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...
i wrestled a bear once
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