Untitled II

Psychiatrist is upping my primary antidepressant dosage. Hopefully it won't affect my sleep cycle like it did when I started. Doesn't think it will.

I figure it'll take a few weeks to feel much difference - if there is any. It's not like the previous three I've tried have made me "better." That's when I'll be seeing my girlfriend next - she's visiting one more time toward the end of October. After that, I figure I should take my life if I still haven't found things different.

In the meantime, I still have to keep trying to improve. The math doesn't work if I don't really take reasonable measures to make life worth living. So that's keeping up with my medication, keeping busy, getting exercise, doing bullshit therapy, "mindfulness," keeping up with the bullshit workbook, "desensitization therapy" (also known as "get off your fucking ass and face your anxiety, pussy, and it will get better." But "desensitization therapy" is what my psychiatrist says, because he's getting paid to do so, and if he starts using phrases like "fucking ass" most patients would stop paying him. But I know what he really means. Pigfucker.)

Tomorrow should be the last truly hot day of the year. The air in the house is cool right now, so it won't be a big deal, but I'll be happy when cool weather comes to stay.

I read The Stranger by Albert Camus. I found it really interesting, but if I didn't find the philosophical/psychological aspects of the book resonant, I probably would've thought it was inane, boring bullshit. It's a quick read, go for it. If you read this swill you'd find The Stranger worth your time.

Not like anyone reads this swill. I started it as a-private-journal-meets-a-private-joke. (Yes, my use of hyphenation has gotten out of hand from reading Nietszche. Sometimes there's just no good way to translate those German gestalt-words.)

The irony of publishing private words for anyone in the world to access at no cost - with zero people actually doing so - is not lost on me. It makes me laugh.

But it doesn't stop me from checking the blog statistics before each post.


Monday the 30th of September, 2019

Pain: 60
Struggle: 40
Success: 20

Again

I had a panic attack yesterday.
Again.
I think.
Probably not a full one, not like my other two. There was a physical collapse, an inability to stand, a reduction to sobbing, but I regained control of my breathing much more quickly. No additional shaking or weariness today. (I mean, on top of my chronic weariness and hand-tremor. For what that's worth.)

It occurred in the wake of a disruptive set of young guests of my parents arriving unexpectedly. I found myself trapped in the downstairs den, unable to reach food or the bathroom without exposing myself to (gasp!) social realities. It seems ludicrous in hindsight, even to me, but my fear and desperation at the time was real. I managed to avoid self-harm yet again, despite extended contemplation and search for means.

I think about joining a monastery, haha. Alas, I cannot any longer claim Christian faith. Maybe I should research any secular/open alternatives...

Today's tune brought to you by Bell Witch. A bit outside my normal smorgasbord, but once I understood what was going on in Mirror Reaper, I was blown away. Yeah, it's slow and weird, but if you stick with it and let the music carry you, it will bring you to heights of despair and glimmers of hope by the end. (I realize "heights of despair" may not be what a lot of people want out of music, haha, but to me such a journey is special.)


Sunday the 29th of September, 2019

Pain: 15
Struggle: 10
Success: 55

The Math

I cleared more brush from the back of my parents' house today. I sweated a fair bit despite the pedestrian work, I think a few mosquitoes got me, and I may have been sunburnt despite the late season. Tomorrow I will wake up with a sore back, too. Twenty-five doesn't seem like old age, but it's starting to feel like it.

Look at me, a litany of complaints.

I moved back in with my parents because, while living in Pittsburgh with my girlfriend, I wasn't getting mental help. There always seemed to be a reason not to, and I was frankly afraid. But, things came to a head, and I convinced myself that I needed to try it before ending my life. If I try it and it doesn't work, no big deal, it's a few extra months of lived pain. If I try it and it does work - that is, I get to a place where life is more good than bad - I add decades of worthwhile living. Even if I believe it to be unlikely to work, the math says "treatment" is worth trying.

So I am. And I have been. No substantive difference yet, but there's still a few things my psychiatrist wants to explore. I've got time, for now.

I am living with my parents because 1) I get cheap mental health treatment from my father's employer in-state, and 2) I'll be damned if I spend my last few months slaving away in a fucking grocery store like I was. There'll be time to figure out my future if I can get my present made into something alright.

I'm still ashamed about it.

Some pre-modern Armenian folk for you today, courtesy of Hespèrion XXI, because by about halfway through I actually felt okay. I should take what I can get, I guess.


Friday the 27th of September, 2019

Pain: 40
Struggle: 20
Success: 60

I Will Not Be a Pair of Hands

It is all so crushing. Employed for what? For what? To have the "privilege" of food and warmth? To waste the rest on colors and toys? I will not stand for this feebleness. I will not be a pair of hands. Take your "social contract" and choke on it. I will die on my own terms if I cannot live on them.

Depression Cooking

After over two years of living with major depressive disorder, my culinary inclinations have definitely tended toward simple, one-dish meals, cheap and prepared with minimal effort. It's been necessary, I guess. Shoestring budget, plus crushing weariness that is as much mental as physical.

So, today I skilleted onions and sliced hotdogs, and added canned beans and spices once cooked. Warm through and top with shredded cheese and serve with toast and - presto! It's cheap as shit, and real filling. Not exactly healthy - hotdogs have high salt and fat content, not to mention whatever preservatives - but if you swap out the hotdogs for a vegetable (carrots? cabbage? eggplant?) it would be.

I guess I should try that too, sometime. I should add salsa, too, if available. I guess it's never quite the same, as I'm always improvising what I make - I don't really do recipes. (I guess that's part of why I avoid baking...)

Today I found Z6b3r's debut album on Lazerdiscs Records. Yeah, synthwave. I don't just listen to gloom and doom, though you might be forgiven for thinking so, based on what ends up embedded at the beginning of each of these posts. It's just what fits each day.


Wednesday the 25th of September, 2019

Pain: 40
Struggle: 30
Success: 45

Simulacra

I'm part of a regular tabletop RPG game group. I started running games early in college, and have usually been the game master (GM) / "dungeon master" (DM) - an older term - ever since, though the members of the group itself change with time and circumstance. Most campaigns (sets of game sessions with a common story arc) have used the current (5th) edition of Dungeons & Dragons, though I've tinkered with custom rulesets since I began.

For the past several months I've had the pleasure of being a regular player, rather than the DM, as one of my friends picked up a campaign he started in college but never finished. We play via Discord voice chat. Five people, each living in a different city, playing a cooperative game together each week, watching their characters learn and grow. I suppose it is a special thing. (If you ever get the chance to play Dungeons & Dragons or the like, go for it.)

Well, the DM and one of the players (brought in after college, as they were dating) just got married on Sunday, so that campaign will be going on hiatus again as they figure out life together. There should be time after the honeymoon and the last of the moving for them to at least be players, though, so I offered to run something until we are ready to finish that game up. (It's been on hiatus before, haha, so I'm fairly confident it'll come back once more.)

An impromptu poll indicated that a science fiction game would be exciting.

I haven't run a sci-fi campaign before, but I've wanted to try for quite a while, and I have some ideas. I'm not sure if I will used a free published system, or just bang one of my homebrew rulesets into shape.

I need to do a lot of research, though. Both for ideas, and simple knowledge, so I can fulfill the DM's main job in an adventure game: adjudicate player actions. I need context, and a solid understanding of how the elements of play interact.

So, alongside hours of Wikipedia research, I'm spending some of my ample free time reading sci-fi. Some Poul Anderson, so far, with The Martian ongoing and Huxley's Brave New World up next. Thankfully my middle school years were just as nerdy (more so?) than my current ones, so I blazed through a ton of Star Wars and Star Trek novels back in the day. Other books lending influence to my thoughts (not all sci-fi): Blindsight (Watts), Foucault's Pendulum (Eco), Dune (Herbert), Simulacra and Simulation (Baudrillard), 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (Verne), Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Nietzsche), Asimov.

I'm aiming for a hard sci-fi direction, though. No lightsabers or teleporters. Fairly dark and nihilistic, too (as much as a group of jovial friends having fun together allows, haha).

Blindsight by Peter Watts sticks in my mind as the most important inspiration of anything I've read. I recommend it highly, if you want something thoughtful, philosophical, but still a speculative fiction novel. Very highly.

Musical influences to a sci-fi campaign would be too many to list. Maybe I'll make a playlist sometime. For today, I leave you with Oh Hiroshima's latest, "Oscillation," because I listened to it for the first time today while writing this. Suitable for lulling you to sleep in the cramped quarters that protect you from the endless interstellar vacuum, where there can be no sound.


Tuesday the 24th of September, 2019

Pain: 30
Struggle: 40
Success: 70

Loyalty, Hope

I'm starting to get sick of these.

Missed yesterday because my girlfriend was over. We attended a mutual friend's wedding. Not much to say about that, except that I hope they do well. Probably will, though I don't know how anyone can go on for any length of time given all the bullshit around us.

Fuck, I need to start these posts earlier in the day. Bedtime. Hopefully dreamless.

Olhava, who I only heard of today, have (again, today) released a jaw-dropping self-titled debut album. Stream it, pay what you want for it, tell them what a fantastic pleasure it was to listen to. (...Not like any reader - of which, I believe, this blog has none - is likely to enjoy atmospheric black metal. But, try it out.)


Monday the 23rd of September, 2019

Pain: 20
Struggle: 20
Success: 35

Untitled I

When I sat down to begin yet another post, I saw a small insectile shape sitting nearby on the desk. The legs and poor, shadowy lighting made me think it was a spider, at first. (I have a mild phobia of spiders.) More light revealed it was a yellowjacket wasp.

My parents had an infestation of them up under the eaves this summer, where some siding had come loose and the wasps could build a nest in the wall. They'd been buzzing around the gardens ad nauseam, and many were found dead in various rooms on that side of the house, where they had gotten in via windowframes. No stings, though; they aren't aggressive, they just get riled if you threaten their nest or attack them. Exterminators had come for them earlier this month, and the nights have been getting colder, so I have been seeing fewer.

This one was perching, awkwardly, on a sheaf of envelopes. It was clinging, tired. Its back feet trembled, its abdomen occasionally pulsed. I wonder if it was dying, without its hive. Or maybe, it had just gotten lost in the house, and couldn't find food enough to keep going.

We think of them as pests, and I suppose they can be. The stark yellow and black, brazen buzzing, signalling they are not to be trifled with. But, look closely at one that is still (they are not often still). It was shapely, in a way, curves and points flowing end to end. It had a fine fuzz jacket on its torso. There was a kind of humble beauty, despite the zany colors and angles.

I saw a tired, helpless creature, struggling to go on. Separated from its family, its society. Lost, in need. Perhaps dying already.

I crushed it. Not out of fear or desperation; indeed, I gave it more than a minute's thought. (A silly thing, perhaps.) I suspect that its queen is dead and its hive is scattered, and the cold nights of autumn are already coming. Death would be slow. I made it quick, a few layers of toilet paper to insulate me from a sting it was likely unable to even deliver. I like to think I did what was best for that poor individual, but I am saddened anyway. It is a hard world for wasps, and for us. A quick and painless obliteration may often be the best we can hope for.


Saturday the 21st of September, 2019

Pain: 35
Struggle: 20
Success: 60

It All Falls Apart

My girlfriend texted me today about some plans this weekend. Almost in passing, she described in just a few sentences how she imagined our life could be in the coming years. What she said was sweet and heartfelt, and ended with: "It will be a life. And a darn good one at that."

She knows my struggles - I am open with her - and she knows that I believe life to be not worth the living. She knows I am trying to see if I can improve, see if I am wrong. Somehow, she still has hope. But, I don't think I can be that hope for her. I do not think it will be much longer until I end my life. I just wish she would find someone better for her than I am. It tears at me to think of hurting her - of betraying her? - by leaving in death, but what am I to do?

Will she understand? Will she be okay?


Friday the 20th of September, 2019

10AM
Reading a text message (see above)
Emptiness, guilt, apprehension
See above

Pain: 25
Struggle: 15
Success: 55

Cope, Cope, Cope

The bullshit workbook is having me learn "mindfulness" exercises. I can execute them - my devoutly Christian background gave me similar experiences in prayer - and they are able to divert my attention and emotions from cycling negative thoughts. It still feels like a form of avoidance, or hiding. Taoism, Buddhism, Stoicism, Epicureanism, are all religio-philosophical systems that sprang up in times of upendedness and confusion in their respective settings, and it shows. Avoidance. Detachment. Disillusionment. Disengagement. Cope, cope, cope. I don't want to just cope.

My parents have two cats. Their number has fluctuated since the two our family got initially, when I was young. Strays turn up in blizzards, but get hit by cars years later. So it goes.

One is fat. Very fat. It's probably not her fault; we feed her the same amount as the other cat - but this fat cat was adopted as a scrawny worm-ridden runt kitten from a barn. Her whole metabolism and liver function probably had to do all they could to preserve her before and after her birth. Once we took care of the tapeworm infestation and weaned her, she quickly ballooned. First world problems, I guess. She is over a decade old now, and her joints clearly hurt her after so long hauling a bulk. No teeth. Quacks, rather than a proper "meow." Can't climb the stairs some days, but she still asks to be carried up to sleep in my parents' quiet bedroom each morning. She's real sweet when she's sleepy, but can be a testy rotter at other times. Sharp claws.

The other is a small, half-siamese. Biggest eyes in a cat I've seen, ice-blue. She says her name when she vocalizes: "Bree." We didn't name her, but we see where the name comes from. She is the oldest, one of the original two. Lasted so long because she's scared of her own shadow. Very sweet, though - despite taking several years to be brave enough to sleep on a lap. Now, she is always asking, especially during the winter. She had a beautiful coat, but gradually developed pathological grooming, licking bare and bloody patches. It seems every year she has a new area to add to the repertoire. I can sympathize. I'd be harming myself too, if I don't talk myself out of it.

At the top I embedded "Ghost Shirt Society" by Antethic. I don't know what the album name means, but it doesn't much matter, as it's wordless post-rock. On my first listen it didn't really stick, but I kept it in the backlog. Subsequent listens have been much better. I like that it has a sense of progression and thought without seeming either joyous or melancholy. Pick it up, you can pay what you think it's worth to them on Bandcamp. I feel bad that I paid $0, but I tell myself that it's fine because I'm unemployed. It doesn't really help.


Thursday the 19th of September, 2019

6PM
Explaining to my parents what the firebombing of Dresden meant
Hollowness, despair
How can we live as if all is somehow well?

Pain: 20
Struggle: 10
Success: 40

Late

Forgot to post yesterday. Only bothering because the workbook instructed me to.

Wednesday the 18th of September, 2019

5PM
Discovering the mower has a flat tire while mowing
Frustration, anxiety
What is wrong with me that such small things have an impact?

Pain: 40
Struggle: 30
Success: 50

Tuesday

I finished The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus.

His exposition and elucidation of the "absurd" condition of humanity (there must be a better word to translate the French...) resonated with me, to be sure. The main middle of the book rang hollow, though, as it seemed to be merely a praise of the type of person he found "cool," not of how to cope or become better in the face of the meaninglessness of human life. Perhaps I expected too much.

The conclusion, and actual exposition of the titular myth, took a number of pages I could count on one hand. It seemed to be that Camus expected his point clear by then: Sisyphus' task became meaningful, rather than a torment, if/when he accepted it for what it was, and choosing to continue rolling his boulder up his mountain forever.

Thankfully there will be no forever for me. That thought is a solace.

More yard work today. Perhaps I will venture a proper bath. I typically shower.

Today's music is "Arson" by Harakiri for the Sky. They have their roots in black metal, which I typically avoid due to the high-pitched coarse vocals and low production quality common in the genre, but it seems that Harakiri for the Sky has grown toward more of a post-metal (or even melodic death metal) sound since last I checked them out. I find its ambiance resonant and familiar. I do not understand most of the words, but I know that they express many of the same thoughts and questions I continue to wrestle with. I hope that doesn't sound too pretentious; I am not one who only listens to music that they can "relate with." See if you enjoy something a bit different.


Tuesday the 17th of September, 2019

1PM
Reading cognitive diffusion techniques in the workbook
Discomfort, tension, anxiety
These are wrong and discomforting. I cannot do these.

8PM
Reading, listening to music
Discomfort, worry
The passage I am reading is tense and strange. The protagonist is in a strange place, encountering cruel, stupid people. It is a mistake, he should leave now. Why won't he leave?

Pain: 15
Struggle: 10
Success: 40

Those You Cannot Teach To Fly

I finally gave up (again) on that fantasy novel I'd been trying to finish. It had become too obviously the author's fantasy - yes, in the normal sense, not the literary sense. Once the heroine went to the center of the earth and took the essence of the magical core-fire into her (such that she became so goddamn beautiful that the author felt the need to describe every male character's erection the first time each met her), the previous extended flashbacks about the protagonist's history of abuse, rape, and literal whoredom fell into place. It wasn't fanservice, it was authorservice. A fantasy about being strong and kindhearted in the face of a horrible world, yes, but also a fantasy where to be female is to be beautiful, and all the male characters are either dead or monsters (whether figuratively or literally).

Oh, and I almost forgot, the book opened with two massive offenses to my sensibilities: time travel, and a literal sex scene between a fourteen-year-old and a thirteen-year-old. Yeah, that was when I previously decided not to finish. The fucking prologue.

So I'm reading a science fiction novel now.

While we're talking books, I finished Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche a couple weeks ago. (Yeah, I still look up how to spell his name every time I need to...)

Nietzsche had definitely been misrepresented to me growing up, (I have solidly Christian parents, who had me attend a Christian private school for several years,) and "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" was an interesting read besides. It is written in what I think is an intentionally biblical/prophetic style, centered around the titular hermit Zarathustra as he explores the world, teaches, dances, and dotes on his talking pet snake and eagle (??).

Spoilers:
1) the whole overman/superman/ubermensch thing isn't about eugenics or racism
2) Nietzsche was against nationalism, and nationalistic wars of the sort accompanying German unification, and remarks that he wishes he had written his work in French, haha
3) Yes, Nietzsche was definitely misogynist, though I think that is likely a result of his life than as a conclusion of his philosophy
4) Nietzsche doesn't think he killed god
5) the work is shot through with joy in the present and hope for the future.

In light of the century+ since it was written, I think it's clear that Nietzsche was a gifted thinker, but I can't bring myself to share the hope expressed in Thus Spoke Zarathustra. Perhaps Nietzsche couldn't, either; by all accounts he died mad and quite miserable.

Instead, I am "a falling man." As Zarathustra states, "those you cannot teach to fly, teach to fall faster." I cannot be taught to fly, it seems, so fall I must.

On the other hand, "he who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying." Perhaps I am still learning to stand.

Today's music: something for The Great War by the much-missed Bolt Thrower. (Sorry if it just sounds like caveman music. I too thought so, once.)


Monday the 16th of September, 2019

11AM
Brief talk with girlfriend
Irritation, frustration, anxiety
Why is she bothering me? We talked yesterday. What more could there be to say? She's just rambling about her day...

1PM
Walking to doctor's appointment
Anxiety, nervousness, fear
Who is watching me? I recognize that person. How to steer clear so they don't recognize me...

6PM
Talking to a visiting Italian foreign exchange student
Shame, frustration, anxiety
I should have indicated that I knew of Bologna, but not its location! Assuming it was in the south, stupid...

Pain: 40
Struggle: 50
Success: 60

Celebrate My Deathday

I should really start writing these earlier in the day. By the time it's near the end of the day, enough to sum it up, I'm a mental wreck. I have plenty of things I could say, but no energy or focus to pursue those thoughts. I guess I will try anyway.

We (the extended family in the local area) celebrated my grandfather's seventy-somethingth birthday today. He doesn't like a lot of hooplah, and probably feels uncomfortable being celebrated (much like myself, perhaps), so no cake or candles or presents. His preference. Just a meal and dessert and being able to see each other.

Everyone's knee deep in shit. My grandfather, a lifelong farmer, is getting rid of old equipment, and it's a hassle, and a real effort. Cousin upon cousin are blown to the four winds, trying to keep our heads above water. Aunt is supporting three children on her own, after leaving a marriage that inflicted a decade of the worst abuse on her. Those three children are so mentally and socially fucked up I don't know how they'll cope with adulthood. Another uncle is trying to stay financially solvent after being laid off from a longtime job during the last economic rough patch. No one is terminally ill, at least on that side of the family...

How do they all keep going? Can't they see it's all a farcical shitshow? Stop struggling through every day with no hope of better! Fucking end it! Better not to be!

Hopefully I will soon. I'm twenty five, which gives me roughly another two lives until something takes me without my consent. That is a fair amount of time, so I'm spending a few more months pursuing loose ends, just to see if the improbable occurs and I find that continuing is worth it. I can bear a few more months, just to be absolutely certain I'm not throwing away several decades I'd rather have. It's not looking like it, though. And things will only get worse.

Better to be gone, quickly and painlessly, before then. Celebrate my deathday. Fucking cake and balloons and presents for everyone.


Sunday the 15th of September, 2019

12PM
Going to my grandfather's birthday celebration
Dissociated
I can't do this, what am I going to say? Stay calm

3PM
Coming home from my grandfather's birthday celebration
Irritable, weary
This is all such a load of bullshit.

5PM-9PM
Working on a minor programming project
Frustrated, uncomfortable, angry
Why can't I just function normally? Why is everything so loud?

Pain: 60
Struggle: 70
Success: 25

Turn Myself to Stone

This is the last thing I have to do before I go to bed, so I'm writing to keep myself from thinking. (I have to write something. I committed to this.)

Somehow, I have a girlfriend. We met almost three years ago now, before all of... this came to a head.

I feel as though I'm not the person she first met. I can't be a functioning person, someone able enough and loving enough to be worth spending a life with. Yet, she insists that she loves me, and wants me to stay. Stay alive. I love her too. I just know she would be better off without me. Let her find someone good for her - or find contentment in singleness. It would be better than being with someone like me.

I've told her all of this. I don't know what to say to convince her that both of us are better off without me.

I feel like I've been given such a gift in her, but I'm just the wrong person. If I were better, if I were well, things would be different. But that won't happen. Too many things are wrong. I can't do this.

Saturday the 14th of September, 2019

2PM-5PM
Reading, listening to music
Nausea, loathing, despair
I hate myself and everything around me. I wish it were night, so I could sleep.

6PM-7PM
Eating
Anguish
I must, I must be done with this

Pain: 80
Struggle: 90
Success: 25

Moloch

Is it normal to be this tired? How can all of you continue treading the wheel grinding us all down? An edifice of power and desperation that exists and survives apart from its creators - a machine, its parts made of humans and human relations, yet itself inhuman.

Perhaps better than the short lives of our evolutionary ancestors, hunting and gathering in the savanna.
Perhaps worse: isn't it worse to know that you are part of a whole socioeconomic system built on human suffering and global exploitation?

Better not to be.

No music today, because fuck it all, and fuck you, fuck me. I can't do this.


Friday the 13th of September, 2019

5AM
Getting out of bed
Anxiety, weariness, despair, fear
Why must I do this? Why do I have to face another day? Better to end it.

7AM
Waiting for counselling appointment
Anxiety, panic
People are looking at me, watching me

9AM
Driving home from counselling
Frustration, hopelessness, anxiety
I don't want to think about my future. I'm even afraid of talking on the phone. What's so hard about making a phone call?

7PM
Writing this
Frustration, anger, despair
We are being crushed and suffocated by the institutions, powers, and forces built by the generations before. There is no escape but death.

Pain: 55
Struggle: 40
Success: 30

It's Only Permanent

Cold and rainy and grey today. I like this weather. Hurts my eyes less.

I am trying to finish a fantasy novel I picked up at a bookshop liquidation sale for cents. It was donated to the bookshop by the estate of a dead man. Death, passing on to death, passing on to me. And when I die? Passed on yet again.

I decided to read it because it was by a female author, and I haven't read much female-authored fantasy. It isn't very good so far - the world feels flat, unconsidered, un-lived-in - but it's interesting to note the female protagonist's posture toward males in her story: often violated or threatened, whether with sword or sex. Victories come when understanding, sympathy, or reconciliation are achieved, not domination. But maybe I'm reading too much into it, bringing in too many preconceptions I don't even consciously agree with.

I listened to a lot of music today. What stuck in my mind most - though it was not the best of the day's fare - was "It's Only Permanent" by Black Flak and the Nightmare Fighters. First link goes to Bandcamp, and the second to Spotify. I should start I am putting an embed at the beginning of these posts.

It's post-rock, for the most part unremarkable. Drums are mixed fairly loudly, but the drummer is self-controlled and skilled. Heavy use of spoken-word samples: I believe taken from one source throughout. They speak of depression, and suicide, as do the song titles. The album seems to end on a tired but almost hopeful note. You might have to judge for yourself.

-
I wrote the above at the end of the day. Below, at the beginning of the day, and onward.
-

So now the bullshit self-help workbook wants me to keep a "Daily Pain Diary." Increments are marked off hour-by-hour, with three columns:
1) What were you doing, or, what happened?
2) What did you start struggling with psychologically?
3) What thoughts, in addition to any in the previous column, came up in association with that struggle?

I have to do this for a week. Of course, only one day's worth of space is provided. So, looks like I'll be tracking that here, too.


Thursday the 12th of September, 2019

8AM
1) Working on workbook chapter 5
2) Frustration, cynicism, hopelessness, anxiety
3) This activity is a waste of time. It is asking too much of me. I can't just examine myself and my own thoughts all day, let alone all week. Too many painful feelings. I wish I had something better to do.

9AM
1) masturbating
2) loneliness, ennui, unreality
3) I am useless and a failure. I am trapped. I hate existing/living/being here.

3PM-7PM
1) reading, listening to music
2) weariness, despair
3) It is all a waste, it will all come to nothing, why endure this pain

Pain: 50
Struggle: 40
Success: 45

Breathing, and Holding Breath

My therapist suggested to me some bullshit self-help workbook. I have very little confidence that it will tackle the ever-mounting difficulties I see in trying to exist in this world, but, I should exhaust all reasonable options before ending my life. Thus: the therapy, medication, and workbook.

It wants me to fill out a form evaluating the day's experience, daily, for two weeks. I'm doing it on here, since the bullshit workbook only has space for one week. (And, hey, I can go for longer if, by some miracle, it makes any difference to me.) I'll try to post every evening, with numerical scores at the bottom: pain (mental/emotional distress each day), struggle (effort expended controlling or opposing the pain), and overall success (vitality/value of the day), rated between 1 and 100.

Today's bullshit workbook exercise was seeing how long I could hold my breath. Two minutes. Better than I thought, but my body got desperate toward the end. Survival instinct rules the day again.

The weather was good, so I got outside to do lawn and garden work. I am back at my parents' house during this time of treatment, and they don't want to charge me rent, so I insisted on doing summer mowing without pay. It seemed only fair - who wants their 25-year-old child to move back home?

Last week I was able to finish the hedge I was last working on. I began to panic after starting - again, with no discernible trigger or reason - but I regulated my breathing and just continued.

This week? Cutting saplings. I don't know how just an hour or two of work tires me out so much. I feel so weak. It's easy to imagine just shriveling away to a fucking skeleton: I'll end up as one sooner or later anyway.

I'm listening to "Withatten 1892" by Ulwhednar as I write. Embed below at the top. It's a bit boring - even for drone - but it does summon a real mood, if you let it. Nothing else by the artist piqued my ear - this seemed to be the only beatless release - so I doubt I will do a full listen again. It would be fine music for playing in the background of a Dungeons & Dragons game, at least.


Here's the bullshit workbook-mandated entry I mentioned.
Wednesday the 11th of September, 2019
Pain: 35
Struggle: 20
Success: 60

I Had a Panic Attack Yesterday

Trimming the hedges, I noticed my breathing: rapid, rushing. Up on a ladder in the sun, yes, but why gust like a bellows? I decided I had better get out of the bush and down on solid ground, to catch my breath.

My lungs continued to labor as I dissociated. As if viewing from above, or far away within the skull's sockets. Checking the pulse with trembling fingers: strong, perhaps quick, but not irregular. What gripped the body no longer mine?

--

Enough with that stilted narrative voice. Yeah, I'm trying to improve my writing, but I'm uncomfortable contriving verbal bullshittery around an experience I found disturbing. For now, at least, I just need to get this out without lingering.

Suffice it to say after making my way to shade I found myself unable to stand, frightened and frustrated, crawling to the porch steps trying not to be seen. My mom did see me. (I am back to living with my parents for now. More another day.)

She came out and tried to figure out what was wrong, to help me, to comfort me.  Before gasps and snot silenced me, I rasped out that I was not going unconscious, I was not hurt, I was okay. (Frankly I'm not sure I believed what I was saying, but my main feeling was frustration and shame rather than fear.)

--

It passed. The tears evaporated with time, and I wiped my nose on my tremor-wracked hands. They usually shake a little anyway, even though I'm only twenty-five. I guess I have to go get that checked out now. I haven't had a routine physical in two years.

Five minutes? Ten? Standing up was difficult, and I gained a bruise from a premature attempt. I still ache and the hedge is unfinished.

--

My dad says it was a panic attack. He's a primary care physician, a proper M.D. general practitioner, so he would know. I guess my similar experience two years ago was also a panic attack, then. (Another time.)

The list of mental health issues grows.

Two years ago in June I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder.
This year in July I finally went back into treatment and this was upgraded to:
 - "double depression" - that is, pervasive chronic depression accented by depressive episodes typical of MDD
 - social anxiety (possible general anxiety)
 - agoraphobia

I'm not sure how much these labels help at this point, and how much meaning they have in the first place, but words must start somewhere.

--

So, why am I writing here?

Certainly not to be read. Blogs have a tendency to lurk out of sight as it is, and I intend to share no links with anyone. If you have stumbled here, it is a curious thing.

Maybe to help me process things. Though, right now, trying to figure out what to write and what to omit and what to postpone has me feeling even more scattered and fragmented. (Loose ends. Many will never be tied, I suppose, and ever more will be created if I continue.)

Perhaps muttering into the internet-void is suitable. A "permanent" thing, preserved, but who will see? What will it, could it change?

I will write again tomorrow. Enough silent words for today.