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An apology, and why one is necessary. - The Second Greatest Failure of Omnipotence
2009-01-23 06:34 am
An apology, and why one is necessary.

Cowardice became me.

It was slow, at first. Days spent constantly trying to wake up, and feeling instead a deep, vague personal revilement, became months and then years. Despite this, there was always the dull throbbing, a heartbeat miles below the cold fog of my psyche, that kept me pressing onward. I have always been a vagabond in life, in spirit if not in reality, but that ember had always scored hope and purpose into otherwise aimless drifting. I kept my job. I paid off the debts I owed. I became stable. Responsible, even. I persisted. But I never stopped drifting.

In October 2008, I injured my shoulder. Bicep tendonitis, the doctor said. Because it wasn't a workplace injury and was of nebulous origin, I was incapable of receiving workman's comp. I sat out for a month. In spite of the financial hardship, I felt a deep sense of relief.

For months, my personality had slowly begun changing. I have only been particularly talkative during extreme cases of mania or drunkenness; however, where before I was content to listen and speak carefully, meeting eyes clearly, I became completely silent and took to staring deadly into empty space. Coworkers who were once people with whom I could crack a lewd joke became people to be avoided. Occasional post-work social drinking with people I began to think of as friends became hasty retreats back to my apartment, where I would drink vodka alone and stare at blank sheets of paper--pens and markers, with caps still on, were arranged with exacting order that blared frantic disuse any time my eyes would twitch towards them--until I was drunk enough to pass out. I'd wake up, and repeat it again the next day.

Waking became anathema to me. Upon waking came the realization that, as the day before, that familiar dread still stalked the murky bog my mind had become. I took sleeping pills and melatonin supplements--never with the vodka, though--just to stave off the inexorability of consciousness. With waking came a permanent, permeating anxiety that people who knew me might look closely and see my lifeless eyes. I became all too aware of my heart crashing into my ribcage as one would a timer steadily approaching zero, and with it the panic that it would stop and my life would truly be wasted. Even still, I did nothing.

Hence, it was no small relief that I could retreat from life for a bit, with my injury, and just sit free of responsibility doing absolutely nothing. That first month of doing nothing came and went as I sat around atrophying my muscles and waiting for hope, but the deep, sluggish terror remained. As November died, my sister paid December's rent for me, but still I did nothing. On December 10th, I finally received the doctor's note I needed to return to work. I handed the note into management during the day, went home, and slept. I slept through the night I was supposed to work, woke up, took more sleeping pills, and went back to sleep. Upon waking was the anxiety, that icy, vague fear, that I refused to face.

I never returned to work. I was fired. I didn't care. I ran out of money buying alcohol, as I'd sit at home stewing, and staring blankly at a computer screen and trying to forget life. I had already decided. I was just going to wait.

On December 16th, I posted here. I truly had no intention of updating this journal again. I began depersonalizing my sister's emails about that time, also. "Just email me back so I can make sure you're still okay," she'd write. I'd respond with flippant, monosyllabic blurbs. I waited. My father and mother both sent me $50 for Christmas. I stored it away, except to purchase alcohol and smokes.

On December 31st, I woke up at about nine in the morning. I went to the store and bought an 18-pack of cheap beer. At 10:00 AM on December 31st, I started drinking. At 8:30 PM, I ran out of beer, so I went and bought another 12-pack. I drank all of them from between 9:00 PM and midnight. At 12:08 AM, as people were celebrating New Years, I topped off the alcohol with about 30 sleeping pills. I sought death the same way I lived, as a coward. I was petrified of living, but even more horrified at approaching my end head on, so I tried to put myself to sleep before I died. I figured all the alcohol and 900+ mg of sleeping pills would do the trick. After tossing two palms of pills down my throat as casually as one waves to an old friend, I went to bed and waited for sleep.

I was wrong.

I tried to pass out, but despite all the sleeping pills severe chest pain kept me awake and aware. Tachycardia does not make for restful pre-suicide sleep, in case you're curious. I lay in bed for the first six hours waiting for my heart to stop. God knows it was certainly trying to. It would pump with exacerbating strength, seeming to build to a precipitous crescendo, only to stop and suspend me over an abyss that even now fills me with terror. It would pick up again, with lurching weakness after about five seconds of motionlessness, and in fitful arrhythmia when it did. Every time it stopped, the black would press at me in oppressive, silent waves and I could feel my mind creeping inwards. There were times I'd black out completely, only to jerk awake an indeterminate amount of time later and realize I hadn't been breathing.

The breathing was the worst. Ragged, shallow, halting, like the air in my room was trying to drown me. The back of my throat tightened as my lungs trembled uncontrollably with each gasp, all while my mind was screeching at me to just close my eyes and go to sleep.

I started to hallucinate. It was the obligatory "bad acid trip" hallucination you read about in countless books and see in "cautionary tale" movies, where my walls and ceiling started spawning thousands of spiders. I'd occasionally see a black widow on my shoulder skittering around my neck, and others in the corners of my room eating the other spiders, which were long, spindly, small, and yellow. At one point I imagined a lit cigarette into my hand; it was no small irony I was petrified that I'd pass out and drop it, setting my apartment on fire.

It passed.

I slept off and on the following day, forcibly getting up--my limbs weighed thousands of pounds--to drink water and piss before going back to sleep for another few hours. Psychologically, I didn't feel any better. There was no catharsis, no flash of bright light restoring my will to live, nor my laughter. The spark inside me that I never noticed dying months previously was not miraculously restored. I never thought about trying again, I just accepted that if thirty beers and half a bottle of diphenhydramine didn't kill me then I just had to live. At about 1:00 AM on Jan 2nd, I started suffering chest pain again, and my upper body felt like it was on fire while my legs felt like ice. It was only then that the dull, cancerous paranoia evaporated; it had remained with me even after I 'survived'. In its place was fear. A coward dreads, but a person fears, and I'd had enough of cowering. I called an ambulance.

In the emergency room, hooked to IVs and connected to an EKG that remained normal in spite of the aching pain that remained over my heart, I became tired. I don't know how long I sat propped on that lumpy, uncomfortable bed, but at some point or another my eyes closed, and I think I dozed off. When they opened again, I knew I was alive, and more importantly, I wanted to be alive, craved it. I don't know why it happened then, it just did.

I spent the next four days in the hospital's detox/behavioral health center.

Blood tests came back perfect. Despite the amount of antihistamines, my immune system and my thyroid never skipped a beat. I had muscle spasms, confusion, and very minor amnesia for the first couple of days, but those wore off. In spite of heavy drinking for nearly two months straight--it was either a whole bottle of vodka or a twelve pack of beer a day--my liver tests came back as near-perfect too, only suffering from a bit of malnutrition; one of the first things that go when you enter a severely depressed state is your appetite, so I hadn't been eating much. Truthfully, the only casualty from the last two months of my downward spiral has been my muscular fitness. 3 months ago I hovered between 170-175 lbs, very little of it body fat. One week ago, I weighed 156.

For all intents and purposes, the person who wanted to die on that night may as well have succeeded, because since then I've felt better, psychologically, than I have in close to two years. I almost feel like my old self again, which is a good thing. The world, rather than seeming crushingly oppressive with all of its anxiety-ridden choices, now seems light with opportunity. I still regret that I will die long before I've seen everything this world has to offer, but rather than giving up and deciding that nothing is worth it I am content to live what life I have left and enjoy it for what it's worth. It's sad that I had to nearly die to understand something so simple, but at the same time I stood at the edge of death and felt true Emptiness for the first time. I don't think I will ever confuse my depressed states as "insurmountable" after encountering, in just an infinitesimal dose, the black void I saw right at the edge of my own mortality.

What I did was a mistake, and an infinitely stupid mistake at that, but I can't go through life beating myself up anymore over the things in the past that I no longer have control over. I took my near-death in stride the very first day after escaping it.

You all, however, have some claim on my life, great or small. So, I apologize. I'm sorry.

* * *


A little over a year ago, a sad fool once wrote, "When you die, everything becomes the purest white, as the sins of Consciousness and Knowledge are swept clean from your mind and you are granted the same reprieve of quiet innocence that all beings have at birth." However, I have known death intimately. Dying drags your consciousness, knowledge, and sin with you towards the Abyss. Everything important, every moment, idea, and thought of value, every person you love is left behind. Dying is the vanguard of loneliness, the vorpal edge that sunders you from every last experience and person you hold dear before dragging your corpse into the Unknown. Everyone faces their death alone. This is the only revelation to be had when dying: life is the only seed of happiness, of relief, that exists, and only a great fool would discard their own salvation.

I'm still afraid and somehow equally...joyous, but I'll be damned if I remain a coward any more.

That said, forgive me for some Ye Olde Time phoenix_blade nostalgia: I know this post is long, but fuck you and your LJ-cut. You can take my mile-fuckin'-long post on your friend page, and like it.

I also reserve the right to interpret stunned silences and/or scorn as mutual consent to my otherwise untoward sexual advances. You've been warned.

Current Music: "Zarathustra" - London Philharmonic (Comp. Yasunori Mitsuda)

43CommentReplyShare

ultra_lilac
ultra_lilac
The Mother Of The Dog Messiah
2009-01-23 02:16 pm (UTC)

Shit, I'm glad you're still with us.

The drink is a bitch.
I won't talk about it here but email em if you want to commiserate.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-23 02:24 pm (UTC)

Eh, drinking had nothing to do with it. I got drunk because I had already made up my mind and needed a distraction. My sister chugs screwdrivers every night, and I don't feel the slightest desire to touch the shit for a very long time.

Editor's Note: "Long time" = 1 day ~ x years, to be decided at a later date.

Also, no need to commiserate. I think I freaked out a couple shrinks with my bubbly optimism. Well, not "bubbly". I'm way too fucking cool for that pussy bullshit, obviously. (It doesn't go well with wearing my sister's pants and combing greasy hair over half of my face while writing poetry with my own wrist-blood, anyway.)

Maybe it was more my joking that I had ten box-cutters littered throughout my house and I used sleeping pills that threw them off. I always did have a macabre sense of humor.


ReplyThread Parent

phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-23 03:10 pm (UTC)

Few things are rarely as pointless as we make them out to be, and profundity is grossly overrated. Right now, I could take a haymaker to the face from a transvestite octopus dick-punch and I'd just pop a shit-eating grin and laugh. Why? Because, Draggie. Transvestite octopus dick-punches are goddamn hilarious, that's why.

I'm not trying to sell your seriousness short, it's just that I'm not after condolences; this post is just to get this shit off my chest, and to apologize, but I really am doing fine.

Your concern is duly appreciated. I'd put that ♥ symbol-thing here but I forgot how to make them, and also because it's really, truly corny. Not as corny as some things, but way beyond the boundaries of my weird good spirits anyway.

Also, ♥.


ReplyThread Parent
phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-23 03:15 pm (UTC)

Also, I said "few things are rarely as pointless". This is a hilariously stupid typo. Brain's a bit rusty from writing nothing but snarky forum responses for the last year, it seems.


ReplyThread Parent

phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-23 04:04 pm (UTC)

That I was unable to come up with a sarcastic response even in spite of "anal" being in your reply is evidence enough of the torpor I get to dust out of my brain. Is it still too soon for "physical trauma not effecting colonic function" jokes?

(Just to assuage any further fears and give you an idea of how adjusted I am to this, my sister threatens me with a bottle of Benadryl any time I bitch about doing dishes. I love that ho'.)


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-23 04:06 pm (UTC)

"Affecting", pussy.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-23 04:06 pm (UTC)

Shut the fuck up, you did the 'talking to yourself in responses' thing years ago.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-23 04:04 pm (UTC)

Hiya.


ReplyThread Parent

phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 01:06 am (UTC)

Not at all. Things are still going. How have you been?


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 02:11 am (UTC)

Me, too. Great remark is more often than not a product of perception rather than something objectively tangible, though, so I wouldn't beat yourself up over it.

Do you still sing?


ReplyThread Parent
mengus
mengus
That Rustbelt Ruffian
2009-01-23 08:10 pm (UTC)

Life and circumstances will smash you down a thousand times over, but you get to choose the manner in which you will face the relentless force of entropy. I'd guess it probably feels pretty good be out of that pit.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 12:57 am (UTC)

The pit's still there--always is, no matter who you are, methinks. The difference is, now I'm just content to dash up some cheap wallpaper on its dank walls and light a damn candle rather than sitting around in the dark.

I always was too mopey for my own good, anyway, and if there's one thing I've discovered from the Learning Channel it's that interior design fixes everything.

(Livejournal has taught me that really bad metaphors fix things, too.)


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 09:22 am (UTC)

Speaking of 'the pits', donttouchmyhat why?


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mengus
mengus
That Rustbelt Ruffian
2009-01-26 05:23 am (UTC)

Dude got himself in a jackpot with internet girls.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-26 05:38 pm (UTC)

Hopefully not of the illegal sort.


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mengus
mengus
That Rustbelt Ruffian
2009-01-26 07:37 pm (UTC)

No, not like that, man. Rather, the kind that upsets a happy home...


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ministry_victim
ministry_victim
Eric Arthur Blair Jr.
2009-01-23 08:54 pm (UTC)

Yeah, I've got nothing particularly profound to say, so I'll cut the shit.
It's good to see you got through this, and I'm glad you shared it.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 12:58 am (UTC)

It's good to write something again.


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angriest_girl
angriest_girl
Sunny Piper, Girl Reporter
2009-01-23 10:26 pm (UTC)

Well, consider me silently stunned. Ever since that last weird email you sent me I've been worrying about something like this, but I'm glad you're not dead. That's all I have to say.

xxx


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 12:59 am (UTC)

I was actually planning something a little different for this post until I stumble across that email I sent you. (I was way too drunk to remember ever writing it.)

I immediately thought, "Well, shit," and figured clarification was necessary. Sorry about the scare. And the weird email. I always write the dumbest things when I get drunk.


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angriest_girl
angriest_girl
Sunny Piper, Girl Reporter
2009-01-24 01:19 am (UTC)

'Sokay. :-)


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 07:55 am (UTC)

The strength was always there, I just became too adept at concealing it to excuse my procrastination.


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nobodylkl
nobodylkl
Katt
2009-01-24 04:13 am (UTC)

it's good to have you back...


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 07:55 am (UTC)

I can't say I ever really left.


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hey_oblomov
hey_oblomov
2009-01-24 08:21 am (UTC)

I'm glad you're apologizing and not being a sympathy-seeking bitch like some suicides tend to. I'm glad you're okay. I did essentially the same thing and ended up with a thyroid disorder and liver problems for several years to come, and all for the same conclusion: That was really dumb. Frankly, I am jealous of how well this all worked out for you.

Does this mean we will be seeing more of you on our friend-pages then?


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 09:20 am (UTC)

I picked up one or two stories along the way, but I won't update as frequently as I have in the past. The catalyst for my December 16th post was the content of my old entries. I came back to Livejournal hoping to find some manner of mental revivification, but instead was disgusted by how anemic and forced my posts really were. These days my mind is more fog than fugue, but even if the words came easier to me in the past, I'll not genuflect to an idealized phantom of a past self who could only barely weave plastic wonderment from the monochromatic threads of his drab daily grind.

As for my response, my actions have drawn numerous empathetic family members from their chitinous social shells, and it appears that failed suicide attempts my truly just 'run in the family'. I'm giving serious consideration to performing a Great Act Of Science

[Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<size=1>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.]

I picked up one or two stories along the way, but I won't update as frequently as I have in the past. The catalyst for my December 16th post was the content of my old entries. I came back to Livejournal hoping to find some manner of mental revivification, but instead was disgusted by how anemic and forced my posts really were. These days my mind is more fog than fugue, but even if the words came easier to me in the past, I'll not genuflect to an idealized phantom of a past self who could only barely weave plastic wonderment from the monochromatic threads of his drab daily grind.

As for my response, my actions have drawn numerous empathetic family members from their chitinous social shells, and it appears that failed suicide attempts my truly just 'run in the family'. I'm giving serious consideration to performing a Great Act Of Science<sup><size=1>TM</size></sup> to prove my genetic resistance to a combination of alcohol and antihistamines.

I'm unsure about your exact circumstances, but liver problems sounds like you added pain pills to the cocktail. If that's the case, you yourself have quite the blessing. Most people who go that route end up on dialysis. Unless "several years" was modest dismissal, an underestimation, in which case you have my condolences, jealousy or not. I've grown up with enough suicidal people to know that liver problems or not, being alive is reason enough to keep living.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-24 09:22 am (UTC)

I broke HTML. Shit.


ReplyThread Parent
mortimer_ford
mortimer_ford
Mortimer Ford
2009-01-24 08:50 pm (UTC)

I prefer the term worm safari.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-25 12:54 am (UTC)

In that case, it was less a "worm safari" than a "worm stroll on a paved asphalt path in a grassy, treeless park that lies in the center of an urban area that ended before dinner time".


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-01-26 12:18 pm (UTC)
Party's overrated, all they got is cheap Canadian beer

By the time I quit updating Livejournal, I figured you had long given up on the place. Good to see you're still around.

I've got enough family members who've been there that I should have known better in the first place, but if I ever get stupid again I'll expect a backhand and a "quitcherbitchin'" from you. Thanks. (And tell Dee to quit nosin' around. Damn Aussie woman.)


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(Anonymous)
2009-02-27 10:44 pm (UTC)

As much as you think we are different we are exactly the same.

I've retreated into alcoholism myself to escape everyone's expectations. Apparently I'm supposed to be a successful lawyer by now, with no problems at all in the world.

However I'm an extreme depressive that has tried to take my life on countless occasions. I abuse alcohol and prescription drugs and just want it all to end.

After I read your post I can honestly say that for the first time i feel like at least someone I know feels the same.
Rip me to shreds if you like. Tell me I don't know squat. But thanks


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-03-06 11:45 pm (UTC)

Hi, you. I promise I won't rip you to shreds, and we both don't know squat.


ReplyThread Parent
phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-03-06 11:08 pm (UTC)

Success is an ugly siren. We're imprinted from a young age with the lie that to be successful is to be happy, but it is never explained exactly how much affluence or power you have to accrue to receive your reprieve.

Honestly? Fuck other people's expectations. Schoolchildren are taught trite adages deploring egoism. Selfishness is only harmful when manifested to the point of egregiousness, but we're never taught how disastrous its absence can be. Depressives like you and I can never seem to find the right balance so we span the entire spectrum, letting external presuppositions drive our soul into the earth before, in a last ditch effort to preserve our own ego, making the decision to end our own lives, an act of selfishness that exceeds all moderation.

The only thing that's apparent is that problems never stop cropping up. To have no problems is to achieve perfection, and no matter how hard we try that is simply beyond human grasp. (Until we become Gods. I'm still crossin' my fingers for that...)

I can spout hope all I want, or hop up on my pulpit and rip people to shreds, but then I get to go back to a reality where I still suffer panic attacks to the point where I force my sister to drive me to the ER because I'm convinced I'm dying of a heart attack, or cancer, or whatever flavor of the month ailment my brain has convinced me will kill me. I owe more money than I've made in a year in medical bills and my old apartment. Shit ain't perfect, but I don't care. I'll endure, and maybe now and then grit my teeth and tell myself a lie about how boring life would be if everything were hunky-fucking-dory, not because I've suddenly become able to cope with all this shit, but because I know that problems pale in comparison to the brief flashes of joy and hope I get even in my darkest states. Sometimes I have to wait awhile, a long while, but eventually my hope is always appeased.

I don't know really where I'm getting at with all this. Maybe it's just a simple, "Just keep holding on, because if a fuck-up like me can make it, so can anyone." Maybe I'm lashing out with words because a part of me fears I'm still lying down in that bed, dying, and this is all some existential illusion a la Jacob's Ladder. Maybe I'm just as full of shit as I've always been.

I don't know and I don't care, because we're both alive and that's all that really matters.


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cerabellum
cerabellum
Sara
2009-03-06 02:19 pm (UTC)

I randomly happened on this journal entry. Odd, considering that I haven't felt like myself since the birth of my son in October 2005. Today also happens to be my "reach out" day... the day I am asking for help, admitting that I can't do this alone, asking someone to please draw me a map. I can see where I want to go, but I am not really sure how to get there.

Thank you for this, even though I am no one to you. I needed to be reminded that it's possible to get the "old you" back.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-03-06 11:31 pm (UTC)

Sometimes we can get our old selves back and sometimes we can't, no matter how many worlds we move to do it. I'm learning that the latter is most probably true for me, and accepting that is hard but necessary. What drove me to depression was that I simply couldn't "get myself back". Now I question why I even need that, when in reality it's just been a cheap substitute for contentment.

Even if you can't go back to the old you, nothing says you can't find something better and happier. Life can be sometimes idyllic, and other times it will crush you, but regardless it's always better on you when you're in good company.

Find yourself a psychologist. We can make a thousand excuses to avoid it, but nine times out of ten we're not as weak and powerless as we make ourselves out to be, we just have a few errant brain chemicals. Bad luck of the draw, but it happens, and you shouldn't have to deal with postpartum depression alone.


ReplyThread Parent
oralaki
oralaki
Oralaki
2009-05-03 04:45 am (UTC)

Hallo!

Glad to hear that the phoenix blood in ya didn't let the blues get you down.

I really should just give this LJ thing up.


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-05-16 07:00 pm (UTC)

Holy carp, you're alive.

BRB, sacrificing a virgin or three to my fish-gods in reverence.


ReplyThread Parent
write_yourself
write_yourself
write_yourself
2009-05-31 04:05 pm (UTC)
...

I've always found reading your journal to be entertaining and I can relate to being an unappreciated genius with a somewhat "unusual" way of existing... and the frustration of it all; knowing how I have felt on a daily basis, for most of my life, I don't think I would recommend intelligence to anyone, despite how much better the world might be if a few people bothered to fucking think before taking action.

My psychiatrist says that someday when I'm older, with a more credible dossier, people will be more willing to listen... Only this requires me to actually get up off my ass and live up to a potential that I'm only sure I have 50 percent of the time.

Maybe if I do get that more "credible dossier," then I will change my mind about intelligence being more of a curse than a gift... Already (with professional help) I'm beginning to think that maybe it is a gift, and it's just my brain chemicals that are the curse...

Anyway. The reason I'm commenting is because I wanted to say that reading this entry, after checking back on your journal randomly in boredom, made me feel happy to be alive. If someone said that something I wrote made them feel that way, I would be glad, so I hope you are too, even though I'm just some random internet fuck.

Blah. I feel like a douche...


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phoenix_blade
phoenix_blade
Of the ill-washed winds, light burns.
2009-06-07 01:02 pm (UTC)
Re: ...

Don't beat yourself up. The gargantuan dimensions of my own egoistic douchebag makes me all but impervious to even the most vitriolic criticism, and vastly overshadows far greater affronts than the words of "random internet fucks". Besides, everyone's presence here is an obsequious husk of their real-life counterpart, so you needn't further deprecate your existence below the muddled silhouettes of others' digital anonymity. It just comes with the territory (unfortunately).

Regardless of your own perceived stature here, thanks. While even I'm not arrogant enough to think I can inspire others, I know people will take whatever foothold they can get in their climb out of the mind's own Hell, and if I can provide a leg up through coldly impersonal electronic signals, then I've at least succeeded at one task even though others may slip through my fingers.

Intelligence is a gift; however, it fosters lethargy at a young age, because you simply don't even have to try to be competent. The only difficulty intellect brings is this sloth, but with time and by accustoming your mind to effort, it's a block that can eventually be shattered. No one lives up to their potential 100% of the time, and I think if everyone did it would foment a despair far greater than achieving only meager victories; I have that Paine quote on my profile page because I believe it to be one of life's truest precepts.

Learn to enjoy yourself, and whether or not people "listen" to you becomes irrelevant. Also, try not to be as mind-numbingly preachy as I am. It's annoying as Hell.

Just out of curiosity, how'd you come across my journal?


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write_yourself
write_yourself
write_yourself
2009-06-12 12:46 pm (UTC)
Re: ...

My problem is not so much sloth, as forcing myself to the breaking point, until I haven't left the house for days because I am too busy forcing myself to learn shit like "game theory" and "latin" on my own. (I have little formal education, but taught myself 2 languages and am working on my 3rd. I also study science and philosophy on my own). Eventually, I inevitably snap out of "auto-didactic genius mode" thanks to my brain sending an influx of endorphins, causing an anxiety attack, and then I spend the next few days shaking and crying. That causes the sloth, because I'm too scared and shaky to do anything else, so THEN the self loathing kicks in. Lovely, isn't it?

Then when I do try to use my intelligence, I get kicked in the face for it. Every time. It's annoying as shit.

Yes, I caught the preachy tone, but I will ignore it, because I think in real life you wouldn't be one of the people annoying the hell out of me.

I came across your journal when I used to lurk in "brutal honesty" (I was like 16 then) and some dumb post you did trolling them amused me. That was years ago. I checked back now, because I remember you worked at Walmart, and after fucking up my life for the sake of masochistic kleos, I went to apply for a job there. Walmart can now say they have had, not one, but two would-be geniuses and great thinkers working for them at some point. However, given their clientele, I don't think putting that in their advertisements would draw any extra consumers.




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write_yourself
write_yourself
write_yourself
2009-06-12 12:49 pm (UTC)
Re: ...

To be clear: I didn't apply at walmart specifically because you did. I applied to Walmart because it's close to my house and my mom said, "GET A GODDAMN JOB IF YOU DON'T WANT TO GO TO COLLEGE!!!!!" Then I remembered you worked there too.

Only I do want to go to college. The fuckers there just make it very, very difficult to do so. Assholes. I swear.


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