The Politics of Fragility and Collapse
Let me just say that I hate to whine and yet manage to squeeze a lot of it in my daily life. I am, by definition, a whiner albeit of the entertaining, non-wallowing variety. I'm a malcontent, also: on a genetic level, I lack the ability to be happy in any situation, regardless of how well I'm doing. It's Woody Allen's disease, except I'm taller, less Jewish and I wouldn't have the balls to cast Elizabeth Shue as my love interest in "Desconstructing Harry". I also hate myself and feel that I constantly let everyone around me down. Whether I have or I haven't, it doesn't matter.
Now before you start composing some well-chosen comments of support, I want you to think of this in a different way. My sickness is doubt. Not vanity, not weakness, not greed, not a lack of scruples, not hypocrisy, not bigotry, but doubt. I don't believe in anything, including myself. I can't sell the myth of life to anyone, because I don't buy it myself. I see life as a lab experiment with no discernible goal or purpose. We didn't choose to be born, we're never told what our purpose is and we're working against a deadline that isn't announced to us. If I could fake my own suicide and make it seem like a car accident or a mob hit (so that my family wouldn't be hurt), I'd do it. I simply want no part of any of this anymore.
As far as diseases go, an inability to take life seriously while trying to cope with how seriously everyone else takes it, it's not that bad a thing. Sure, I feel alone all the time and incapable of making a meaningful connection with anyone, which would probably result in a life of abject solitude, probably destitution followed by raging madness...but everyone has their demons, right?
The reason I bring all this up is because for the past twelve hours, I've endured what has been one of the worst panic attacks I've ever experienced. And I can't even take that seriously. As I lay on my jute, multi-colored carpet, trying not to puke, to stop the heart palpitations and the cold sense of dread that's wrapped around my heart like a mist, I become fascinated with my reactions and wonder how I can feel this strongly, this primally about anything. In a way, I'm grateful for the shaking, for the shuddering and for the tears streaming down my face. In a sense, they're validation that the listless apathy and clouded consciouness I've been experiencing for the better part of three months now wasn't just me acting up or not trying hard enough or simply being a baby.
My mind (both the source of my troubles and the characteristics that make me who I am) went into a state of total shitdown (that was a typo, but it's a very apt typo), incapable of processing an overload of emotions and stimuli and backlogged worry. I'm amazed that despite my inability to take this world seriously, it has this much of a hold over me. The irony, dear Brutus, has not escaped me.
I know I'm having a panic attack. And I know that it's going to pass. And I know that the panic attack is probably a result of me having gone out yesterday and Friday after weeks of being a hermit and exposed myself to the lights and colors and sounds of the outside world, all at once. I know it's a product of anxiety about the future and unhappiness with how uninspired the present has been. I know I'm constantly torn between a withering loneliness and an oppressive desire to be alone.
I know all this but I also know something else.
This too, shall pass. In a few weeks or a few months, I'll get better. The sun will shine on the dank dungeons of my fragile mind and blast all the cobwebs from whence they came. I'll stick my head out of the window and the air will smell fresh to me. I'll taste the hunger for life that I see all around and I'll crave more and more of it. My sex drive will return, in full force, and my sense of adventure and wonder at all that the world and it's denizens bring, will gush up like an icelandic geyser. I'll even ask myself if I was ever seriously unwell, or if I was just imagining it. I mean, how could I be as unhappy as I seem to remember I was, when the joy that I'm feeling now is exploding like distant sun? How could I have been that unhappy?
Well, this is a sort of reminder. A monument to the darkness and the chilly dread. A testament to the frozen anger and bewilderment and overpowering grief that I know, in time, will pass but for the time being, has me in it's taloned grip. I can't be that upset because I know it'll go away, just like I don't trust the joy that follows, because I know the darkness will return.
I feel like shit. I'm going to take a Lunesta, maybe some anti-anxiety meds and go lie down and hopefully when I wake up, I'll go back to being just bored and uninspired. I haven't taken any drugs in about six months but I know if I had some weed and did about twelve lines, I would feel much better. At least, those are drugs that I know do their job. Doctor-prescribed drugs don't work but they make society pleased, while street drugs work but they scare the shit out America.
I hate this fucking place.
Now before you start composing some well-chosen comments of support, I want you to think of this in a different way. My sickness is doubt. Not vanity, not weakness, not greed, not a lack of scruples, not hypocrisy, not bigotry, but doubt. I don't believe in anything, including myself. I can't sell the myth of life to anyone, because I don't buy it myself. I see life as a lab experiment with no discernible goal or purpose. We didn't choose to be born, we're never told what our purpose is and we're working against a deadline that isn't announced to us. If I could fake my own suicide and make it seem like a car accident or a mob hit (so that my family wouldn't be hurt), I'd do it. I simply want no part of any of this anymore.
As far as diseases go, an inability to take life seriously while trying to cope with how seriously everyone else takes it, it's not that bad a thing. Sure, I feel alone all the time and incapable of making a meaningful connection with anyone, which would probably result in a life of abject solitude, probably destitution followed by raging madness...but everyone has their demons, right?
The reason I bring all this up is because for the past twelve hours, I've endured what has been one of the worst panic attacks I've ever experienced. And I can't even take that seriously. As I lay on my jute, multi-colored carpet, trying not to puke, to stop the heart palpitations and the cold sense of dread that's wrapped around my heart like a mist, I become fascinated with my reactions and wonder how I can feel this strongly, this primally about anything. In a way, I'm grateful for the shaking, for the shuddering and for the tears streaming down my face. In a sense, they're validation that the listless apathy and clouded consciouness I've been experiencing for the better part of three months now wasn't just me acting up or not trying hard enough or simply being a baby.
My mind (both the source of my troubles and the characteristics that make me who I am) went into a state of total shitdown (that was a typo, but it's a very apt typo), incapable of processing an overload of emotions and stimuli and backlogged worry. I'm amazed that despite my inability to take this world seriously, it has this much of a hold over me. The irony, dear Brutus, has not escaped me.
I know I'm having a panic attack. And I know that it's going to pass. And I know that the panic attack is probably a result of me having gone out yesterday and Friday after weeks of being a hermit and exposed myself to the lights and colors and sounds of the outside world, all at once. I know it's a product of anxiety about the future and unhappiness with how uninspired the present has been. I know I'm constantly torn between a withering loneliness and an oppressive desire to be alone.
I know all this but I also know something else.
This too, shall pass. In a few weeks or a few months, I'll get better. The sun will shine on the dank dungeons of my fragile mind and blast all the cobwebs from whence they came. I'll stick my head out of the window and the air will smell fresh to me. I'll taste the hunger for life that I see all around and I'll crave more and more of it. My sex drive will return, in full force, and my sense of adventure and wonder at all that the world and it's denizens bring, will gush up like an icelandic geyser. I'll even ask myself if I was ever seriously unwell, or if I was just imagining it. I mean, how could I be as unhappy as I seem to remember I was, when the joy that I'm feeling now is exploding like distant sun? How could I have been that unhappy?
Well, this is a sort of reminder. A monument to the darkness and the chilly dread. A testament to the frozen anger and bewilderment and overpowering grief that I know, in time, will pass but for the time being, has me in it's taloned grip. I can't be that upset because I know it'll go away, just like I don't trust the joy that follows, because I know the darkness will return.
I feel like shit. I'm going to take a Lunesta, maybe some anti-anxiety meds and go lie down and hopefully when I wake up, I'll go back to being just bored and uninspired. I haven't taken any drugs in about six months but I know if I had some weed and did about twelve lines, I would feel much better. At least, those are drugs that I know do their job. Doctor-prescribed drugs don't work but they make society pleased, while street drugs work but they scare the shit out America.
I hate this fucking place.
posted by Basil Epicurus at 3:02 PM
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