Keepin it real.

This entry is really only here to substantiate my need to make an entry, as I've not made one in a few days and it begins to bother me slightly.  Another small annoying neurosis that manifests itself as a slightly amusing quirk...  Regardless, I intend to keep this one kinda short.  It's 3 am, and I actually find myself being somewhat tired at such a rare and early hour (for me, anyways), so I'll not devote too much time to this...

Apparently, it's come to my attention that, from amongst some of my still dismally small but growing population of readers, some of you actually enjoy my ramblings.  A few of you enought that a suggestion has been made that I perhaps start branching my writing off from the annecdotal into the creative...

I'm sure what this really means is; "Hey buddy, we really like the way you write, but no one wants to hear about your retarded bullshit.  Try writing poetry instead.".   A compliment is a compliment, I suppose...

With the suggesions and encouragement, I have decided to actually give it a shot.  I've not written creatively in quite some time, though, to be honest, I really hadn't written in quite some time period, prior to this blog.  I've decided that I'm going to try my hand at a few shorts stories, which I will create and link a second blog for that specific purpose.  Understand, however, that I am anally critical of my own creative writing, so much to the point that I will work myself into fits of utter despair at the complete and utter garbage I believe myself to be producing.  Babbling on and on about my bitterness and misgiving with life whilst making it sound charming and slightly comedic?  Fucking easy.  But trying to conceive something that actually has a fucking structure and plot?  Pant-shittingly frightening...  So needless to say, I wouldn't expect anything creative coming from me as frequent as these particular type of entries.  If I'm going to do it, I'm going to make sure it's done well.

Before I finish this off, random thought of the evening...   I really fucking hate referring to what I do here as "writing", as I'm not actually writing anything.  It actually bothers me on a very small level.  On the other hand, referring to this as what it actually is... "typing"...  seems really pretentious and contrived.  And calling it "blogging" just makes me sound like a really big fucking nerd...

Anyone have a suggest as to what I should label my literary excretia so I don't keep feeling like a douche bag?

Bear Wrestling in the Moscow Circus

Wilderness Survival Protip:  They say that, should you ever be attacked by a bear while wandering the wilds, you should lie as still as possible whilst the bear proceeds to maul you.  Should you do this, in theory, the bear will mistake you for dead and move away shortly... 

So, it's going to be one of those evenings for me.  The long, restless nights where everything just feels grayed out; lifeless and cold.  I both love and hate nights like this, both for the same reason...  My mind want to naturally draw itself to places I usually try not to think about.  Hate, because more often or not, it's painful and filled with such wonderful concepts such as Loss, Regret, Loneliness, Despair, Obsession...  You get the idea.  Love, because it at least allows me to explore feelings beside a general, dull disinterest and the constant, grating buzz of irrational annoyance in the back of my skull. 

So, where am I be taken to, kicking and screaming, this evening?

Here is part of the paradox of my station:   I am, at once, completely and utterly arrogant, vain, and a bit self-important, while also self-critical to the point of extreme paranoia and oft times brimming with a sense of self-loathing usually reserved for felons and overzealous Catholics.  While, in momenst like these, I find myself focusing on either of these charming traits, or other glorious aspects of myself entirely; tonight, I find that it's the deep and abiding self-loathing that I'm fixated upon.  I would say that I'm having one big, huge, fucking pity party, but pity is something I'm relatively low on as it concerns myself...  These feelings and thoughts I have,  the shrinks and psychologists tell me they're part of my depressive states;  and that given enough time, I'll be back on the upswing...  Like that fucking helps.  Very fucking easy for them to say when they only have to listen to gibberish and ponitfication on existential despair, and not actually experience it for themselves.

It is a very difficult thing, sometimes, to not just want to give up entirely, and just let all of the accumulated angst and regret devour you whole.  Now, let it be understood that when I speak of such things, I'm not speaking of suicide.  While, yes, I will openly admit that on at least 2 or 3 occasions, the thought has crossed my mind in my worst moments, I can say honestly that I've never seriously taken it into consideration; or at least not serious enough where I'd ever act upon it.  To be honest, whenever those particular thoughts start becoming to heavy; arrogance and pride well up and squash that real fucking quick.  Bluntly, I am far, far too much of a selfish person to ever take my own life...  That does not stop me, however, from hurting myself in other ways.  Self-destruction is a many and varied artform, afterall, and someone clinically depressed can think of all kinds of creative ways to heap mounds of self-abuse upon their already fractured psyche.  But I digress, as self-destruction is an entirely different subject for another time...

The issue of despair here for me is yet another bizarre twist that I do not fully grasp the underlying reasoning of.  Survivor's instinct is, for most people, a desirable trait.   That urge to keep the struggle alive no matter how bad the odds; to get back up no matter how hard you've been knocked down.  It's what keeps people alive and going.  People can and will do amazing things when the chips are down and all hope seems to be lost.  Human will to live and all that jazz....

Leave it to me to take a trait so admirable and turn it into a fucking complex...

I feel like I am perpetually stuck in survival mode, and I fucking hate it.  It exacts a constant toll, one of deep paranoia and a fear of relaxing.  Imagine that you're constantly expecting the fight of your life.  Muscles always tensed, ready for both attack and defense.  Mind sharpened to a razor's edge and needle's point.  Perceptions focused narrowly, analyzing every small change in detail, constantly expecting the need to leap into action.  Now imagine that the fight never comes, and you're literally wired like this every waking hour of every day.  Sure, the good thing is that when shit hits the fan, you'll be ready to dodge; but you also end up needing the services of an entire massage clinic, a chiropractor's practice, and a mental health facility pretty much all the time.  That's not even taking into account the exhaustion, the eternal, never-ending mental and physical exhaustion.   You so desperately want to lay down and rest, but your nerves are hardwired.   Rest?  There is no such thing...

Here's the paradox of it; the big, ugly Catch 22:  I want to give it up.  I really, really fucking do.  I hate that I'm like this.  I've tried, harder than you can ever believe.  The bitch is, this all is so instinctual, so second nature, that the drive kicks in whether I want it to or not, to the point where it's counterproductive to surviving.  Sometimes, the best way to get through a situation is to just lay down, take your beating, and mvoe on.  I can't do that.  Even when I know the best course of action is to simply lay there and let things pass over me, it all just comes welling up to the surface; and next thing I know, I'm a blur of animal instincts, mortal terror, and primal fury.  I wanted to just lay there, I wanted to just give up, but those nerves buzzing in the back of my head refused to. 

That's the crux of this evening's despair.  Fight or Flight in action.  The urge and will to endure, when there is nothing to endure.  The unstoppable desire to battle, but wanting nothing more than to lay down your arms.  It all just makes fills me with such an anger against my stupid and base instincts, to the point that I'm ready to just give it all up and lie down...  Until the urges come anew.  Thus, the cycle is repeated...

So yeah, this is why I don't really do camping.  Because I would wrestle a bear, even if I knew I was going to lose...

Nothing of any inherent value.

Taking a break from emotional outpouring and the like.  Writing (typing?) about such things can be very exhausting, so I feel a brief sabbatical from my feelings is required tonight...

What I am choosing to go on one of my delusional rants about tonight is a topic that has been hotly debated and reviled in pretty much every circle in history:  Faith and religious belief... Or in my specific case, my lack thereof.  Now, before I continue, let it be said that these are my personal beliefs, and as such should be taken with a grain of salt.  People are entitled to whatever ideas they want to have, and whatever faith they choose to hold.  So, because of all this, I'm going to attempt to not single out any particular faith structure here, except where it's significant as an example.  If nothing else, my opinions here are pretty much worthless anyways...  That's not self-deprecation, that's sincerity.  I'll explain soon...

I think the first question asked here is how do I define myself, religiously?  Well, to be honest, I do not identify myself as anything religiously.  What do I believe in?  Nothing.  While this technically put's me in the same category as Atheists, I don't feel that entirely sums up my belief on the world and everything in it.  While I share the belief that the idea of an externalized divine entity is far-fetched, and the concepts behind intelligent design have far too many logic holes than to be feasible; I also find that Atheism, too, fails to adequately explain everything...  But then again, I also find myself asking what does any of this really matter. 
Let's not beat around the bush here, not dance around the labels.  I'm not so concerned with identifying with anything religiously, so much as I'm concerned with identifying philisophically.  So, I'm going to be straight up here.  I am a Nihilist.

I feel that Nihilism is something that is very much misunderstood.  Many assume that it is a belief in nothing.  Others see it as a villainizing of societal mores and the status quo.  While it encompasses both of those concepts, it is both more simplistic and significantly more complex than that.  To put it in plain terms, Nihilism is the belief that nothing has any form of existential value, that no state/condition is any more desirable than another, and that no state/condition is in any way permanent or enduring.  At a very basic level, Nihilism is about embracing and excepting the eventuality of decay, and the inherent meaninglessness of existence...

Now, I know alot of you are going to read that, and say "Jeez, dude, that's really fucking bleak.".  Well, yeah it is, but ya know what, the world is a pretty fucking bleak place to begin with.  Regardless of that fact, alot of the negativity associated with Nihilism comes from out own biased perceptions.  Anything can look really fucking bad when viewed in the right (wrong?) light.  On the flip side, a lot of things can look insanely good in the right light.  It's something that's not to hard to find examples of...  How many of us have gone out to the local drinking hole on any given evening and ended up spending an evening (in the very filthy, very dirty carnal sense) with a member of the opposite sex, only to find out the next morning that they weren't anywhere nearly as attractive as you remembered them?  Beer goggles are a bitch.  Happens to the best of us.  But, for points of argument, that kind nicely illustrates the importance of perception as it pertains to Nihilism...  When speaking about values, or the idea thereof,  a distinction should be made.  There is the idea of inherent or existential values, and then there are personal or perceived values.  I believe it's the ambiguity of this distinction in values in which Nihilism get's it bad reputation.  When speaking of values from the stand point of the Nihilist, it is inherent values that are being discussed.  

So let's draw this distinction, first by discussing inherent values.  Inherent values are, in theory, some baseline indicator of what something is worth, and the difference in it's worth in comparison to any other perceiveable thing.  The issue arises with inherent value in trying to figure out from where such a value template is drawn.  In simpler terms, how do we determine value in the first place?  I think an example needs be drawn here...

Take a book.  What exactly is this book, really?  On it's essential, existential level, it is simply a series of sheets of pulped and dried vegetable matter bound together and marked with black ink.  The actualy experience of reading the book boils down to little more than the firing of a handful of neurons in your brain; and expereience that can be duplicated by literally any other experience to be had.  Or, for a better example, take a diamond.  A diamond is nothing more than carbon molecules, the very same found in nearly all organic matter, arranged in a specific pattern so as to be exceedinly dense and an excellent refractor of light.  Normally, they are naturally occuring; however, as science has advanced, we have found ways to artificially create diamonds; including a process in which the ashes of the deceased and cremated can be used.  So, on a very basic level, a book, a diamond, and a fistful of cremation ashes are effectively the same.  Really, when you actually take the time to look at things impersonally, the same can be said of everything in existence.  Now, when everything has the exact same inherent value, a logic paradox is created in which we realize that in truth, the concept of inherent value is an illusion, and that everything is truly worth nothing.

The same here can easily be said for things less physical, such a ideas, concepts, and most importantly, morality.  I would say that even more of a case can be made here, as none of these things have any true physical composition, and exist solely as intellectual conjecture.  What, exactly, is an idea worth, and more importantly, what is the difference in worth when held against another idea?  Impossible questions to answer on a baseline level.  Morality is probably best used as an example here, as morality is something everyone identifies with.  The truth of the matter, is that no action/idea/belief is preferable to any other, as all actions are conceivably justifiable given circumstances.  Is Murder really bad when it is used to save lives?  Is Love really all it's cracked up to be if it can leave one insane and destitute?  Good and Evil are entirely relative and subjective concepts; one is required to define the other.  This creates circle logic, which is at it's core, flawed.  Therefore, the very fundamental ideas of Good and Evil are rendered flawed and immaterial, and by proxy, Morality; which is fundamentally composed by both concepts...  Now, again, the understanding needs to be made here between inherent and perceived values.  In the above examples, we are simply speaking of the inherent, not the perceived.  Perceived values are just that, the personal value we grant any given thing.  I find nothing wrong with this.  Using some of the above examples, a great many people enjoy the experience of reading a good book; and anyone that has ever bought jewelery knows how fucking expensive diamonds are.  If Murder were suddenly legalized, we would collapse as a society in short order.  And hey, who doesn't fucking love being in Love?  These type of values exists because we, as both an individual and a species, are able to quantify value by means of experience and comparison.  We can easily decide if we like one thing over another.  That is basic human nature, and in many cases, a hardwired survival tool....

The problem comes into play, however, when an organization or civilization as a whole mistakes perceived values for inherent values.  This is why I have such a strong dislike for organized religion and most political hierarchy.  This is how horrible shit happens.  What happens when anyone is given arbitrary authorithy to declare perceived values to be inherent?  Well, let's look to history for example...  A certain mad despot by the name of Hitler got it into his head that it would be an excellent idea to commit acts of genocide.    At least a dozen innocent men, women, and children were drowned or burned at the steak in Salem.  A large arm of the Catholic Church decided it was a great idea to torture, interrogate, and murder nonbelievers en masse...  and that happened TWICE in history, by means of both The Crusades and The Inquisition.  And let's not forget pretty much EVERYTHING Scientology has ever done...  Clearly, declaring anything to be arbitrarily right leads to a lot of stupid, hideous shit to happen...

So there you have it.  My "religious" views, and why I think organized religion and political extremism is a fucking herpes outbreak on the crotch of the world...

Then again, the argument can be made that my views and beliefs are just as equally worthless, so perhaps it's best to take this with a big grain of salt...

Brutally sodomized by technology once again...

So, I'd like to share with all of you how I've spent my last two hours...

I sat down this evening, with the intention of blogging about my feeling on religious and philisophical belief.  I wasn't intending on it being anything major, really just some discourse and rhetoric about why I feel the way I feel about certain things...

However, once I started, I hit my zone.  You know what I mean by the zone, right?  Where you just get into that almost alchemical rhythm, and shit just starts flowing out, and it feels wonderful, like you've actually just accomplished something?  Good shit, no? 

Well, yeah, I hit my zone.  I say here for about 2 hours, typing away, thinking, delving deep into my thoughts on the philisophical.  It was great.  I felt like I was verbalizing my thoughts and feelings in a way so concise than anything I had experienced before. 

So 2 hours and several cigarettes later, I go to hit the little orange button labeled "publish post"...  And suddenly, inexplicably, I'm booted to the login screen.  And everything I had just typed lost...

So, if you're wondering why tonight's entry is particularly shitty, blame the fucking internet...

Chemical Dependency is Chemical Dependency...

This entry was inspired by a question recently asked of me by a friend...

The question, paraphrased:  "If you're so fucked up, why don't you take meds to level you out?"

Now, I'm not bashing anyone for asking this question, as I feel it is a reasonable one.  My general opinion is that I don't think there is anything wrong with taking medication for whatever ails them.  I'm not saying being prescribed psychiatric medication makes you in any way weaker or more dependent than anyone else.  In all actuallity, there are many people that legitimately need this type of medication to lead normal, healthy lives.  I begrudge no one that. 

That being said, for numerous personal reasons, I will not do it myself...

To break this down, the most important reason is one of common sense, at least to me.  For better or worse, I am an addict.  I spent no small portion of my life completely dependent on chemicals to get me by.  While cookies were my main vice, also added to that list was "pie", "cake", "scones", "muffins", pretty much, with very few exceptions, if it was a pastry, I ate it.  I've come a long way since then, and I've now spent the better part of 4 years pastry free.  Still, the pastry addiction came with alot of long-term, probably permanent affects that, as I've already spoken on, continue to plague me to this day.  I've come to terms with that, and accepted that there are regrettably parts of myself that I will never be able to make whole.  Such is the condition. 

That being said, while there are medications to take to help these conditions, my question is this:  Is another set of drugs really the answer to my questions?  Again, for better or worse, I am an addict.  I got into many of my problems by having to be dependent on drugs.  I feel that, for me, getting myself on prescription meds is the same thing.  Look at it logically.  The goal of these medications is to level me out chemically; in essence, to remove the symptoms of my neurological conditions so that I may live a unhindered life.  But what happens when I'm suddenly off the meds?  I'm back to the way I used to be, probably even worse for the wear.  So that means I'll need to renew my supply just so I can be functional again...

Sounds alot like being an addict to me.  All I'd be doing is trading addiction, swapping out pastries for candy.  This is something I will not do, because I've simply made the promise to myself that I'll not allow myself to be enslaved by any chemical again, whether it be beneficial or not.  To me, it reeks of cheating and emotional dishonesty.  Simply put, I am a recovering addict, and I refuse to use ever again.

Another very important reason to me is along a similar vein of thought...

Whether I like it or not, these conditions I have; this madness; is part of whom I am now.  I've been dealing with this so long now, I honestly don't know if I could manage not being this way.  Maybe it's sad to admit that, but it is what it is.  Part of me is defined by this, and if I deny myself that, I deny who I am.  Yes, there are times when I truly loathe my life because of it.  Yes, there are time when I'm an intolerable megalomaniac because of it.  Yes, there are time when I'm just a mean, sadistic fuck because of it.  But irregardless, I am who I fucking am, and I really want to love myself for all of whom and what I am, not despite it.  I don't feel I can do that by artificially negating my illnesses.  I want to learn to live with the ups and down on my terms.  I doubt I can ever be entirely rid of it, but even if I could, I want to do it by my own work and determination, not by some chemical cocktail.  And if I can't be rid of it, I will at least get a personal balance with it by my own hand.  I do not need drugs to feel good about myself.

Finally, and while not as important, but probably more concrete, is my final reason...  I have been on the meds before.  For a very brief time, I took the medication.  I was on 4 or 5 pills for about 3 months, only two of which I remember now:  Zyprexa and Depakote.  To be honest, I did not like being on them.  I didn't feel like myself.  Sure, I was calmer and a lot more manageable, but it also made me feel blank and just fucking empty.  As fucked up and occasionally self-destructive as I am, anyone who knows me well enough cannot deny the natural vibrancy and energy that I have.  On the meds, I felt like I didn't have that anymore.  So I stopped taking them.   Proof is in the fucking pudding...

Besides, who needs drugs when you can just rant like a imbecile on the internet?

Who needs sleep, when you can be disemboweled instead?

Well, it's 4:30 in the morning and here I am awake...

Normally, this isn't a big deal, and far from abnormal for me.  Even before my brain looked like it received an elective surgery makeover by a very demented Clive Barker wielding a straight razor, I've been plagued by insomnia since I was little.  Nothing major.  Insomnia is a very common thing for alot of people, and I've never had any ill effects from it except frequent fatigue in the beginning.  After awhile, you get over even that.  Nowadays, I usually manage anywhere between 3-5 hours of sleep, and I usually turn out fine.

However, after two days spent in a liquor fueled delirium, I would have figured that at least tonight, I'd be able to catch some decent sleep.  Clearly, this is not the case...  Why?  The fucking nightmares...

They started in my early teens, maybe around 13 or 14 years of age.  Now, a lot of people tell me that nightmares are not a big deal, and that everyone get's them from time to time.  To those people, I say "Fuck You".  Normal people don't have nightmares like these.  Normal people don't wake up in a cold sweat from some weird brain activity during the REM cycle.  Normal people don't dream about shit best viewed in a particularly disturbing exploitation film.

The dreams always come in two types:  Shit that happened to me when I was a kid, or really fucking graphic scenarios that, as already stated, belong in an exploitation film.  I'm going to share the one that I had tonight, which was a case of the latter.  I'll not be sharing any of the former, as they occur much more rarely than the other, and because frankly, I'm not quite ready to publically discuss those particular nightmares just yet. 

So, tonight's dream...

I find myself backstage at a very old fashioned style theatre, the type that they hold plays and the like at.  Picture something very vaudevillian and very run down.  There is an intense feeling of dread hanging over me, mixed with an odd feeling of longing.  That's when a group of gentleman approach me, and tell me it's time.  A large, rusty frame work for a medical gurney is wheeled next to me, and I lay down in it as they strap me into the restraints.  Once I'm secure, they wheel me out onto stage. 

The audience is dark, and I can't immediately make out anyone in the crowd.  I know they are there, I simply cannot see them.   Suddenly a spot light hits me, and the gurney is locked into an upright position.  There is a moment of eternal silence, which is abrupty broken by the sound of a sharp, high creaking off to my right.  I look over, and I see a man and a woman approaching me, both dressed in very clothing reminiscent of an old magician's act.  They're faces are covered by a surgeon's mask and dark goggles.  The female attendant is wheeling over a metal cart to me, which is the source of the horrible creaking.    Once the cart reaches me, I see that upon it are a variety of rusted surgical tools and other menacing looking, sharp instruments. 

The magician chooses a large scalpel from the cart, and stands infront of me, slightly off to the left.  He turns to the audience, and reveals to them his selection; and as he does so, the lights in the theatre grow slightly brighter, so that I can now make out the crowd.  From the neck down, they all appear to be normal people of different varieties.  However, from the neck up, the entirety of all of their heads are covered with blood stained bandages, covering even the eyes.  There is a silence from the audience, and the magician turns to me, and passes the scalpel infront of my face, allowing my gaze to linger on it. 

Carefully, he uses the scalpel to cut my shirt off, revealing my chest and stomach, which is laced and criss-crossed with countless scars, stiches, and staples of various ages.  Some of the newer wounds are still oozing blood.  There is a low murmuring from the audience, a certain air of expectance issued with it.  The magician replaces the scalpel and selects another instrument, this one a large, vicious looking hunting knife. 

Slowly and methodically, he takes the knife and stabs me off to the side of my abdomen, and slices me wide open across the lowest point on my gut.  The pain is bright and intense, but somehow, I remain completely aware of the events of each passing seconde.  As the wound begins to gape open, some of my intestines start to peek out, and blood and gore begin to pour forth from the wound. 

The magician replaces the knife and selects something that looks like a large hook, similar to a fishing gaff, and shoves it deep into my stomach.  The pain increases a thousand fold, yet still, I am dreadfully aware of everything  happening.  It's almost as is the sheer agony is focusing and heightening my awareness.  He feels around inside my guts with the gaff for a few moments, every minute movement bring a new wave of torment and nausea with it.  Suddenly, he quickly jerks the gaff from my stomach, pulling with it a great length of my guts with it, haphazardly looped around or impaled upon the gaff.  This causes the wound to gape even wider, spilling much of my entrails to the floor beneath me. 

The magician removes my guts from the gaff with a gloved hand, and then replaces the instrument.   He then proceeds to grab up a handful of my entrails from the floor, and brings them up to my face.  For a moment, I simply believe that his intention is to show me what my insides look like, but then, he takes his free hand, and pinches down on my nose.  In a matter of mere moments, my mouth opens wide to gasp for air, and it's then that he crams a fist full of my own entrails into my mouth.  I immediately begin to vomit, a mixture of gore and puke erupting forth from my mouth like a geiser.  This does not dissuade the magician, who simply picks up more of my entrails and shoves yet another fistful into my mouth, forcing me to eat both my own guts as well as the contents of my regurgitation.  The audience stands, loudly cheering and applauding...

This is where I wake up, abruptly, covered in a cold sweat and panting for air. 



So, yeah.  That's why I'm awake. 

In other news, looks like I'm not going to be eating sausage anytime soon...

The heights of paranoid terror... And also booze.

Nothing get's you drunk quite like power... well except, perhaps, vodka and tonic.

Before I get on with more "serious" matters, I'd like to take a moment to sing the praises of the vodka and tonic, which I am currently enjoying immensely right now.  In many things, I tend to be very old school; especially as it concerns my alcohol.  While I do thoroughly enjoy the booze, there are very few things that please me more than the classics.  Martinis, a nice cold tumbler of whiskey or gin, a perfectly mixed rum and coke; you get the idea.  But it has not been until recently that I've discovered my love for the humble, yet sophisticated, vodka and tonic.  It is a subtle and complex thing, this drink; just as much intoxicating as it is refreshing.  Beyond the smooth tartness of the libation, there is a certain simple, classy appeal to the drink.  You can't help but feel that air of old fashioned sophistication while partaking in a nice, chilled glass while enjoying a cigarette.  Truly, I think the vodka and tonic has become my favorite indulgence.

But, enough or nurturing the alcoholism of my readers, however small an audience you may be...

In my previous entry, I briefly talked about my dislike of having to be in my own head.  My mind is a very chaotic place to be at times.  We all have places inside ourself that we keep locked away from others; private places in our consciousness that are just ours.  As it so happens, mine are particularly dark; and the sheer hideousness of the thoughts and ideas that dwell withing these places in my mind make the need to venture there most horrific.  I don't like facing these parts of myself.; much less the idea that they even exist and that others that have interaction with me may have to face them. 

Still, at times, there is a flat neccessity to venture into these areas of the mind....  And for the purposes of this entry, venture there I must.

I find that the best way to face these black spots in the mind is to create a dissociative buffer before diving head first.  Now, creating said type of buffer is difficult without aid.  Whom, really, can just shut themselves off from things such as fear and trepidation simply by willing it so.  Assistance is needed.  In my personal case, assistance comes in the form of getting really fucking drunk off of, say, vodka and tonic. 

The good news for those of you following this 15 car pileup that is my emotional purging is that I am now well on my way to being drunk...

Let's talk about fears, specifically, my greatest fear.  Fear is a very powerful thing, and not entirely a bad thing at that.  Fear is the ultimate survival tool.  Fear keeps you alive.  Let's say you're walking home alone after a night at the bar.  You're a little bit drunk, and it's late.  You're minding your own business, when suddenly, of to your left, you hear a voice call to you.  This voice belongs to a rather large man in a filthy, worn overcoat; and this man possesses a palpable air of menace in no small degree.  Instinctively, you know that approaching this man is going to result in much bodily harm occuring to yourself.  Do you approach?  Obviously not.  Why?  Because Fear has kicked in and given you a mental image of all the horrifying ways this man is going to, in all likelihood, disembowel and rape your corpse.

So that being said, what is my greatest fear?  Being alone?  No, I've effectively stood alone for the entirety of my life.  Not leaving behind anything meaningful?  Heh.  In the long run, we're all forgotten as we turn to dust.  No big concern to me.  No, my biggest fear is to be denied my limitations. 

To explain that, let's keep everything that I've thus said in mind.  Without these inherent limitations, I'm not exactly sure what I'm capable of.  When it comes down to it, I'm not exactly sure how deep my internal darkness goes.   Perhaps it's bottomless. 

All I know, is that being denied these limitations would be very bad...

My mind, the septic tank...

Starting this off bluntly...

Well, I'm sure this isn't going to come a shocker to anyone, but I'm batshit crazy...  Now, the term "batshit crazy" can entail alot.  Are we talking pant-shitting, tin-foil hat wearing, screaming at random strangers crazy?  Or is this more of the whole "dude has little regard for personal saftey and drinks way too much than is necessary at most social occasions"  crazy?  For me, the answer if none of the former, and only occasionally, a small bit of the latter.  But aside from my occasional forays into poor decision making and public drunkeness, there is more to my madness than what is revealed on the surface.

Before I begin, I'm going to get this out of the way, right now.  I hate bitching about my past, and any hardships I may or may not have faced.  Going into some rant about this type of thing entails dredging up a lot of painful memories, opening a lot of old wounds, and usually ends in a trip to the liquor store and the consumption of more alcohol than what is considered drinking in moderation.  Seriously, my liver can't afford another pity party.  Beyond that, I don't like talking about the past because it's exactly that, the fucking past.  I might not be over the damages done, but I'm definitely over what did the damage. 

Still, for purposes of this entry, my life growing up does provide a little insight into whom I am now.  So as a compromise, instead of going into some long, whiny rant about how shitty my life was, I'll just pull out the laundry list. 

The Laundry List is, as follows:  My childhood sucked.  Mommy didn't hug me enough.  Daddy wasn't around alot.  Step-Daddy was an abusive fuck.  The kids at school were mean.  No one ever understood me.  Santa Claus didn't give me a Stretch Fucking Armstrong for Christmas.  ect. ect. ect. ad nauseum. 
Simple fact of life here:  You grow up in a shitty enviornment, you grow up into a shitty person.  And they don't come much shittier than me.

There, does that paint the picture well enough?  Good.  Back to the subject at hand.

I've known I was pretty fucked up for awhile now.  I just didn't realize how fucked up until a few years ago, during my cookie phase.  I'd like to say that through the process of getting clean and rehab and all that, I came to this big, warm, and fuzzy life-affirming revelation about myself.  But let's face it, I'm way too fucking shallow and self-absorbed for that shit.  That bullshit if for the movies, and the movies this ain't.  No, my big revelation came from the diagnosis and analyzation of the army of psychiatrists and social workers my insurance company decided to assign to me when I went on my baked good sabbatical (i.e. trip to rehab). 

Now, I don't want anyone to misunderstand here.  There's seriously being insane, and then there's just being a touch fucked up in the head.  I definitely fall into the second category.  I am at least passably functional in society.  I'm not a serious threat to myself or anyone.  I'm not going to suddenly snap one day and run around the city in a pair of assless chaps, wielding an assault rifle.  While I'm sure that would make for a real exciting work day at the local news station, it's not going to happen.  No worries in that department...  I can't describe myself as insane.  Insane applies to having perceptions so warped that they are truly out of sync with reality.  If I were insane, I'd not even have the capacity to sit here and type down anything coherent and meaningful.  Assuming, of course, you consider any of this coherent and meaningful in the first place.  I firmly believe that anything I choose to say here is effectively emotional masturbation colored with a bit of intellectual chest thumping.  But I digress...

There is a better word to describe me.  A word the shrinks and social workers liked to throw around when they were having their little pow-wows about me.  That word is psychotic.  Specifically, in my case, mildly psychotic.  What this means, as was perfectly stated in the film "Natural Born Killers", is that I know the difference between right and wrong, I just don't give a damn.  Again, bear in mind the usage of the word mildly.  As much as I joke around about it, I am a far cry from a full-fledged sociopath.  I do actually have feelings, and on at least some level, I'm capable of compassion and genuinely caring about people.  My issue is that for any of that to happen, I have to get through the wet mechanisms of my brain. 

The normal, healthy human brain is basically the big fucking mess of neural pathways and firing impulses.  Everything that you mentally experience is a combination of a chemical and electrical process; and for a normal, well-adjusted person, the process is very smooth.  This is because most people have little to no neurological scarring.  That is not the case with me.  If you've ever seen the Costner movie (I think it's "The Man With No Face"), where he plays that english teacher with a heaily burned face, you should keep that image in mind and apply it to my grey matter.  Because that's what it looks like.  Seriously, my brain if fucking fried.

To be a bit more scientific about it, I have some moderate neurological scarring as a result of a lot of the shit I went through, which was only made worse by the years of drug abuse.  There are a number of chemical receptors in the brain that are basically there to induce feelings of calm and euphoria, as well as to alleviate stress.  Most people know these as endophin receptors, but specifically, we're talking about the seratonin and dopamine receptors.  How they work is that when you are under conditions or stimuli that would normal cause a state of calm or joy, or situations that require a calming of neurological stress levels; these endorphins, seratonin and dopamine, are released and absorbed by the receptors in your brain.  In my case, however, many of these receptors have been damaged to the point of being non-functional, thus resulting in a constant level of moderate neurological stress...

In layman's terms, my brain constantly thinks I should be pissed off, despite the presence of any reason that I should be. 

As if that wasn't enough to deal with, I'm also diagnosed with bi-polar type II and borderline personality disorders.  Of particular interest is one of the symptoms of borderline disorder; a dislike or being alone.  Part of me doubts if this is an actual symptom.  Being alone means having to crawl inside my head, and given all of this, being inside my head isn't on my list of fun things to do.  Is it really any wonder that I don't like being alone. 

Now, all this being said, I've started to come into a bit of a love/hate with my madness.  The truth of the matter is, as much as I've learned to function as normal as possible, I'll be haunted by this shit till the day I die.  For the longest time, I hated that.  This is nasty shit to have strapped to your back, and all I could do is bemoan how unfair the world was for gracing me with it's mental and emotional excrement. 

However, after awhile, you do grow up.  I don't think anyone ever really wants to, but it happens.  The instability and madness is still there, but if you're lucky, you might gain a bit of a balance with it. 

The way I see it, I have three choices, two of which are highly unrealistic...

#1- I can try to shove this down, ignore this, purge myself of it, and hope that I can return to a wonderful bright world of blissful ignorance and candy and magical rainbow animals....  Fat fucking chance of that ever happening.

#2- I can just wholly give in to all of this, and just let madness overtake me.  This, for everyone involved, is probably a really fucking bad idea.  Do we really want to see a nude, bloodsoaked, 6'3" deranged irishman going apeshit with a pipe wrench on the 5 o'clock news?  Don't think so.

#3- I can learn to suck it up, ride the waves, and maybe, just maybe, make this shit fucking work for me.  Life gives you lemons, you hack that shit into slices and use it to garnish a Long Island Ice Tea.  The way I see it, if I'm gonna be cursed with this, I'm going to have to make it work for me; and that means sucking out every ounce of whatever insight and creativity I can get from it.  Fuck you world.  You wanna make my mind the mental equivalent of New Jersey?  See if I don't find a way to grow crops in that bitch.

So there you have it.  An explanation of why I'm more fucked up than Charlie Sheen high on tiger blood, and more importantly, what I intend to do about it....

Now if only I could figure out where to fucking start.

Declaration of Intent

My first entry here.  This should probably be something important, or at least witty and interesting.  Maybe this is best served by stating my purpose for doing this?  Maybe I should start with a long-winded, oft contradictory diatribe about who I am?  Maybe I'm thinking too much about things?  Maybe I ask too many fucking questions?

Let's start this by talking of lessons learned.  Now, there's a distinction to be made here.  There are lessons, and there are lessons.  Anyone can recognize and understand a lesson to be learned.  Why do we not stick our hand in a fire?  Because it get's fucking burned.  Lesson Learned.  Why do we not downoad that extra filthy bit of german fetish porn from an unsecure source?  Because we end up getting a virus and having to shell money far out the ass to get our computer fixed.  Lesson Learned.  Why do we not drive while drunk?  Because in our drunken stupor, we will, in all probability, mow down someone's elderly grandmother; subsequentially spending the next 5-10 years in prison with a manslaughter charge, all the while getting to know our large, heavily tattooed cellmate in ways much more intimate than we'd ever care to...  Unless, of course, we're an attractive female or wealthy, in which case, we probably have a bright future in the tabloids...  Lesson Fucking Learned...

Then, of course, there are lessons. 

These types of lessons tend to be a bit more difficult to quantify in any meaningful way.  Often times, you don't even see them coming.  There's no clear "cause and effect" indicators like in the above examples.  To put it bluntly; really shitty shit happens, and if you're lucky, you learn shit from it.  Does it make it feel any better?  Not in the least; but hey, at least we can pretend that it was at least worth something. Those of you whom have had to learn these types of lessons will probably inherently understand exactly what I mean by what I just said.  For those of you priviledged few that don't, I'll try to better explain with a personal example; after telling you that I seriously envy you and your charmed life.  Must be real fucking nice to breeze through life without a worry in the world and nothing but fuzzy thoughts and unicorn shit floating around in your brain...  There, I told you.  Moving on...

Well, not quite moving on yet, as I feel the need to share another one of the small lessons, that I just now, mere seconds, ago learned.  When you want to smoke a cigarettte, and none of your lighters are working; why should we run our lazy asses down to the 7/11, which is no less than a few minutes away, as opposed to, say, using the burner on our stove to light up?  Because in the process of doing so, we'll probably end up getting too close to the burner and partially burning our eyebrows.  Lesson Fucking Learned.

Yes, I am that stupid.  Now, really moving on...

A few years back, I liked to eat cookies; and by "eat cookies", what I really mean is "snort a shit load of cocaine".  Seriously, we're talking a thick, fat railroad track of cocaine going right up my nose around every 20 minutes or so.  If I had to guess, I'd say I was spending anywhere between $300-$400 a weekend on blow; which, considering that at the time my paychecks were ballparked around $550, should tell you something about my financial condition at the time.

Now, before I go on, if anyone whom has actually read this far into this gibberish thinks I'm about to go onto some war story that boderlines on glorifying an active Tony Montana lifestyle; let me say this first:  Fuck you.  Now, let me say this second:  Cocaine is a horrible, vile, disgusting substance; at least for me.  While I'm sure that there are probably at least a number of people that can handle themselves with the occasional responsible use, that's not me.  The truth of the matter is, that during this time, I was even more self-destructive, out of control, and batshit insane than I usually am (which all of that I'm sure I'll touch upon in later entries.  My emotional agony is you're entertainment).  I don't consider myself to be the most decent human being on earth, not by a long shot; but I'd like to think that despite my many flaws and lesser traits, I do have a few redeeming qualities.  On coke, there were no redeeming qualities. 

Picture for a moment someone completely self-centered, someone with absolutely no regards towards the feelings and rights of others.  He's probably a pretty big douchebag, right?  Now, take said douchebag, and apply the following qualities to him:  Arrogance, Malevolence, Manipulativeness, Dishonesty, Moral Bankruptcy, Bitterness, and Severe Paranoia.  Got that in mind?  See how he's changed from a pretty big douchebag into the anti-hero of a Bret Easton Ellis novel?  Good.  Now, take Patrick Bateman here, and make him 6'3", slap on a few tattoos, shave his head, and make him "John Malkovich Hot"; and guess who you're looking at?  The asshole whose nonsense you're currently reading, that's who.  Bearing all that in mind, it's safe to say that I really didn't have a lot of people who liked me; and those who did I was either buying from or doing with.  So yeah, there you have it.  Completely alone, completely hooked, and all of that only fueling the negative qualities. 

I'm not going to go into a big explanation of how I got clean.  It'll suffice to say I did.  That's not what's important here.  What is important is the lesson I learned all those years ago after getting myself clean.  The lesson wasn't that I was a total sociopath on coke, and that my using ever again was a really bad idea.  No, it was more important than that.  The lesson learned was that I could change...

Which leads me to my point here, and what this whole blog is about.  Change.  As of late, there are, again, many changes needed for me; as I will eventually explain in later entries.  Sometimes, though, you can't directly see what it is that needs changing.  That's what this is for.  My hopes are that in putting my thoughts, my past, and just myself out there; I'll find those little bits of myself that I'm tired of, and be able to do something about it...

And if anyone reading this get's something out of the inane shit I babble, all the better.