"Having observed that I have all my life acted more from the force of feeling than from my reflections, I have concluded that my conduct has depended more on my character than on my mind, after long struggle between them in which I have alternately found myself with too little intelligence for my character and too little character for my intelligence." - Giacomo Casanova, History of my life Vol. 1

Sunday, August 9, 2015

A moderately pointless post...with some sense at the end.

This post was drafted somewhere in the last three months and languished unpublished...because ADD.

It seems to have some good to it, so I shall publish it unaltered as a random example of my stream of consciousness. It has some amusing bits. ;)

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Forgive the dialect of my writing at present - I am something of a sponge when it comes to picking up turns of phrase or particular accents. If I watch some american television show set, for example, in the American Deep South, I inevitably end up with a southern drawl despite my never having set foot in the place.

Likewise, I tend to find myself communicating in a far more genteel manner when I've spent too many hours reading regency novels or watching period dramas. It is not an affections so much as an affliction. My partners have teased me often.

I don't precisely know what it is I mean to write here, only that I am burdened with some thoughts that will not rest in my mind - and yet remain tantalisingly out of sight. I cannot seem to find them, but I feel the effect of them deeply. They colour my emotional landscape, washing it out of colour and leaving me feeling a undercurrent of sadness, longing, regret and vulnerability.

The laughter of my landlady in the next room infuriates me. I feel offended that she should be so comfortable while I, who unquestionably has the moral high ground, should suffer so. It serves only to remind me that a good, open, candid heart that means only ever to prosper everyone will get you absolutely nowhere in life.

I do my best to put such thoughts aside, as they only serve to excite my anxieties and leave me nauseous, sleepless, restless and fretful. Regardless, I continue to wish hexes on her almost daily - and can only justify this in my conscience because I do not truly believe that wishing may make things so.

The prospect of confronting her if we do not find another home soon daunts me. I know I have the fire to face this danger, but it usually comes at so very dear a cost to my mental health and is by far the most difficult part of my battle against the delusions, panics and bloodmindedness that at times overtakes my reason during times of stress.


The changes in my medication - slight reductions to make allowance for the endless plague of heartburn I suffer - has been an... interesting experience.

I have not slept much if at all in several days. I burn constantly with anxiety, a knawing discomfort much like excessive hunger that lingers in my stomach and draws all my muscles up in a bunch as I think. I try to remind myself to take deep breaths at every opportunity, which helps, but it is only when I eventually concede to the necessity of a tranquiliser that the feeling eases, and then only in proportion to my dose. 

This I keep as light as I am able, and as infrequent as possible, for if I were to give into the temptation of exceeding my daily allowance, I should take four or five times as much before it would truly settle my nerves.  And so, instead, I suffer through the discomfort and do my best not to allow it to affect my behaviour too much. For my troubles I am at last, after so many months (and years) again able to write something.

I am glad for the change in my motivation. I so often feel as if I were a waste of space. I have nothing but my passion and my wit to recommend me - all other skills needed for survival I seem to have been denied by fate. At least now I can think a bit more, write a bit more...perhaps perceive how I may become more whole. My loves deserves better than a series of short tempered outburst and my endless pool of emotional distress.

Last night my girl and I walked in the rain to the park on Raleigh road. It is the first happy moment I have had with her in much longer than I care to remember. I played her Keane's Somewhere only we know - my lyrical attempt at romance - as we walked. She was quite amused by that as I am not often given to such gestures. We spoke a while about how few "simple things" we had had in so long. My meaning was well understood: This could be the end of everything (indeed, so it may be every day). I am making time now for you because I need something to hang onto in this darkness.

We found a bench, quite wet, and talked for a while smiling and laughing. A lingering police van drove four times past us before settling his mind that we were not vagrants. We smoked a cigarette or two.

It began to rain lightly, and we hid ourselves under the playground equipment, hunkering down in the dark damp spaces under the slide and jungle gym. The rain grew heavier for a while, and during a lull we abandoned the attempt and accepted defeat.

On the way home, I walked with bare feet in the pooling gutters, and softened the impact of the stony tar on my soles by walking in windswept piles of oak leaves. It was so happy a moment I feel overcome remembering it now. I feel so very very sad most of the time that such small, short bursts of true bliss are like stars in the night sky of my mind. I rely upon them to guide me through the night.

I feel too often so afflicted. It has become so that I do not speak of it any longer. My lovers and friends neither see me nor speak with me. I have become a ghost by my own choosing. I prefer it this way. Less times to pretend to be well. Less lies to tell when asked about my wellfare.

Only with my girl do I feel full at ease (to my shame, as there are others who love me as well). It is her particular personality that allows this: She is a very steady person, one not given to high emotions or influenced by the moods of others. This offers me such a constancy of forebearance when I become undone. She is also able to share the dry, dark humour that helps me grapple with life.

She almost never imagines it to be her fault when I am unreasonable, or feels pressed to make a fanfare of concern over each time I weep quietly - something that plagues my other lover, a man who has such depth of kindness that he takes all the blame onto himself so easily that none is left for anyone else.  With him it is hard to safely be as ill as I am, without the constant pressure to reassure my companion that this is but a passing discomfort, much the coughing or sneezing one experiences during the flu.

Just because I candidly must admit that I am not well does not mean I am not glad for your company, or willing to share your burdens. There is no need to speak in whispers near me, or stop your sentences midway, or halt your speaking altogether after I have admitted I am not utterly sprigthly.

"I have a disease of the mind" I want to say, "It is chronic, and recurring. And the manifestation of it's symptoms are weeping, rages, fretfullness, self absorbtion, thoughts of self harm and withdrawal. These are not features of my person. They will pass, and I will be myself. Do not worry so much about me..."



But alas mental illness frightens people so much that they do not grasp it's symptomset as they do with physical illnesses. For that reason they can also not set their minds at ease about my eventual prognosis, and so inevitably find themselves unable to gauge how to behave in the presence of this frigthening thing between us. This, most heavily, weighs on me when I think of him. I so desperately want this to be different. All that is left to me is candor.

I have abandoned the attempt at being less frank about the matter. I decided that to help someone to see past this obstacle and treat me as normal, I must first give them opportunity to do so. I have resigned myself to whatever opinion people seem to form of me. I cannot control it. I can merely try my best to create some constancy in my behaviour that eventually reveals my real nature.

In writing this, perhaps such a part of me is revealed. I cannot say for sure. All I know is that writing has always left me feeling the better for it, and so I do not do it to please others or with a goal in mind, but rather more as a meditation, an expression of my thoughts that flow out much like images on canvas under the brush.

Only at the end does it begin to seem as if a picture has emerged that might be pleasing to an audience and like any vain artist, I set my mind to tidying up the more obvious flaws in my creation, and with it a small twinge of pride at having, at last, created something at all.

I feel I should thank you for your time.

Thank you.

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