judeoneill (judeoneill) wrote,

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define malaise...

I was looking through my old myspace blogs...

" Wednesday, August 02, 2006

A solution?
Current mood: depressed
Ever try juggling knives? It's one of those things you gotta work your way up on.

I feel the need to write, to attempt to hold on to my sanity. I feel like, if I put what I feel in words, it'll get off my fuckin back. I feel like my inability to hold on to any relationships below the most important ones to me really is straining my whole... being in general. It's affecting everything. I can't even sleep anymore. I can't let myself sleep because the guilt is never tired. I can't even hold a civil conversation with a lot of people anymore. I don't perceive my actions as reckless; I don't even know what I'm doing, but I must be doing something because it seems I'm hurting everyone.

Define malaise.

I don't feel I can trust my own perspective on anything. So many people tell me I'm wrong, so who am I to disagree? I just need some time, some space from a lot of people. I need to think about who I am. I don't want any outside influences. I don't want you telling me who to be, I don't fucking need that. I don't need you telling me my obligations, I can handle myself just fine. I don't need you telling me how I feel. I don't need you telling me what I feel is not what I feel.

Still, nothing would ease my mind better than for you to be happy with who I am. I want you to accept my decisions, but that's not going to happen. I want you to hold your judgement on a situation before you know the truth. Assumptions only hurt everything.

I'm in this convoluted mess by my own decisions, but I wouldn't take them back. I'm me. I've tried so hard to be everything else, to please you, but me is all that's left when the facade peels away. I'm just sad you don't like it."

These were the days when I felt as if I had to summarize my perspective every once in a while. I always posted these back then with everyone else under the lens of my analytical microscope, but now I realize that such a large population can never really be properly interpreted through such a tight focus.

I should have turned it back on myself. I guess it really was on me the whole time, it's just that I misinterpreted the signs. I was too arrogant to see that everything I accused "society" of was just a reflection of my own insecurities.

I was too immature to realize that others points of view actually had the possibility of validity, even when they didn't line up with my own. I had, and do have a problem. My brain may not be chemically functional in comparison to a majority of the population, and that dysfunction may preclude me from sucess in our society as it is established. The old me would have blamed myself for that. The older me, the one we see here, from two and a half years ago, would have blamed society for not catering to my needs.

Now I realize the immaturity and illogicality in the assumption that everyone must bend to cater to the needs of the unfortunate. Rather, the unfortunate must follow steps and guidelines established for them by which to gain a footing in our economy and social structure. For me that may mean pills and talking to somebody for an hour every once and a while who does nothing but tell me that this feeling will pass.

That's what he said for two and a half years though. Can you really trust such a statement for so long without questioning the sanity of the statement itself?

My mom told me once about a period when I was in kindergarten or something when I was always sad. "I just can't be happy," I used to tell her.

For somewhat related but unmentionable reasons, (suffice it to say it was a traumatic experience way beyond my maturity level) I don't remember much of my childhood. I don't remember much of when we lived in Mayfair. I blocked something out of my memory, and it took so much other shit with it. The things I do remember though leave me with a weird feeling; it's relatively unheard of for me.

I don't remember many events, but I do recall a feeling of complete and utter contentment.

Nietzsche wrote:
"What is good?--Whatever augments the feeling of power, the will to
power, power itself, in man.

What is evil?--Whatever springs from weakness.

What is happiness?--The feeling that power _increases_--that resistance
is overcome.

Not contentment, but more power; _not_ peace at any price, but war;
_not_ virtue, but efficiency (virtue in the Renaissance sense, _virtu_,
virtue free of moral acid).

The weak and the botched shall perish: first principle of _our_ charity.
And one should help them to it."

Back when I read The Antichrist, I found these words to be a harsh wake-up call, and I attempted to live by them. Now when I read them, with at least some background in rhetorical strategy, I see them to be no more than an unjustified redefinition of terms. There is no logical footing for Nietzsche's subsequent argument, but suspending disbelief in it's beginning phrases lends his words some credence. It's really a big leap of faith to accept this postulate as fact, the same kind of metaphysical leap of faith that he so passionately rails against in his assesment of organized religion.

Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I've finally found it within me to disagree. I was happy at some point in my life. Truly and utterly content. Now all I want is to have that back. I didn't have to take pills in order to adjust my brain chemistry to make it suitable for everyday life. Everyday life was a joy.

Now I don't claim that a life of childhood bliss is a legitimate or achievable way to live, I'm only saying that I wish all the time that I could remember it better. That I could relate the me that I am now with the me that lived then. I feel like that me died the day that I've repressed.

(I think it's funny that my almost three years of psychotherapy only have, along with giving me some coping mechanisms to impermanently dispell certain fears stemming from my neuroses, uncovered the memories that my subconscious had tried so hard to protect me from. I've been enlightened by as to what my feelings of unbelonging have stemmed from, but I still can't remember much else from that period of my life)

In many ways I'm more fortunate when I was then. I didn't live in a great neighborhood and my parents didn't have the money that they have now. Money definitely does not equal happiness, but I'm not so insecure as to deny that it furnishes opportunity. I won't deny that the suburbs provide a mostly welcome respite from a decaying urban world, but outer affluence can never compare in my mind to spiritual fulfillment.

I didn't know the kind of love I share now with the love of my life, and I would never change a thing I've ever done leading up to this September because of that. Every moment of my life has made me who I am. Every second, every decision led me to that bench outside the dorms that night. Every drag of every cigarette, every hit of the bowl, every drop from the keg that night made me the person I was at that second when she looked at me and laughed at the sloppy mess I was. And I loved that smile from that moment.

So I guess I'm stuck at a crossroads with only one real path to take. I can continue denying the facts that I wish were lies, and stay standing here; or I can acknowledge the truth in the shitty reality, and live my life accordingly.

I see that sharing my existence, thoughts, and feelings are the only real way to find help. No one can travel this road alone. I've found a trailmate, and right now we're building a carriage to carry us the rest of the way.

The only problem is acquiring the horses to pull us. What secret combination of values and ideals will give us an impetus by which to travel?

Life has shown me that there aren't really any easy answers. No get rich quick schemes pay out; there's no panacea for the problems and thoughts that plague me every day. I've fallen for so many pyramid schemes in my life: any number of drugs, religions, or philosophical schools which promise to heal me of this doubt and longing, but I see now that they're all just opiates, not just the morphine, opioids, and religions; but every string of concepts that we may choose to guide our lives.

This just leaves me more lost than before.

(I can't draw my thoughts to a close or conclusion... could be the DXM, but I'm not sure)

If there's no answer, then why try at all? To assemble a life with the semblance of perfection; some combination of ideas that could lead us closer to appearing to having achieved the unachievable?

Or should we just live according to our wills alone, and hope that in separation from the flock we discover the path on our own?

I prefer the latter, I just don't quite know how to put this plan into motion.

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