One must subjugate personal experience and desires to their 'last word' however. Allowing cart blanche access for arbitrary adjustment to the levels of what can amount to chemical mental castration. Beware the hands that write the scrip, they rule the world.
Of course there's always that weird guy named Lenny with the false leg who lives 20 miles out of town, off-grid, secured by 27 go-pro-enabled trees, painfully mixing metaphors while laughing at his own jokes, smelling like 12 cats he does not own and sporting whats left of only three adult teeth. Don't worry, he's got great shit. And as I understand it, he does all his own human trials for quality assurance. Word is he used to be a real-world chemist till some Big Pharma equivalent of Voldemort stole his patent for cheap anti-viral drugs, forcing him out of his own company... Just don't bring it up. Nothing is more scarring than to see an ivy league educated old man of 32 weep into a handkerchief of questionable provenance and cleanliness while clutching his Eucharistic cottage cheese container of beer and captain crunch. Facial tics and elbow sores notwithstanding, I find Lenny infinitely more trustworthy at the end of the day. Ask him about the Aliens though. Seriously. Do it. Don't be scared... wuss
~giggles while lighting the 29th cigarette since the beginning of this interminable gdamn blog posting 4 days ago~
To sum up:
Hand-crafting a radically honest path to a philosophy of Me has fostered will to thrive in the face of this adversity rather than just barely managing to survive it. It's a bitch of a task, but I believe it could be the only demonstrable modus perfecta. The conflict and the marks that can accrue while learning effective management of a struggle-scape are not dreadful things. They insist we were there and tag the progress points in our evolution. Every scar is a line drawn in the sand. A challenge that was met and overcame simply by still being alive to tell the story of how it got there.
No, it's not easy to be authentic, nor is it necessarily “safe”to be transparent and expose the core of what makes you tick. Yes. Its slow, sweaty and disastrously dodgy work to dig through your past in order to identify the roots of your boggle and kill it dead. You'll probably need help. That's OK too. And no, it's not amusing to confront the slavering daemons of failure demanding their pounds of flesh or to pick through the tyrannical urgency of the present for your missing dignity and potential.
You can play video games when you finish your chores.
Now quit your crying and clean your damn room.
This is how we get ants!
e- 2019
“Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.” ―Winston S. Churchill-
I'm agoraphobic.
Yep, a #uselesseater
For the past 6+ months I've been stubbornly dug into my school bus-abode like a blood-drunk tick. Unwilling to emerge for love nor money.
Just can't people.
And this is not my first barn-dance.
Why should you care, you ask?
Well if I ever run for political office you can say you first read it here... or mayhap I am simply compelled to confess my Truth. I want my foundational 'ness' to be self-evident. I also want to encourage others to come out of the ideological closet as it were. It's lonely in there.
This is a long one.
Get caffeine enabled.
Smoke 'em if ya got 'em.
These days, my Blog and the #Twitterverse are all the social contact the Bitch in my head will allow. (See elder posting re: “the Bitch in My Head” for reference if so desired) Perhaps it seems a feasibly controllable window of access to the relentless and terrifying Meatpuppet-Machine hungrily roiling 24/7 outside my school-bus-shaped-shell.
I'm only a figure-head at the end of the day. The Inspector General of Approved Fun-ctions dictatorially reigns my brain by fascist fiat in direct collusion w/a despotic Council on Domestic Trauma-Mutated Affairs (CDTMA). As they don't usually ask my permission for these regime changes, I am rarely read into project narratives, let alone consulted around what protocols are in active operational status. Hell, I barely have veto power. So, don't get me started.
At 26-ish yrs old, I was seriously teetering, yet still not locked, into the punishing talons of unnameable agoraphobic Dread. That year I lost primary custody of my kids to one of my abusers, lost a good job after I did an excellent 2 month rendition of the trademark Zombie-shuffle (yay anti-psychotics!) in the wake of a mandatory 72 hour hold (long convoluted story, another blog, another day). Unsurprisingly, heavy clouds o'shame began looming over every facet of my life. Seeded in part by a belief I had no fundamental value. Born of repeated trauma, this conclusion, albeit illusory, worked swiftly to invalidate ANY rationale proposing the slightest resurgence. I slept, ate, breathed and therefore withered within a miasm polluted by self loathing. I know too many can readily relate to this.
The Bitch in my head was more fanatically committed than ever to snap derisively at my proverbial ankles. Foiling every attempt to find my feet or achieve even momentary balance. Adding insult to injury, the mantra of recovery dutifully toadied was rendered moot by proxy of my unflagging and repeated failure to fit the configuration schematics of the Meatpuppet Machine Mold. Everything began to seem hopelessly, insurmountably, patently, pointless.
Still the Universe would not allow me to shuffle the mortal coil
and however anemic, impetus found the energy to form.
Slowly, I lifted my head.
In order to regain some MODICUM of tenable purpose, & having historically found a good deal of relief in artistic, musical or literary expression, I started a blog. Narrating observations of my mutilated microcosm in the fashion of an unhinged Xibalban travel agent. The total transparency of the process was founded largely by the idea that deception or 'secreting' truth of who you are, what you have done, how you've failed, what you believe and how you process etc. create avenues of unnecessary shame. (Not the same as Privacy, which is important to maintain competent adulting and whole health)
Shouldering this fashion of 'real' revoked Shame's backstage pass to my brain-battle in large part. An emotional state that seemed all at once trippingly ubiquitous in my every day. Not to mention counter-productive to the ends that I still require constitutional refurbishment.
My blog is a place I can publicly “Unmake” myself and then, in effort to deduce what verse I may yet contribute to the Play, I can begin again to author a more authentic role out of what is left of me. Which could, at least in the abstract, set about unlocking the perfidious puzzle box of solitary grief and confusion. Aggressively foisted on me by Cenobites born of Depression, Anxiety, Trauma and Rage that serve to keep me sequestered from the world. For safety reasons, you understand.
With nothing left to lose these days, most of me self-censoring operation protocols are on hiatus. No longer subject as often to the internal OR external dictates that threaten to Reject, Devalue or Socially Obsolesce my 'ness'. Writing as honestly as I can about where I am in my life, tells the truth and shames the Devil as it were. Sometimes wrong but never in doubt. Chips falling where they might and all that.
I fail miserably at live-action adulting on the regular, as is evidenced by much of my current circumstances. And I still make vain attempts to hide beneath trite platitudes from time to time or self-sabotage by biting off so much more than I can chew. But I find if I write candidly about it, even if only after the fact, it rules less effectively and for shorter periods.
Breaking News: Several witnesses reported sighting an authentic blue-collared Dreadnought Diva late yesterday evening. Local business owner Madge Templeton 36, of the Blue Ox Mobile home community told reporters she first heard the Dreadnought before she actually saw the creature disappear back into the wyld. Individuals are urged not to approach or engage the Diva in her natural habitat or risk potentially incurable contagion. In the event of intellectual contact, please report to the Center for Diseased-Mind Control immediately for decontamination and re-processing.
- this PSA courtesy of Lenny's Reefer and Discount Astronomy Supply-
and we're back!
In this vein of holding to a standard of authenticity sans shame, I find it freakishly difficult not to edit previous posts for content I may later find myself at cross purposes with. I'm frankly embarrassed by some of my fumbling attempts to explicate a Wyrd sentiment or the obvious holes revealed hindsight in my rhapsodic waxing's. But it feels sneaky or even more so, disingenuous to consider editing content after the fact. As if by retroactively trimming the mental fat of my past musings I'm committing a sort of literary gas-lighting. And not in keeping with this ever evolving modality of transparent self-care I'm espousing.
Though it is embarrassing from time to time to contemplate that a multitude of strangers can witness my naked cosmological phylogenesis at will, I still think it's valuable. For if not one splattered fluid, singed hair or shriek of misplaced outrage is omitted, not a single elephantine faux pas or hyperbolic re-invention of cosmic mousetraps lost to obscurity, I will get at least some righteous claim to feeling confident about sharing it.
That's right, it's really all for you dear readers,
should you still be so inclined to continue your dive.
You're welcome
& Thank-you.
Here's your complimentary mop and bucket.
For a limited time and the low low price of 6.95, we will personalize your bucket with the phrase of your choice.
Mine says “Get Back Up Slacker”
You do you, boo.
I do it for the dopamine.
~pauses to smoke~
My drive to understand what makes people do“things” started around age 11 and has evolved staggeringly in 30+ years spelunking the Encephalon and testing universally held principles. (you have the internet, look it up)
I need definitive answers to what truly defines crazy, why I have to wear the meatpuppet suit to be socially acceptable, where & how do the rituals originate and why do I reflexively recoil in abject horror from mucus and all things Wal-mart? Amongst other important treks for big T Truth.
I've been oft labeled as an inductive rather than deductive reasoner. Lemme 'splain;
In deductive reasoning a conclusion is drawn from a set of premises containing no more information than what is contained in the premises taken collectively. Too often the conclusion can be logically true, but the premise cockeyed. This always felt stunted, boring even ideologically puerile to me. Take the current uses of “racist” or "Christian" in both quasi-normative social definition and application as per example.
An inductive reasoner accepts that a posit may contain more information than the observers knowledge & experience upon which it is based can provide. The demonstrable truth of the conclusions verifiable ONLY in terms of future experience with subsequent certainties attainable only if all possible variables have been examined. This makes endlessly more sense to me. I guess it ends up meaning I'm ok with being wrong, as long as the derivative instrument to learn and demonstrate the truth is something I can draw a bead on.
“A thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions--as attempts to find out something. Success and failure are for him answers above all.” -Friedrich Nietzsche-
Failure is not a signal to pack up and piss off to less complicated environs. By sticking out this festival of fleshly frailty I can at least say I 'got skin in the game' rather than just warming an ideological bench *cough cough* pew *cough*. Perhaps some core indicators of why the social edict to suitably orient oneself within the current popular framework of normativity has always been maddeningly discomfited for me.
As I develop my cosmology, a comically cartoonish flowchart clicks open in my minds eye with cells of potential multiplying exponentially the longer I linger. Snippets of orthogonal thought with untested possible permutations spring to the fill the latent spaces. Sometimes in as infinitesimal a space as the ones found between one paragraph & the next. It's an exhausting but exciting challenge. And sometimes I throw up. Hence the bucket.
I find that in my rather bewildering near 43yrs planet-side I've never undertaken a thought-trek to its extremity. I don't even know if that is possible for anyone while still wearing this meatsuit.
Along the journey to untangle myself I have discovered intellectual overlooks of dizzying height & experienced crucial intersections of fundamental faith. It's true I have arrested motion entirely to obsess over esoteric patterns that may or may not exist in the pave-stones beneath my feet. (damn you reefer!) but I have also discovered once well established Rubicons of cosmological reflection demoted from concrete median to flimsy bullet-hole riddled mile-markers. An important distinction in the struggle to map my sojourn, blog-type fashion, on this ever unfolding journey. One whose sole purpose, is the intent upon someday touching the mind of God.
Yeah, I know.
No pressure, right?
~pauses to smoke~
These days, with terms being arbitrarily redefined, sometimes drastically, due to tectonic shifts in entire substrates of cultural, social and political engagement, you gotta be able to surf the interweb word-waves with confidence or be ready to eat your own teeth a la sea bed. The waves don't stop, so when you blunder, you can lose a great deal of hide in the inexorable tumble to find which way is up. And that's just to start swimming again.
“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.” ―Maya Angelou-
Explaining what I see and hear, how it feels and where my head gets stuck reveals more to me than I can achieve just banging around inside my own brain all day. I spose it's true that the act of teaching a thing helps you process it more effectively.
Part of my core ideology at this juncture may be contained, however sloppily, in this; When identity, awareness and subjective wisdom cease to further refine over time, you court the True Death. This can be characterized also as a sticky slough of ideological despondence that WILL suck you into a socially engineered hamster wheel of planned intellectual obsolescence. A foul and rife current sociopolitical trope leaving only enough brain function for your meat-suit to ape the 'acceptable' mechanics of live participation. Forever doomed to parroting other people's doctrines of Truth. Waste-paper mu-mu's falsely advertised as one size fits all. Any aspect left nekkid, identified as indication of personally bankrupt social currency.
I favor a 'sling-shot propulsion' method of breakthrough.
I think the latter demonstrates moxy.
I find the former to be personally lazy at best and socially irresponsible at worst.
-station-break for cocoa and the loo- smoke 'em if ya got 'em-
Admitting one's “crazy” is dizzing-ly shuddersome at first glance. But I believe everybody has varying quantities o'crazy in their bucket that contextually fluctuates over time. So, to my mind, there's no shame, only freedom found in its revelation.
Mental illness in it's fully manifest glory along with its accompanying panoply of bullshit ain't no easily transmuted byplay. To be honest, Crazy is inclined to steal the show. Demanding center stage while simultaneously trying to burn that motherfucker down. Instead of unpacking the dreaded shipping container of “oh dear god” we all drag from place to place, most plug the levy w/their thumb and pray. Waiting for someone to rescue them from the infirmity of their flawed flesh or for death to take them. Whichever comes first.
Rather than beginning to perform the excruciating necessity of personal inventory, many reach for drugs that come too easy in order to fog the banks of the struggle-scape. They can soften edges, quiet voices, order the disorderly... but they don't actually solve much when used for the long haul. Nothing can take the place of building tailor-made coping methods, engaging in behavior therapies, peer-work and various alternatives. Most of the drugs just delay the process of gaining clarity, let alone getting a handle on your shit. Of course, if you are at a crisis point, use them, use whatever you have to. Even self-imposed seclusion to a bus in the woods that reeks of the Devil's Lettuce... But use it as a tool, not a permanent solution. Though your friendly neighborhood Medicaid billable drug dealers will vehemently disagree, there are no “I win” pills. They will however, be delighted to occupy slot #1 on your speed dial for as long as you'll let them beta test their synthetic snake oils on you. One must subjugate personal experience and desires to their 'last word' however. Allowing cart blanche access for arbitrary adjustment to the levels of what can amount to chemical mental castration. Beware the hands that write the scrip, they rule the world.
Of course there's always that weird guy named Lenny with the false leg who lives 20 miles out of town, off-grid, secured by 27 go-pro-enabled trees, painfully mixing metaphors while laughing at his own jokes, smelling like 12 cats he does not own and sporting whats left of only three adult teeth. Don't worry, he's got great shit. And as I understand it, he does all his own human trials for quality assurance. Word is he used to be a real-world chemist till some Big Pharma equivalent of Voldemort stole his patent for cheap anti-viral drugs, forcing him out of his own company... Just don't bring it up. Nothing is more scarring than to see an ivy league educated old man of 32 weep into a handkerchief of questionable provenance and cleanliness while clutching his Eucharistic cottage cheese container of beer and captain crunch. Facial tics and elbow sores notwithstanding, I find Lenny infinitely more trustworthy at the end of the day. Ask him about the Aliens though. Seriously. Do it. Don't be scared... wuss
~giggles while lighting the 29th cigarette since the beginning of this interminable gdamn blog posting 4 days ago~
To sum up:
Hand-crafting a radically honest path to a philosophy of Me has fostered will to thrive in the face of this adversity rather than just barely managing to survive it. It's a bitch of a task, but I believe it could be the only demonstrable modus perfecta. The conflict and the marks that can accrue while learning effective management of a struggle-scape are not dreadful things. They insist we were there and tag the progress points in our evolution. Every scar is a line drawn in the sand. A challenge that was met and overcame simply by still being alive to tell the story of how it got there.
No, it's not easy to be authentic, nor is it necessarily “safe”to be transparent and expose the core of what makes you tick. Yes. Its slow, sweaty and disastrously dodgy work to dig through your past in order to identify the roots of your boggle and kill it dead. You'll probably need help. That's OK too. And no, it's not amusing to confront the slavering daemons of failure demanding their pounds of flesh or to pick through the tyrannical urgency of the present for your missing dignity and potential.
You can play video games when you finish your chores.
Now quit your crying and clean your damn room.
This is how we get ants!
e- 2019
“Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.” ―Winston S. Churchill-
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