takethisforexample | Entries tagged with analysis

I always say I’m sick, or that I feel sick when I’m probably not. Feigning illness is a compulsion I experience because I am a hypochondriac, and since I’m aware of it I tend not to listen to my body when it becomes truly sick, but I know without a doubt that I am right now.

I don’t know what it is but I’m not jumping to conclusions. Unfortunately the feeling of being actually sick is so uncomfortable and anxiety inducing for me that I feel completely restless. Being physically ill leaves me helpless and out of control. I’d maybe be more comfortable if I had a person looking after me, or maybe my cat to keep me company, but I think it’s important for me to tough this out alone. I need to learn how to get through stuff like this without other people because they can’t be there for me all the time. Yeah, it sucks, but even if I feel like shit this can at least be an opportunity.

Hypochondria is another drip in the bucket when it comes to my severe and progressive OCD, which has been a repeating theme here because God does it affect me. It makes somewhat normal occurrences like this very painful and difficult. I am so overwhelmed by the thought of my plans being messed up by this that I feel distressed, on top of the physical discomfort. It is finals week and I have a lot of work to do but I can’t even get up to take aspirin. I’m completely stressed out.

Recently I feel all I talk about on here is pain. Frankly I’ve been struggling and I know I need professional help again. I can endure sickness for a couple days, but I can’t manage my conditions alone anymore. I need someone real to talk to and I need guidance. Because at moments like this I realize how easy it is for me to lose my grip and fail to manage all these responsibilities. I feel like I have no one to talk to about OCD because I struggle with my mental health so frequently that it gets redundant and frustrating for others. I just haven’t been very happy recently. As much as I sit with my feelings I can’t help but resent them. My drug use as of recently has been absurd because of this. I need to go back to therapy and I’m so scared to tell my parents.

I guess writing helps me take my mind off it a little. The reason I write about this negative stuff all the time is because it is like looking in a mirror. In my reflection now I see an anxious and lonely person. As long as I can recognize those vulnerabilities I can work on them. It’s my most useful tool even though it probably makes this blog sort of depressing.

I wish I could write more to keep myself distracted but I can’t write forever. I really don’t want to burden my friends with this but I want to talk about it so bad. It takes all my strength to remind myself that I’m not dying. OCD has such a grip on me. It’s suffocating. Whatever, I’ll get through it.

I shaved my head today. This is the second time I've done this for reasons I can't explain. I will preface that it's not something I wanted to do, but it had to be done.

I am not very confident in how I look. I'm genuinely ashamed of that because I know that the universe is too big and life is too short for me to be worrying about it. But I also don't think it's wrong for me to want to feel good about myself, so it's sort of conflicting.

I still have a long way to go with being confident of myself physically. I have faith in myself emotionally and intellectually, I know I'm worth something. That outweighs anything, but I feel limited by how I feel about my body. Really the only one who can change that is me, and although I don't feel particularly good about my appearance after shaving my head, it feels so good to touch my own hair and not feel horrible about it. Maybe that's a start for me, to feel empowered by that. Many people know that I don't like having my hair touched by others. Not many know that I don't even like having it touched by me.

I really want to talk about this somewhere. I've been working myself up to talk about it. I don't think I've met anyone in a similar situation, honestly, it's so bizarre. Most people take something like hair on their head for granted. I think if anyone who can relate to me reads this, they know exactly what I'm dealing with despite the vagueness. They know that shame, and that lack of confidence. It's isolating. To be able to hurt your own body in this way and to endure the societal consequences is hands down the most difficult thing I have ever dealt with in my life, mostly because it has been 11 years and I have not made any progress. In spite of years of therapy, medications, scolding, everything, nothing has been able to fix it. My whole life I felt I could never be pretty. I was told growing up that I would never be pretty. I don't feel pretty, I can pretend it. But I also know that feeling pretty isn't everything. When I do something like this for myself (shaving my head) I feel strong, and it took me years to realize that that's more important in the end.

I'm proud of myself for today even though it was really difficult to convince myself to go through with it. I know this entry is probably confusing from an outside perspective, but this is also a step forward. Even if I can't shake this whole thing, I can at least put myself in a position where I don't have to feel so much shame.

Maybe.

We'll see.

At my parent’s house there’s this cabinet filled with old media junk. It’s been the same me whole life, with CDs and DVDs and cassettes all thrown sort of randomly in there, although each one is precisely labeled. I was digging through there while pretty high today trying to find CDs for burning me and Corey’s freshly finished album onto (long story) and quickly became distracted by all the archival family footage. I made my mom load up some of the CDs on her laptop and we looked through some videos of me in 2006. It’s weird looking back on that footage now since I feel so disconnected from that little kid. My mom commented on the video nostalgically, with the same love and pride she had for that cute young version of me. It was kind of funny and endearing.

I like looking back on old stuff like that. Anything that predates me having a smartphone is mostly organized in a vast library of physical and digital media that my parents have carefully curated. They also have boxes of old school projects, holiday cards, lunch notes, drawings, and every Sandra Boynton family calendar dating back to like, 2007 or something. It’s a little insane. But that stuff really scratches an itch for me. I could go through it for hours. Most of it I haven’t seen before, but there a few things that I actually look at pretty regularly. Specifically a couple notes from my dad and a card he gave me for my birthday a couple years ago.

I feel there are very few stories I am incapable of telling on this blog, but they definitely exist. There is one in particular that ties into some deep seated trauma and since the subject matter is hard for other people to understand, I prefer to keep it under wraps. But back when it first happened when I was eight, my dad began leaving notes for me in my room to try and get me to come around. At the time I felt ashamed of myself and felt guilty that he had felt the need to reassure me like that, to the point where I loathed finding them. They were all little blurbs about what my dad loved about me, written in his distinctive dad-esque handwriting. I still have them. I put a few in my personal archive box because I felt horrible throwing them out, but looking back on them now, they are some of my most important possessions. I look at them once in awhile. I can’t really place why, they just mean a lot to me.

As for the birthday card, it’s one of those cheesy Hallmark cards with the bad photoshop and everything. But on the inside, my dad wrote “I love you for everything you are and what you will be.” Since I received it at 16 it has been a special momento of mine. Something I look at when I need to feel reassured. It’s something that when I think about it can easily make me cry.

Now that I’m at this age, obviously my parents don’t know everything about me anymore and I do a lot of junk they would definitely hate. I seriously worry about dying suddenly in a freak accident and they somehow read this blog. I’m pretty sure they’d flip at half of this stuff or feel like they failed or something. Obviously I don’t think they failed for the record. Or else I wouldn’t keep personal possessions like that so close to me. My parents love their kids more than anything and although we’ve all had our moments, I’m happy to have a healthy relationship with them now.

Looking through old media and items is a very intimate experience for me. I feel good about my early childhood even though I can’t remember most of it without the help of home videos and pictures and stuff. It keeps me humble and reminds me of what’s important. Even just watching those videos with my mom, I felt a closeness with her that I would never get any other way. Home media has a way of doing that to people.

I’m starting to experience symptoms of seasonal depression despite my best efforts.

My family is riddled with mental illness. It has been something I’ve dealt with from a young age. I can’t really remember a time when I wasn’t an anxious person despite having a good upbringing, which I know seems bad but I don’t really think too much about it, honestly. I only really remind myself of it when I experience periods of anxiety or depression.

Recently I can’t shake the feeling that I am unworthy of attention from others. I think I fell out of shape socially when I went to college, which has obviously been very lonely for me. I was excited to go back north for Thanksgiving to see my friends and family, but I think it is starting to stress me out. My friends and I miss each other, but I feel guilty being around them, like I don’t deserve their company. I especially feel this way about my parents who have done so much for me that I feel I can never repay them. On one hand there is this compulsive need to sustain and reciprocate twofold the kindness of my friends, and on the other is the insecurity I have about not being able to reciprocate all that my parents have given me. In both cases, I feel deeply guilty about being cared for by others and anxious because I know how I feel isn’t normal.

These thought patterns are a familiar sign to me. I know how seasonal depression works and I’m just dreading all the moments ahead where I think irrationally or become upset. It’s sort of tiring. At times like this I wish I was still seeing my therapist, who is paid to listen to me so it doesn’t feel like I am too imposing. That has become a fear of mine again. I feel pretty guilty about things that I do frequently, like talking. Or accidentally side stepping people at the grocery store. Maybe just existing in general.

I really don’t like writing about stuff like this. It feels sort of self-absorbed and needy even if this blog only has three readers. I don’t want advice really. I want to be left alone. Even though I will be seeing people all week, the hollowing feeling that follows the fun almost makes it not worth it. It gets me down so bad. I really hope I will return to college thinking this week was worth it.

I love making fun of all that zodiac bullshit about “making strides in your career” and “finding interpersonal success”. Earlier in my teens, I sort of arrogantly juxtaposed myself to mainstream pseudoscience and learned a lot about it, despite having a harsh approach. Truthfully, the zodiac interests me in the same way that I despise it because it’s easy to make fun of. I often wonder why people get so caught up in their horoscopes when it is obviously just a made up superstition, but I have no right to scoff at those people, do I? Every human sits and waits and wishes for the affirmations that the zodiac always promises. Money, love, success, whatever. And in that sense, horoscopes are smart for taking advantage of that universal human desire. I might look down on people who are vulnerable or unwitting enough to believe in that stuff, but I understand why it works. The same way I understand why witchcraft works, The Watchtower Society, Christianity, Heaven’s Gate, and even Nazism.

Now, I’m not saying that any of these things are on the same scale as one another (obviously believing in zodiacs is not the same as Nazism), but they all have something in common. I’m hardly the first to talk about it. All of these groups and communities are similar in that they spread their ideology by means of satisfying basic human desires. Vulnerable people fall for these things because they don’t have the intuition, at least at that moment, to see past this repeating strategy.

Zodiac signs affirm a person’s behavior and provide stability and direction to a person’s life. Witchcraft, in a similar way, relies on affirmation and ritual to garner these things. These practices are benign enough to not impede a person’s normal life for the most part, but they still apply meaning and comfort in a false way.

More intensely, Christianity, or any religion for that matter, provides all of the above in addition to community. And that is a key component of how these belief systems function. Nowadays, indoctrination of the youth is largely how these religions perpetuate, but they are still able to effectively recruit outsiders. People who can’t tell any better, who have questions they can’t answer, or who feel they have nothing left. Regardless of a person’s situation, their faith will always provide that feeling of belonging, which is by far the most important social quality for most humans if you ask me. Religion makes that easy, and in all cases abuses that desire by weaving a person’s perspective on life into a narrow string even if they tell you otherwise. I would go as far as saying that the practices of modern religions are cult-like or at least close to it. In America I’ve grown up seeing how Christianity and Catholicism breed hatred for all types of people and practices, and that has always been outlandish to me. Christians in particular feel a sense of unity from judging things they were raised not to understand, and that is the most human thing I’ve ever heard. At it’s core, modern American faith is a capitalist construct to a degree that I am not nearly informed enough to explain. But I know that it is money-hungry and keen on pushing a very specific agenda. God forbid, literally, that I see a naked woman on television or get an abortion or identify the way I do. The American deviation from original biblical texts is also laughable. We pray to a white Jesus and say that God hates gay people as if he said it right there in the book. Millions upon millions of dollars pour into the pockets of religious leaders and organizations every year to pay off yachts, tropical vacations, and huge cookie cutter mansions in the midwest. If not that, then something more nefarious. Those people know exactly what they are doing and I have no doubt about that.

When you zoom out, it’s easy to see the commonalities of all faiths in their modern context. They are businesses that have the incentive of exercising control over large portions of their respective societies. The reason they work is because they satisfy people’s need to feel a part of something and establish a sense of normality. Followers have all the support they could ever ask for, guidelines for life, and when they die they know exactly where they will be going. Religion is the answer to every question, the thing that two people have in common, and the structure for a “happy” life. And if you ask me, it’s an excuse for someone to feel like a good person because they can’t figure that one out for themselves. As long as it is lucrative, religion will continue to create these homogeneous, sterile people. I think this system is easily observed in my country. Corey told me that a notable part of America in the eyes of other countries is its rampant Christianity, which at first confused me. It had never occurred to me that faith functioned differently elsewhere, but it does.

In any iteration, I believe that organized religion is fucking disgusting.

And even something like that seems benign when you look at textbook cults like Jehovah’s Witnesses or Heaven’s Gate. JW is the easiest cult to pick apart in terms of analyzing means of control over it’s members. The Watchtower Society is smart with how it isolates itself and has a thorough understanding of how media works. Every year it releases mounds of media specifically catered to the religion. I’m talking weird stuff, like doomsday scenarios and children cartoons about telling people to stop being gay. There really isn’t much reason for members to watch content that isn’t made by or approved by The Watchtower Society, which further permeates the organization’s beliefs into the minds of its members. The authorities of the cult also keep a strict set of rules for followers. JWs can’t have solid careers and are encouraged to be working class with families. They are also encouraged or forced to spend as much time at the Kingdom Hall or with the religion as possible. They can’t have birthdays, hobbies, or any sense of individuality. There’s also some strange ones like a ban on tight pants because they are associated with gay men. But pants aside, what breaks my heart about JWs is that they are taught to believe that their faith should be the at forefront of their lives, and that nothing good exists outside of it. For people who are raised into the cult, that is largely true. The fear of being disfellowshipped is so strong with members that they live in a constant state of perfection. If they deviate even once, they can lose everything they have ever known, and that jump is too great and too intimidating for people to leave even if they have suspicions. You seriously can’t blame them. If a person leaves the cult, they lose their family, their friends, and their sense of belonging. Combine that with the fact that The Watchtower Society sucks money out of its members and you are faced with a fully functioning business, one that is self sustaining and profits off of its blatant exploitation of oblivious people who are actually encouraged to remain impoverished for the sake of Jehovah.

As for Nazism, it’s actually not as complicated as people think because it has some congruency with less despicable things of the same nature. Nazism is a sense of belonging that is built out of immense brainwashing and hatred. I’m talking people who have seriously hit rock bottom and have nothing left to live for. There is a Nazi problem in prisons, where inmates become so hungry for safety and family that they don’t care what beliefs they must adopt. It isn’t the initial recruitment that makes a Nazi. It’s living with constant exposure to Nazism that ultimately creates one, especially if Nazis are the ones providing that feeling of belonging. In recent decades that threat has moved online, and encountering literal Nazis on the internet is not exactly an uncommon phenomenon. Young people especially are subject to grooming, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t know people who were victims of this in the past. Nazism thrives online because it targets confused children and people who have nothing else to live for. People who were definitely failed in one way or another. In real life, it festers in every city even if it is a small presence. Unlike religion or Jehovah’s Witnesses, it’s actually hated in the eyes of most people, but that doesn’t mean its strategies aren’t similar. Just like everything else, it exploits that need to fit in somewhere, even if somewhere is anywhere.

In many ways I am angry that people must live in these states. I could extend this “desire to belong” thing to all aspects of modern societies and everything we are exposed to on a regular basis. Everything from conspiracy theorists to sports fans to American patriots. I could talk for ages about how weird it is that we wear clothing or use silverware, along with all the other universal standards of normalcy but it would be a waste of time. The bottomline is that everyone looks for a sense of belonging. Most people look for the things they want to hear whether they recognize it or not, and most people wants to feel loved. It really isn’t a bad thing until it manifests in the form of paranormal beliefs and hate groups. And I do think there are people, very few people, who can live without it. I’m certainly not one of them and nobody I know is, but there are always outliers.

As for me feeling like I belong, well I’ll find that place one day. Or maybe I won’t, and I’ll remain a butterfly the way I have for so long. That’s fine by me because I am fascinated by everything and have a lot of hobbies, but I already know that what I’m looking for isn’t there. Belonging, for me, is something I can’t really describe but I see it in other people and I think that feeling will come when I have either a partner or a child. Someone I can devote everything to and be loved deeply in return, and know that everything I work for will have been worth it for that person. Besides that I think the closest I can get is involved with music, radio, and my local scenes. But hey, that’s just me. I know some people my age who get the same feeling from going to cosplay conventions and that’s cool, too. It’s such a specific and personal thing, and I hate to see it twisted in the ways I described.

However, I have no faith that any of the systems in place will change anytime soon. Sorry. I'm not much of a wishful thinker.

I told myself I'd step away from writing to gather myself, but God knows that would never work. I like to write. It's all I want to do sometimes even if I can't.

Anyways,

"Sometimes a way of seeing is a way of not seeing."

I've been stuck in my little loop. I'm still lonely, and I'm learning to be okay with that. The last few weeks I had all sorts of junk planned, and I've been learning so much about myself that it actually makes me uncomfortable. It feels like I've figured myself out and narrowed my point of view. I hate that. The last thing I want to figure out is myself. Anyone who reads this blog knows how I feel about identity, although I guess that's only me now since I became paranoid and made all my entries private. But that's beside the point. I'm shallow now. One way of thinking, one way of seeing. There's so much I don't get to see because of that.

And there's so much I haven't written about, too. Things that were once new to me are now redundant to write about, but I still want to talk about them. And that's the point of this entry, so I'll make haste.

First of all, I went to a real punk gig in Philly a couple weeks ago. I was unbelievably excited about it, too. It was the type of small show where you have to ask the organizers where the address is, and you can imagine my excitement when I found out this thing was going to be held at a place called "Walmart Beach". Walmart fucking Beach. It's exactly what you think it is, too. Walmart Beach is an abandoned pier behind a Walmart that looks out over the Delaware river. Beautiful view. Hilariously on brand for a punk show. And my god was the show amazing. It was only 30 or so people including me and Vic (who I dragged along for the ride). I'm still new to going to shows and this was a really important event for me. Magical, even. The bands were amazing, the night was perfect, and I didn't feel uncomfortable at all. In fact, although I had deemed it wishful thinking, strangers actually talked to me there. I made three friends and it didn't feel contrived like I thought it would. They were really my type of people, and I want to meet more people like that. Unfortunately, they were from Philadelphia so it's not like I'll be seeing them regularly or something, but I'll never forget how they made me feel that night. Those people absolutely made my night. Especially that one guy, Jagger, who had a flip phone with an app that generates dad jokes. We stood around for 20 minutes laughing about it, all of us inebriated in one way or another. They all hugged me when I left. It was great. I'm forever grateful for Walmart Beach and that awesome night.

I made some plans for Halloween for myself since I knew I'd be alone. I was honestly okay with that. It's been a few years since I've had a memorable Halloween, so I made a day out of it on the 30th. First, the Cape May Zoo had a Halloween event so I went in costume (I was a Malachite butterfly) and walked around the zoo for a couple hours. Animals make me so happy. And little kids who shout "Butterfly!" when they see me also make me happy. I saw some animals I was really looking forward to seeing, like the scarlet ibises and red pandas. Being alone, I could just stare for as long as I wanted at any given exhibit, too, so that was cool. I don't even know how long I spent in the aviary. Overall it was a pretty wholesome event...

...too wholesome for Halloween. Which is why I also got a ticket for The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Atlantic City, something I know to be a Halloween classic but wanted to experience blindly. Now, generally I don't like these types of things. Stage productions were never my jam, and even overdone Broadway shows were never that interesting to me. But when I tell you I had the time of my life at this picture show, I mean it. For starters, a bunch of the audience members were dressed up as characters from the movie and some of them were almost naked which confused me. But I knew from the moment the cast came on stage and encouraged everyone to get drunk that I was in for something strange. I knew that this movie had a weird cult following, but I didn't anticipate something like this. At certain points in the movie, people shout obscenities at the characters, which I didn't know about. I also didn't know about the part where everyone throws stuff at the stage and makes a huge mess of the theater. My favorite part was when there was a joke about cards in the movie and suddenly a billion playing cards went flying everywhere. It was wonderful to me, and totally exceeded the expectations I had for some tame Halloween performance. No, this was raunchy and ironic and totally up my alley. The actors were fantastic, and hearing them talk about the movie was cool, too. I walked out of the theater so ecstatic that I called my mom to tell her about it. Maybe I'll make this a tradition.

I also took a card from the floor home with me. It's hanging on my wall now.

As for actual Halloween night, Corey and I were on call for 10 hours tripping out. That was fun, I forget most of it though. A great bonding experience nevertheless. I felt really close to him after that and I'm really grateful to have him as a friend. I didn't really realize this before but despite being painfully different in many ways, we are actually very similar people. Tripping together was cool even though I had another bad comedown and freaked out the morning after. I'm getting rid of my tabs, it's just for the better.

Overall, I'd say things are going pretty well. My social life is about as good as it can be at the moment, and I'm generally happy. I've gotten used to being happy doing things alone and creating good experiences for myself without friends by my side. Actually, things are little too stable for my liking. Maybe I'll have a nice, refreshing crisis soon to rid me of this complacency. But that's not something I can force. I might as well enjoy myself in the meantime. October has been an awesome month.

And thus begins another cycle of self-identification. What has happened to me? When did I become so uncomfortable?

As anyone who reads this blog may know, all throughout this summer I lived happily in some sort of weird, crazy, probably drug-induced enlightenment. I didn't sweat the small stuff, I didn't get upset at all really, and I was mindful. Recently I've felt the complete opposite of that, but it has slipped from me gradually over the last couple weeks. I'm not unhappy I don't think, but I've returned to letting little things get to me. And I'm certainly less humble than I was. Maybe it's the seasonal depression? Yet, I was fine in January of this year (usually my worst month) so I doubt I can blame it on the season. It could be because I lack the support networks I had back at home, but I haven't found myself missing my job or family recently, so it's probably not that.

Or maybe I peaked over the summer and now all time until my death will be spent in intellectual decay. Which would really make no sense because peaking is a myth, and even if it weren't I refuse to let myself become worse off than I was at any given point. I'm always peaking. That's my thing, for fuck's sake. Whatever bullshit is getting me down right now, I will annihilate it. Done it before, I can do it again.

I'm prescribing myself some meditation, two times a day for a week. Nothing gets me back on my game like sitting silently for 15 minutes at a time. I could do with a hike or something as well, although I'm in nature regularly enough as it is. I have to work myself into the habit of seeing the beauty in everything again. I need to foster that love and let it flourish. Everyone is just doing their best. There's no point in being angry, really. Life doesn't cease to be beautiful and I won't let myself believe anything else.

Back in the springtime I really began to ask myself what matters most to me in life. What my long term goals are, what I want to prioritize. It's time to think about that again. What is important to me? My health and happiness, first and foremost. Then my friends and all the people I am able to bring joy to. This answer has been consistent for awhile. I'm thinking back to what I affirmed in an entry back in May:

"More than anything, I want to send forth a love that is profound, ceaseless, and agape. That is all that matters to me."

I was doing pretty good for awhile, admittedly. I think I just need to sit down and refresh myself. In the end, I'm the only one who can regulate my emotions. And I'm also the only one who can exercise control over my reactions to things around me. Sometimes I feel like that wisdom escapes me. After all, I'm like, 18, and I don't know shit about fuck. I feel 18 the way I want to get plastered every night and deliberately put myself in danger for the fun of it. But that doesn't mean I'm a complete idiot, and frankly, I should know better.

I am very sleep deprived.

Today I went to Hoboken and visited Amanda. Nothing about this was very notable. I met some of her friends and I noticed for the first time since college began that I am definitely not like these other college kids. I stand out in a crowd, not because of how I look but because of how I act. At times it can be a very isolating feeling. Amanda is doing well with her new friend group though, and they are good people. I'm happy for her. I just wish I could say the same about myself.

After I got done catching up, around 10:00, I felt melancholy. I walked to an area on her campus that overlooked the Hudson and took a seat on a bench. It's a difficult view to get. The entire New York skyline sat before me in it's usual lively way, with distant wails of sirens and wind off the river. On the other side the world was breathing. I pictured the girls in stilettos walking out of clubs, the men in the pubs watching the game, the millionaires in their penthouses looking over the city in a similar, lonely way. I know it all happens away from here, far from me, yet so close. And that’s the observation that really got me thinking. I've played the hand I've been dealt pretty damn well, but I want more from this life and I want more now. As in, my desire to experience new things has become so potent that I can’t snuff it anymore. I wish the world would just swallow me up and spit me out in 10 or so years, like send me on some wicked journey that challenges everything about myself or something. Drop me into that city and see what happens. It really would be perfect to just disconnect from this identity and suddenly assume another for awhile. I want to be something new, something intangible. I want to experience a higher love, and for this I am greedy. I have everything I ever wanted in college at my fingertips; wonderful friends, near perfect grades, any substance I could ever ask for a phone call away, and still I feel something is missing. Something that everyone seems to possess except me. But there are some things I just can’t have, and whatever that thing is, it is one of them.

Across the river, the city weeps with temptation. I want nothing more than to be a part of it.

It’s been awhile since I’ve been at the house alone. Friday was the first day in September that actually felt like autumn. There was a weird silence when I got home- the house was empty but in a somewhat disturbing way. My parents have been “empty nesters” for a month now and the house is cleaner than ever. It looks the way it does in my head when I think of home, but it isn’t really “home” anymore.

This time of year, my mom likes to have the windows open. I don’t like being cold, but I like hearing everything outside. Mostly just trees shaking, cars going by, pedestrians talking, whatever happens in a redundant New Jersey suburb. In years past I used to sit on the couch in the family room underneath a bunch of blankets and just listen. Now I’m big enough to not freeze to death, but I still do the same thing. It’s not familiar anymore. I feel like I’m not supposed to be there.

I’ve been trying to separate myself from home, and from abuse. Living away has helped me recognize harmful dynamics that were happening at home, almost exclusively with my mother. I don’t like being controlled and I don’t like being hurt. Now that I can identify what was happening at home, I don’t want to be there. And if I could return to a time before anything ever occurred and I was happy, I wouldn’t. The home I love stopped existing when I was 13, and so now I don’t want to be home.

So that’s the bad news. The good news is much better.

The other day, I got to see Korn with my close friend Vincent. Vincent and I used to be best friends, but we drifted a couple years ago and went our own ways. We’re on perfectly fine terms though, and we have been talking more recently. I got free tickets to this concert and I don’t even listen to Korn, but Vin is really into them so I thought it would be fun to go together. We made a whole thing about it and tailgated before the concert. To me there’s nothing remarkable about getting high and rocking out anymore. I just do that all the time now. Hotbox the car into oblivion, head bang until I herniate myself, you get the idea. We had a great time.

The best part about that concert for me, though, was getting to experience Vincent’s excitement for it. Vin doesn’t really have a great home life and can’t get out much, so this was a big deal for him. I knew I had to bring him when I got my hands on the tickets, and I’m really glad I did because at one point I looked over and he had such a huge smile on his face. I dragged him up into the lawn seats and we were just going wild. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that excited, honestly. I mean, I’ve known this kid for four years and I’ve seen when things were really bad. It feels amazing to see him happy and know that our relationship now isn’t built on solace and shared pain anymore. We were there for each other during the worst parts of both of our lives, but now I see a future where we aren’t hurting and can have fun together like we were never able to. It’s just such a relief to me.

I respect Vincent quite a bit, and I realized that the other night. He always pushes through. There were times in my life where I was doubtful but I think he will live a happy and abuse-free life. Karma better come back around for that kid, I swear.

Things are not as lovely as they were for the first two weeks of college. I still have a lot to learn about regulating my emotions and managing my mental health in general. As it gets colder I can feel the joy being sucked out of me like it always does and the loathing is driving me up the wall. I haven't been myself at all. It feels awful.

To start, I haven't had a proper meal in four days and just a couple days ago I realized I went two days straight without eating. When I look in the mirror I can see my ribs and when I noticed that yesterday I started crying. I don't have a scale here to weigh myself so I can't keep track of my weight and that has almost definitely contributed to my poor eating habits, but if I were to get a scale I would probably enter that obsessive neurotic state I had at home. I am trying to do better but I'm just not hungry, or I'm too anxious to eat.

Additionally, to no one's surprise, I am so lonely that it is actually debilitating. But this is a perpetual problem in my life. No matter what I do, no matter where I go and who I talk to I always feel lonely in the end. 8,000 people attend my school, you'd think at least one would be able to keep up with me. That's always the hardest part. I just need one person who can meet my ridiculously high standards for a mutual friendship, although I don't know how ridiculous they are anymore. I just want someone who isn't afraid to say they've got my back. I can't think of anyone who has been able to prove that to me. Also, is it too much to ask for someone to initiate something for once? I'm so used to not having that happen that when it does it makes me unreasonably happy. It hardly ever happens. Of course I still love my current friends, without a doubt, but sometimes I feel like I'm settling, and texting doesn't always cut it for me. I don't know. I feel guilty for being lonely, even if it is how I truly feel.

The days are getting shorter and the air is getting colder. Every other day something reminds me that this wonderful summer is ending. If I'm to anticipate seasonal depression, I need to be prepared for it. I need a good support system, socially and personally. I think I've been doing alright lately aside from the poor eating habits, so that will get my immediate attention. Aside from that I've still been staying active and getting out of the house, I'm still kicking. I don't really know what to do about the loneliness though. This isn't a new problem, and I've been running in circles for ages now. I guess I need to find new solutions.

… And although I boast about hatred and anger, I can’t help but find myself a constant victim of love. No matter how much disdain I harbor for everything, I can never truly shut down and reduce myself to a bitter state. Sincerity is the trait I value most, even if it has no place here.

I don’t like when people write me off as sheltered or foolish for being cheerful. As if I don’t see what’s fucked up about humanity or feel negatively about it. I think it’s a side effect of a deeply rooted societal or maybe artistic standard. In the words of Ursula K. Le Guin,

“The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting.”

There is a happiness that exists outside of the themes of ignorance and optimism that we are used to. What turns people away from it is the manner in which we judge feelings relative to our intelligence. Where suffering is genius and happiness is idiotic. We believe that knowledge should come at a cost, that it must be grandly punished for what it is. Those who suffer from their knowledge are unknowing martyrs of this unfortunate trope.

But hatred is a single story of doom and defeat- an imposed narrative that needs to be broken away from. Misery then, in these cases, is a state of complacency, isn't it? If being intelligent strips us of our authenticity and benevolence, then can't we at least try to preserve it? If not out of necessity, then at least out of spite?

My Principles of Journalism course is insufferable. I am seriously astonished by the idiocy of my professor and classmates. I'm not usually one to put myself above others in academic settings but I am just blown away by the shallow contributions of the people in this specific course.

Just now, my class was asked about their vision for the future of journalism (as in what they want to see, not what they can easily predict). All of the people who answered wanted to see news media prevail on social apps like Instagram, Twitter, Tiktok, etc.. And as I type they are battling about which social app is the best for news.

How about none of them? Isn't that the obvious answer? Look, I can't completely discredit the unique media ecosystems of social media platforms, but anyone with a fleck of intelligence knows that the we live in an age of misinformation and commercial content. Many of the grudges I hold with liberalism and the trivial, self-gratifying beliefs of my generation are perpetuated and spread on these platforms. Social media has bred a generation of people who fail to challenge the validity of content they are consuming and adopt the most homogenized doctrines with an illusion of individual importance. They all want to die on Liberal Hill. Liberal Mount Olympus. There is a giant Tiktok orgy happening up there full of black squares and change.org petitions.

The future of journalism is obviously digital and the scape of news media is always becoming worse and worse. It’s a congealed sludge. Corruption, uniformity, commercialism, exploitation. Nothing can be trusted. Social media, on a political level, has stripped us of our ability to think critically, and it's so obvious and yet no one seems brave enough to dip their toes in the water and challenge what they know to be real or right. I am not one of them anymore, and university is making that painfully clear.

Why am I here? Why did I choose this major?

I'm always talking and thinking and learning about nonconformity. I love things that go against the grain. I hate society. I've been effectively indoctrinated by various people into despising the status quo. I am weird as Hell. So that begs the question:

Why the fuck am I so anxious about what other people think of me?

I've been pondering this since last night and honestly, I think it has to do with the few specks of trauma I have mustered up from childhood. Growing up, I was encouraged to be my weird self up until a certain point. Once I hit those horrible tween years things got rough at school and with my parents, and that is when I think my confidence began to decline. I was harassed at school pretty often and ridiculed by certain people, and my mom in particular didn't seem exactly proud of me. People encourage you to be yourself until it strays a little too far from what they are used to. After that, you are nothing more than a laughing stock. Experiencing that reality when I was young really fucked with my head. Whatever I was supposed to be during middle and high school, I simply wasn't because (and this is the most important line here) I found that it is easier to conform than to deal with the consequences of nonconformity.

This concept can be clearly seen in how I've dressed over the years. I only started dressing the way I want to relatively recently, maybe in the last year and a half. But I'm still terribly worried about dressing certain ways in public. Like, a bit freakishly so. Take for example yesterday, when I was worried about wearing my spiked choker to class. I ended up wearing it and everything was peachy, I sighed my breath of relief, and went about my day normally. I worked myself up over nothing because when I'm afraid to dress a certain way, there really is no consideration for why. The "why" is that it's easier to not chance being stared at. But that's not very Ricky of me, is it? Who gives a fuck if people stare? I do, apparently. And this isn't just about fashion. My beliefs, my hobbies, everything falls under this. I'll admit it, I'm not as confident as I think I am.

And so, with this realization, I've concluded that all efforts towards nonconformity have effectively been in vain because I am too meek and too tired of the mere idea of perpetual harassment to do whatever the fuck I please. Suddenly I feel pretty sick of it. For many people, the fix isn't as easy as "stop giving a shit", but for me that's exactly how it's going to work. In fact, I'm going to really start pushing it here just to get used to it. Fuck it, I am going to wear the absolute worst, most attention-grabbing clothing I can find to class next week. If people look, they look. If people laugh, they laugh. I gotta get over it. I'm gonna get over it.

Watch me, motherfuckers.

Today I did something stupid and took my ADHD medication for the first time since my prescription ran out back in 2019. In all honesty, I picked up a bottle of pills a couple months after my withdrawal ended and just never took them because I didn't have to anymore. My parents weren't aware of the scale of my abusive habits back then (and still aren't) so the prescriptions kept rolling in. All of which I happily declined, except one. It has been sitting in my desk along with my Lexapro for ages.

50mg Vyvanse, taken at 10:37 this morning.

I ate around 10:00 so I had something in my stomach to hold me over. After taking the pill, I settled in and watched The Shawshank Redemption so I could focus on something other than the medication. Once it was in full swing, I went about my day as usual, and now I am awaiting the comedown at 7:00 or 8:00. That will be the hardest part, but right now I'm taking a literal trip down memory lane.

The most noticeable side effect of lisdexamfetamine, for me, is the sharpness. Which I assume is the intended effect considering it's ADHD medication. However, that clarity is merely an illusion as I've learned, since I make plenty of stupid decisions while "under the influence" so to speak. The actual attentiveness is negligible when you consider the emotional toll that this medication takes. For instance, I have been crying on and off all day for imaginary reasons, both good and bad. My feelings about life, change, and other people have been artificially changed. It's like some "big picture" has been placed in front of me and it is driving me to tears to look at it. Grounding can be difficult in this state because the physical reactions to feelings like frustration and anxiety can't be mitigated with self-awareness alone. I can recognize why I am experiencing a certain emotion, but there is virtually nothing I can do about it. So all the drug-induced elation and discomfort must remain until it wears off. Even at the moment, it is making it extremely difficult to write. There is too much uncertainty in my mind to confidently speak about it, but I doubt I'd be able to do any better even after it wears off.

Socially, Vyvanse is a nightmare. The psychological effects of amphetamines cause me to talk about things I wouldn't normally discuss with certain people. For instance, I was suddenly very keen on talking with my mom this morning for no good reason at all, and that really sucks in retrospect. This was an anticipated effect, and also the one I hate the most. I don't like spilling my guts to people without cause or intention, but all four medications I've been on have done that to me. Being emotional and open with my parents is something I avoid completely otherwise, so the conversations I had today are a bit regrettable even if they aren't harmful. I'm cautious about my interactions with my friends at the moment for similar reasons.

As for physical effects, it's mostly just sweating and dry mouth right now. When I'm up and walking around, I'm either sluggish or absolutely wired, or both at the same time. I feel the need to pull my body inward and be held as tightly as possible. Don't really know what that one's about. I know when the comedown hits, I'll be shaking uncontrollably and these physical reactions will become stronger. Fortunately, a little bit of weed should help me through that, but I'm thinking I'll try to tough it out and get a grip on it.

The best way to describe how ADHD medication affects me is that it's like feeling everything at once, but not in a cool or magical way. It's not good. But in that sense, it's exactly how I remember it. It's weird, being teleported back to the exact mental state that I lived in throughout high school. It goes beyond being familiar. I might as well have picked up from where I last left off on the day I took my last pill in 2019. I feel like that person again, just in terms of how I'm thinking and feeling. I'm largely indifferent to this though since I know how these drugs work. I don't feel threatened by it at all. Getting through withdrawal, as I've always described it, was like waking from a long dream. It takes a lot to even be dependent on ADHD medication and taking one pill won't launch me back into drug dependency. It's just interesting to experience it again after so long, even if Vyvanse is a horrible, traumatizing, unethical drug.

In conclusion, I can't believe they give this shit to children. Can't wait for the comedown!

Recently I went to a local park to meet a friend. I arrived first. I don't like waiting, but I'm not impatient either, so I stood up and started walking around.

Sometimes I feel frustrated if I feel I can't have a good time when I'm alone. I always feel a need to prove to myself that I am a fun person. By doing so I have followed a typical idea of what "fun" would mean in the eyes of other people my age... Drugs? Trespassing? I don't really know, and so I aim in the dark at anything that is risky, daring, or edgy, always ending up frustrated and back at square one. It's an annoyance in my life that I don't seem to know what to do with myself when I'm completely alone besides be happy about it. That feeling can be lost quickly and as of lately, is scarce to come by.

But when I walked alone in the park the other day, I realized I was having fun. Not exciting, dangerous fun like the type I've been thriving off so much recently. It was that innocent fun that I forgot about- the kind I had when I was a child, where nature feels beautiful and real and alluring. Mother Nature is as fine in her details as she was back then, sketching such complex environments. Buildings and rooms will never capture the complexities of her pieces. Earth has unending intrigue, and I feel in love with it.

I have strayed from the enjoyment I get in nature by trying to prove myself. It's not that I haven't been appreciating nature, but why do I spend so much time trying to be cool and not staring into bodies of freshwater? There's arguably more stuff to keep me entertained in a literal flooded ditch than in the entirety of Caesar's Palace. I knew this, so how did I forget it? Maybe it's just one of those things you realize you miss when it's gone.

I want to spend more time outside. Maybe there's still a bit of transcendentalist in me or something. Regardless, the continual hedonism is not working. I could use for a hike or something.

Octopus was a very arrogant, self-absorbed, and poorly written entry.

I have gone back and read it multiple times since I wrote it. I do not think it is good, but I told myself I wouldn't delete it. Instead, I will elaborate now on the revelations I've had regarding that whole "immersion" thing.

I understand much better now that I am actively curious about how other people see this world, but I think my pretentious behaviors (and I'll call them that because that is what they are) are more respective to how I treat identity than any subconscious desire to "fit in" or "understand". I also don't think these behaviors are specific to me in any sense. I have only identified them, and that's why they hold weight in my life. Regardless, any comprehension I gain as a result of said (and I gloat) "strategies" is merely a byproduct of a basic human trait. Kinda funny how I put it on a pedestal. I am not special.

I just like to feel like I am a lot of people. My identity isn't as clear-cut as I had thought when I wrote that entry. Identity, on a conventional level, is something that I no longer care for. I believe most (if not all) human beings are too complex to be accurately and wholly defined, and that we are a horribly inconsistent species. I am no exception to that. If anything, I'm so fickle that it has become somewhat of a game. Becoming something new is like earning a Girl Scout patch. It takes time and effort. It enriches and excites me. I'm not suggesting that I'm quick to change paths, though. Rather, I am going down paths that change me and these tend to be my more long term pursuits. There is a rough "end goal" where I am heading, especially in terms of my ethics, personality, and art. This being said, to me, identity is more of an encompassing personal concept than an observable "persona" of sorts.

How this ties in socially is where the difference in my thinking compared to my previous entry becomes noticeable. I talk to many people. Obviously, I don't act the same around all of them. For the sake of organization I've applied descriptions to my relationships with these people although I often wander outside of them. For instance, I've labelled Corinne as my "party friend" and Corey as my "punk friend" but I've talked about both things with both people. It's merely the tendencies of my relationships that form these different categories. I'm sure both Corinne and Corey have very different impressions of me, but they are not oblivious to the other things I dabble in. In terms of other social settings, I'll immerse myself if I believe I will gain something from it. It is now a completely voluntary action. It's more like I am entering a passive, observant state than actually becoming a different person. I totally embellished it before.

Anyone can be a lot of things. I like to work specifically with that idea. I no longer think there is anything special about that. My understanding of other individuals is as vague as anyone else's understanding of me. I'm seriously chastising my previous way of thinking when it comes to this, but I'm proud of the progress I've made as well. There are so many things I want to experience and people I want to be. Some funny labels that I guess apply to me currently include aspiring punk, fairy enthusiast, psychonaut, drug mule, and internet troll.

As for Nikki S. Lee, her quote sticks with me now more than ever. It's comforting. It's like a mantra to me.

“I am free. I can become anyone. Don’t ask me who I am.”

She is an inspiring person and I've really come to understand the sentiment of her work.

Nikki S. Lee - The Ohio Project

One of my better habits that I've developed in the last year or two is taking long drives. If I have nothing else to do, driving is a good way to kill time. After I got my car it just became something I do. I've explored a rather decent amount of northern New Jersey doing this. It's not really something I make a point of doing, I just do it when I feel like it and I think the payoff is surprisingly decent considering it is such a simple thing.

Driving provides me with a sense of clarity that isn't easily attainable at home. There's enough movement and concentration involved to keep me focused but still able to think about other things. It's like crack for my ADHD; the perfect balance of busy and idle. I'm also curious enough to be deeply interested in wherever I am passing through, so I've definitely gotten a good look at areas in Jersey that I've never seen before. Sometimes it's highways and cities, other times woodlands or open fields. I prefer the latter since it's usually less busy and there's more to be seen nature-wise. Driving in rural areas is just so peaceful, especially at this time of year. The fauna of early August is gorgeous and the air is perfect for opening my windows. I like to tap out whatever music I'm playing on the side of my door and just let myself become entranced by the road. I'm honestly pretty mild in terms of my ability to handle adrenaline so I appreciate the excitement I get from keeping a steady speed on a winding road. In the forested areas here, the light shines onto these canopied roads that are my favorite to drive on. I wish they were infinite, but eventually I always find myself back on a highway or in a suburb. Not to say those aren't interesting, but I'd much rather pass through the forests and farmlands. That way I can appreciate the natural beauty and let it overtake me. I love how the forests hug the road so tightly and how I can see the bodies of water shimmering through the tree line. When I come upon field areas it is usually quite sudden, and I'm always overwhelmed by how beautiful that expansiveness is. Nothing is as stunning as seeing that big picture. It's absolutely euphoric.

An important detail about this whole thing is that I don't like taking drives with other people. In fact, it usually ruins the entire experience. The presence of another person is an obligation and a distraction from that "clarity". It's ironic, too, since I wish I could share the joy I get from driving with other people and fondly imagine them there in my passenger seat, but I'm fervently annoyed when they are actually there. Trust me, I've tried, but I just can't do it. The only person who I like driving with is Will since we are on the same wavelength. I haven't gotten the impression that anyone else in my life besides him enjoys the journey the same way I do. My other friends can't even remain quiet for the duration of a 15 minute ride to Ringwood. It's a hard thing to explain, but the silence is important to the whole thing. It's like meditation or something- it's rude to interrupt.

Wanderlust is a good feeling. I really love getting in my car and going nowhere. The best part is that there is hardly ever a destination. When I'm ready to head home, I open Google Maps and shock myself with the time estimation. Usually I end up somewhere between 30-50 minutes from home, but I've driven over two hours before, and a couple times I accidentally went out of state. I love seeing how far the local roads can really take me. My parents ask me where I was when I walk in the door and I probably sound suspicious for saying "I don't know", but there's no dishonesty there. I just like driving. I don't really care where I am, I'll probably enjoy it. Driving is a habit that defines me well because it's something that I do for me to make me happy. It's the purest and most immediate form of visceral happiness I achieve in my daily life.

Sometimes while I drive, I think two specific thoughts, those being "what did I do to deserve this joy?" and "this is like a dream". When I actually think about it, it's not something that was ever "granted" to me, and it's obviously not a dream. Living a typical, redundant life has convinced me that this type of joy lies elsewhere, but has also enabled such a fascination with breaking that idea entirely. I feel lucky to be so easily amused by what many people (at least from my experience) find mundane. I'm sure no one has ever said this before, but in my eyes, a couple hours driving around Jersey is time well spent.

It is August 3rd. In less than a month I will be in college. I woke up today and that fact hit me like a damn brick. Maybe I've been sheltering myself from that reality for awhile. I know that change can be scary and I know how I handle new situations, and I wouldn't be surprised if I subconsciously prevented myself from counting the days to my departure. So much needs to be done and so much is already happening. I don't like feeling intimidated by it, but I can't lie. I'm nervous.

I think the problem is that I feel like I'm leaving things behind. My friends, pets, and coworkers are what come to mind. I can already see the presaging of specific people and it kills me to think about leaving them. Adam, for example, gave me a much longer hug than usual when he saw me at work the other day. I didn't know why until someone told me he thought I'd left already. And I'm not lying when I say it left me a little distraught. I never thought anyone else would have trouble with my leaving besides me. When I'm gone, will people miss me? Is this the part where everything slips away and life becomes "Cats in the Cradle"? A heap of obligations that casts a shadow over the experiences and people of my childhood? I ask that like I don't know the answer. I am wise enough to know that it needs to happen. If I want to do extraordinary things in my life, I can't stay here. But I also can't see what's next, so I'll have to do what I do best and go with the flow.

Still, I can't help but think I am cumbersome to myself in my sensitivity. Leaving home is emotional for many people my age, but I seriously have no idea how I'll handle it. The "what if" questions actually need consideration. What if my mental health deteriorates in college? What if I can't find healthy coping mechanisms? The last few months have been some of the happiest of my life because I've learned how to manage my conditions. It would be a slap in the face if all that progress slipped away. I will try not to let it be in vain, and I will remain mutable to the world around me. If there's anything I've learned since February it's that joy is always within my reach. I don't need a horoscope to tell me to keep an open mind to it.

I think I've explained most of my concerns, but there is something else. An unconstructed, vague resentment I harbor in my heart. I can't exactly put my finger on it, but it has to do with my evolving politics. I hate my country and its conventional middle class values, but here I am going to university. I have no other choice now but to appease a system I hate. I will not weaken to this system, that I can say definitely. But I don't want to work within it, either. I never mentioned it here but I am majoring in communications and journalism. I am afraid of ending up in a position that helps spread misinformation and lies. I swear to God I'd rather die than cater to the mainstream media.

On a different note, the convenience of internet friends has surely proven itself now. I always knew that when I went to college, I wouldn't be leaving everything behind which provides some comfort. I have three people who I talk to now on a regular basis and since our friendships are purely digital, there are no bittersweet goodbyes to be had. Instead, I'm excited to watch our paths unravel like they always have. It's a small drop of normality in an ocean of uncertainty I possess for my future, but it encourages me.

Today I looked back on several pieces of writing I did in middle school and high school. Everything is saved online nowadays- it's a bit of a luxury to have all this content to look back on. However, reflecting on these old assignments feels like someone squeezing my heart in their fist as hard as possible, and not in a good way. The thing I astound myself with the most is the fact that many, many pieces I wrote for school were... less than satisfactory. Even the ones I actually put effort into at the time pale in comparison to anything here, with the exception of a few essays I wrote more recently. Even then, hardly any of the creative writing I revisited is quality enough to be on this website (except maybe for the purpose of criticism).

It's funny how that works, isn't it? Dreamwidth is a place where I write for leisure, and the impression I get of myself on here hardly encompasses me as a person. For instance, one would never know that a majority of the writing I do outside of this space is pretty uninspired and horrible. That's because this entire journal, at its core, is a hyperfixation. It's a single side of a d20 die, something that works within the confusing parameters of my ADHD. Although I will say, this project has been much more permanent than my other fleeting obsessions. That's all there really is to say about that. I feel it provides a better perspective of myself to those who lay their eyes upon my page, though there is hardly one person here.

This week will be busy. If I am absent throughout it, I will be sure to write another 1000+ word entry about it afterwards. I can already envision the chaos that will entail. Yeesh.

In the wake of these unfortunate events I am gracious for this journal. Having an outlet to reflect is helpful, even if I only have myself for reference. I remember during early high school I kept a physical journal as well, a crude and beat up book inscribed with various grim details that have still never left my mouth. It has since been buried away in my closet, and I visit it on occasion as a way of comparison when it comes to this type of "habitual" writing. There is more permanency in preserving a physical object, but I prefer the obsessive refinement of my entries.

Like back then, I am finding solace in myself. Last night I stubbornly settled down with the idea that I may have been stuck in my hubris a little too long. The entries of yesterday, in which I seethed with rage for my circumstance, lack any and all wisdom or insight. I think it is necessary that I know my place; I understand very little in the scheme of things. I'm not as intelligent as I think I am and I should definitely be a little more humble. There are people who are 10000x smarter than me- the self-sustaining academic types who become easily and infinitely immersed in their own research. I am not like that, and I will never be. I wish it were easier for me to just be content with that, but I have it dangled in front of me all the time. I don't want to be taunted by my shortcomings anymore. And I want someone in my life who is okay with that.

I think now to the tribulations of my friends that have (with no fault of their own) made me this way. I feel a hollowing disenchantment about Jatin, who has not cut me off but tarnished my trust with the devastating idea of it. That's one way to make me feel worthless I guess. I am stuck in the shock of almost losing him that it has actually become debilitating. I also feel inertly stupid talking to him right now. I can feel his frustration towards me and I fear I might fail if I ask anything of him. So there's that, and then there's the argument I am having with Amanda, who is demanding I open up to her about my mental state. She does not understand that she *cannot* understand most of what she wants to hear, and that if I disclose anything to her it would be a wasted confession. I told her I wouldn't tell her because I am not comfortable with it. Still, she is disdainfully pouting about my personal business as if she has a right to know, and as much as I can sympathize with her concern, her behavior is obnoxious. I think I'm actually in the right for this one, but it's stressful to think that we are on weird terms because of this. I can't just choose to respond neutrally to these situations. Both my heart and mind are telling me that I should be upset, and so I am. But there is tweaking to be done in my approach. Should I be more direct? More demanding? More patient? I don't really know, and so now there is growing to be done. Growth that leeches off the distress I feel and the distress that may be yet to come if things go poorly.

Desire be, desire go. I'm no longer manic to the extent of having my mind turned to Jello, thankfully. I can be a little wiser about everything now I think. Writing about it is a great grounding technique, even if the emotional toll doesn't necessarily subside. This place brings me comfort. After all, the one person I know who will never abandon me is myself. I'm okay being my own best friend if I have to.

So here I am, fucking miserable.

I might need help if I think I'll hurt myself badly. I tried to mediate the self harm by driving to Brooklyn and back which I guess was a temporary fix, but I basically just sat with my thoughts the entire time and I think that made it worse. My mom is complaining that she hasn't seen me for a couple days and that I've been dismissing her. Maybe because I'm obviously completely unstable and deranged. Or because she terrified me the other day by spouting nonsense about my hypothetical rape and subsequent murder, which I dreamed about vividly last night. I can't cleanse my mind of it at all, amongst all the other stuff. Rape, death, misery, horror, crying, repeat. No one to talk to about it, nothing to distract me. As expected, a myriad of bruises have appeared on my legs and the sides of my body. It hurts like a bitch but at least I don't cut. And I was able to force myself to eat this morning, but I clocked in at 99.0 lbs yesterday so things will probably get worse before they get better.

This is what it feels like to lose control. It hasn't happened to me in awhile, honestly. I know from experience it won't last forever, but that doesn't make it any less painful. Episodes like this don't come out of nowhere, they are triggered by external factors such as overstimulation, interpersonal issues, or medication side effects (at least in my case). It takes a lot of time for me to heal and get back to normal. New surroundings, new friends, new drugs. The longest I will have to wait for things to change is July when I move into my apartment in Galloway. But for the time being, I need to focus on avoiding self harm and psychosis.

I'll let myself be incessantly stoned for the next couple weeks if that's what it takes. This is what comes before healing. I'll be okay.

I am defeated. As much as I pride myself on my relationships with other people, it can be a sort of torture as well. Things have not been going well in my social spheres and I fear that I can't really trust the people in my life right now. I have been let down too many times, but having it all fall apart at once is indescribably scary. The last 24 hours have been spent in a pulsing neurotic state in which I've either been crying or punishing myself. In the case of the latter, my body is just starting to feel the consequences. I had violent dreams all night in which my body was mutilated and splattered over various settings, tormenting me until I woke this morning and saw opportunity to write.

I don't know why I feel the need to put so much effort into friendships that are less than reciprocal. I think it's because I have trouble finding people who can relate to that level of intensity. Friendship is the highest form of emotional connection I am able to feel, and I often become frustrated or bored when my relationships are understimulating. I also have trouble relating to other people's apathy. And yes, I know I jack myself off about appreciating the unique circumstances of all people, but it's true that I am relentlessly annoyed by predictability. I'm not trying to act all high and mighty about it, but the interpersonal simplicity of most people drives me insane. I hate shallow conversation and pettiness, I can't see to it. Alternatively, I sometimes bite off more than I can chew and deal with complicated people who are either abusive or inadvertently bring me constant emotional distress. I feel too much to carry other people's weight, even if they aren't directly putting it on me. Both of these dynamics are similar in that they are (too a certain extent) predictable. This is not to say they aren't challenging, just tedious. I am becoming increasingly dissatisfied with it all. I know that I should work hard in order to establish healthy connections with all types of people, but I'm tired. I'm not even that complex of a person. I'm not demanding. Friendship is the one exception. I can't just turn it down a notch. Honestly, I've failed.

It's so childish to complain about this, but it had to happen here at some point. Here is not the place to exercise humility. I don't feel valued by my friends. I don't feel like I can trust people. Right now I am experiencing an onset of loneliness. The suddenness reminds me of times in my life when I was truly alone and miserable. I really don't want to go through it again. Right now, all I can really say is that I'm sad. I'm sad, and I just want to wallow in it.

"We don't seek the painful experiences that hew our identities, but we seek our identities in the wake of painful experiences. We cannot bear a pointless torment, but we can endure great pain if we believe it is purposeful." - Andrew Solomon

This post feels a bit shallow for this quote, in retrospect, but I'm tired of giving up an entries just because they aren't perfect.

One of the most difficult things I've overcome in my life is something I fail to define. A mix of things at a very inconvenient time in my life, I guess. Dealing with myself. As a person, I spare no effort with balancing my capabilities as limited by human nature with my desire to learn and experience. To be here, to be who I am, and to be happy, I have come a long way. I have felt anguish, not in a traditional sense.

As a preteen, I feel I had very little time for anything but myself. I was diagnosed with anxiety, ADHD, OCD, and depression at different points throughout middle school, but I wasn't overly concerned with my condition. Prior to these diagnoses, I thought what I was feeling was normal and didn't think much of suicidal ideation, panic attacks, or even self harm. It was a confusing time. I was put on various medications in fleeting dosages, and by 9th grade I found myself struggling with drug addiction. I abused various stimulants over a span of three years, despite them making me feel completely emotionless. I wasn't completely crippled by it, but looking back I was definitely worse off than I should have been. I had no self-control, no emotional intelligence, and no objective thoughts about my circumstance. Only dissimulation and a mind that was mostly void of critical thought.

I did not make any active efforts to stop my stimulant abuse because I didn't very well understand it. Rather, I endured an agonizing withdrawal after I ran out of medication and dosage options, leaving me completely defeated. When my withdrawal subsided it was like waking from an intense dream, with only an awkward, repressed memory of the years previous. I felt like a fresh slate, in a way, free from the personally demanding mentalities I had acquired during my early teens. Although I still had to work around my remaining issues, I suddenly had time to be a person. I could exert energy on things that felt actually meaningful to me, and after reflecting on all I had been through, I began to forge an identity.

I don't look fondly back at the pain I endured in high school, but I don't hate what I went through either. Things are the way they are and I can't control that. If anything, it has only made me a stronger, smarter, more patient person in the end. And one of my favorite things about myself now is that I give myself time to take care of myself as I didn't before. I put a lot of emphasis on leisure. I'm nowhere near where I want to be, but I am functional. My identity is the product of knowing what it feels like to not have one. And now that I'm here, I can say I'm thankful for that.

When I was younger, probably around middle school, I was not yet capable of critical thinking at my current level. I guess I didn't understand it back then, but I have always had the desire to befriend people who don't like me or people I don't like. My inability to rationalize that properly at the time resulted in a primitive analogy that I've now dubbed "The White Box". The idea goes like this: When I see someone who I don't understand or who wouldn't normally give me the time of day, I ask myself what would happen if we were stuck in a seamless white room with nothing in it for a week. The only option would be to talk, and with that much time to waste, we'd be forced to get to know each other, right? When I was young I was certain (and still am) that any two people stuck in the White Box would leave with a deep and mutual understanding of each other. Now I see this crude mindset for what it really is- a test of my patience and ability to empathize. Even back then, I was looking to comprehend the mentalities of all types of people through serious one-on-one conversations, something I now fully understand and search for in my everyday life. The White Box analogy has evolved into me creating opportunities for deep discussion with people who don't demand that type of attention. Once I picked up on this connection, I see that I've unintentionally created white boxes everywhere. My world is filled with white boxes. To elaborate, I will list them here:

A List of White Boxes:

- The three rocks at NJ Botanical Gardens
- My fishing spot
- Adam's White Lexus
- The tube at the Holy Spirit Catholic School playground
- The Trader Joe's Breakroom
- Any private chatlog basically
- Gardener's Cottage in Bar Harbor, Maine

This analogy is not only applicable virtually everywhere, but an easy way to introduce a deep conversation with someone. By discussing the white box, you inadvertently create one. I'm a big fan of this concept. I even explained it to Adam and we joke at work now about wanting to "white box" people. Eighth grade me was really onto something there.

>If things are to continue the way they are, this can no longer be my alter ego. I must become a person that does not exist.

Yesterday I took an impromptu road trip with Adam to Philadelphia. Adam is my coworker. He is 24, but honestly a very similar person to me. We hit it off immediately and once in awhile we will hang out because we are much too preoccupied to talk philosophy at work. I almost feel like a student in his presence, although our exchanges are pretty equal. It's hard for people like us to find each other. He agrees.

Adam was deliberate with this two hour ride to the city. Halfway through discussing the fleeting nature of the human body relative to the mind, he said something along the lines of "this is why I brought you". It feels good to feel appreciated like this. I'm glad other people value this type of banter as much as I do, especially since our road trip conversation made me rethink what I said previously on ego death.

I'm not sure ego death is the key to "enlightenment" anymore. Adam says that enlightenment is *probably* an unachievable thing, which when I think about it, I don't disagree. Previously, I expected that getting over my ego would help me reach my end goal, but I realize that while I want to ascend the trivial nature of humans, I still need to be human. In fact, it's the focus on trivial things that lets me appreciate all of life's details, and I don't want to thwart that fascination because it is not only innate, but important to my personal development. Having an ego is different than having a personality. I don't need to be a saint to get where I am going, and I don't need to punish my nature to live an intelligent life. My focus has now changed to slowly controlling or removing traits that interrupt my intellectual pursuit instead of aiming for perfection. I should learn to love my personality as I love others', because in the end I am no different from them. Like them, I am human.

A secondary narrative plays indefinitely in my mind 24/7, which I didn't really notice until yesterday. The influence that little voice has over my temperament is much more effective when executed in reality. I think a good example of this is the fact that I rarely feel impatient anymore. Yesterday I observed this while waiting for Adam outside of a gas station in a Philly neighborhood, sipping birch beer and feeling no obligation towards time. I was more than content absorbing my surroundings, and continued to do so as we walked through subways, stations, side streets, and even the overwhelming center of the city. It's a pleasant balance of thinking and feeling, nothing more nothing less. This is a trait I see in Adam, too. I learned something important from him yesterday. I'm really grateful for that.

On a lighter note, our night in the city was fantastic. We had some amazing Mexican food at Los Caballitos Cantina, a restaurant that was bustling with punk-clad servers and happy hour patrons. I was able to eat comfortably in public for the first time in years. As for everything else, Adam is generally a exuberant guy to be around, whether we are invested in a deep conversation or racing each other down a flight of stairs. I think we both had a great time.

Current Mood: good

(Essay for a composition class. I can't write like this in my freetime.)

Metaphor is a powerful tool for writers to give dimension to writing that goes far beyond their literal assets, and is especially helpful for conveying messages that may be considered off-putting, intangible, or taboo. Thematically, a lot can be done by projecting distress and misery onto characters, an idea that Gothic and science fiction wholeheartedly embraced in the early 20th century. Some of the best short stories of the time period work exclusively within the mental parameters of characters, for example, Franz Kafka’s Metamorphosis and H. P. Lovecaft’s The Outsider. By using eccentric symbols and grotesque imagery, these pieces explore the themes of trauma, mental illness, and alienation in disturbing yet distinctive manners.

The manipulation of mental states in literature is a common theme in modern times, but was relatively new to writers in the early 1900s. This type of writing did not have an official genre, nor did it strive to live up to a previous example of its type. This makes Metamorphosis in particular an archetypal instance of what is now referred to as “psychological horror,” or literature that seeks to disturb readers by focusing on the psychology of characters. Since Metamorphosis was published in 1915, it predates most works of its kind. This, combined with its modern relevance and popularity in academic settings, allows Kafka’s story to hold up as a worthy example. However, this does not make Metamorphosis the poster child for the genre. In fact, Kafka’s approach is actually quite straightforward as he ascribes the mental state of the main character, Gregor, by literally transforming him into an insect. The result of this “transformation” can be seen both figuratively and literally as Gregor struggles physically with his new body. Many events of the novel have a clearly established metaphorical meaning meant to emphasize some type of mental illness, beginning in the first few pages. For instance, Gregor’s initial attempts to get out of bed are dragged out to become a difficult, laborious task in his new form. As the text states, “He would have needed arms and legs to lift himself up; instead he had only these numerous little legs that never stopped moving and over which he had no control at all” (Kafka 240). Although not explicit with its metaphor, this scene bears striking similarities to a common effect of depression- struggling to get out of bed. Gregor lacks the humanness to complete basic human tasks and whether that is due to lack of motivation or him actually turning into a huge beetle is left for the reader to decide. This is the first instance of the text alluding vaguely to depression, and scenes that highlight other symptoms of mental disorders are recurring throughout the piece, effectively building a story where the reader can not discern whether it should be taken literally or not. As Yeon-Soo Kim explains in his review of the story, “Kafka's narrative sensibilities are not built on the assumption that there is a shared frame of thought that enables the symbolism within the text, or a shared belief that this symbolism can be understood by all. For Kafka, the only shared element is language” (Kim 3). Basically, Kafka’s metaphor eludes the reader because it is not intended to be definitive. Regardless, Kafka’s Metamorphosis still provides a primitive example of psychological horror that seeks to repulse and traverses the reality of Gregor’s dejection in a disturbing and physically cognizant manner.

This being said, although Metamorphosis possesses many themes of psychological horror, its peculiar use of metaphor means it is a basket case in terms of genre. Clear examples of this genre have a more obvious focus on the emotional states of their characters, such as The Outsider by H.P. Lovecraft. Similarly to Kafka’s piece, The Outsider navigates the anguish of its character (who in this case is the narrator) both physically and psychologically. However, Lovecraft’s approach is distinctly self-aware and does not beat around the bush in terms of metaphor. As a matter of fact, the character’s trauma is addressed in the first sentence: “Unhappy is he to whom the memories of childhood bring only fear and sadness” (Lovecraft 287). This line introduces the writing style that Lovecraft pursues for the rest of the piece, focusing mainly on the aloneness of the main character and how it ultimately brings him great psychological pain. Alienation from other people is a key theme in the story as the character lives in a completely isolated and nightmarish castle, void of sunlight and any human contact. This eerie setting is thoroughly elaborated on and acts as a projection of the narrator’s emotional state, but unlike Metamorphosis, seems to only accompany the psychological themes of the story and have the narrator confront his horrors by giving him an ambition- to see light. This idea is established when the narrator avers, “I neither knew nor cared whether my experience [in the castle] was insanity, dreaming, or magic; but I was determined to gaze on brilliance and gaiety at any cost” (290). The progression of the setting as the narrator searches for light works directly with his internal revelations, eventually leading to the peak of the story and a swift ending; the character realizes that he has become a hideous beast as a result of ruminating about his trauma in isolation. In this short story, there is merit in having the setting change with the mentality of the narrator. These types of representation were not uncommon for Lovecraft, who even stated, “Inconceivable events and conditions have a special handicap to overcome, and this can be accomplished only through the maintenance of a careful realism in every phase of the story except that touching on the one given marvel” (Kneale and Lovecraft 275). Lovecraft is aware of what he is trying to express in his writing, but explores it through a surreal lense that allows his work to be shallowly defined as science fiction. Moreover, his themes of psychological horror are not only illustrated through the internal dialogue of the character, but expressed through his elaborate imagery which balances the story rather well.

Though both pieces carry ideas of psychological horror, Kafka and Lovecraft’s stories (and writings in general) clash significantly to create two separate styles notable enough to warrant their own descriptive terms, “Kafkaesque” and “Lovecraftian.” Respectively, these terms refer to the distinct qualities of both authors’ writing: Kafka’s nightmarish and dreamlike illustrations versus Lovecraft’s use of setting to invite madness. Kafka’s work in particular receives a great deal of attention for its vague and unnerving symbolism, in which Christiane von Buelow’s review of his work explains, “the symbolic correspondences to which truth refers [in Kafka’s writing] have been lost” (Von Buelow 119). The symbolism in Kafka’s work is not obvious, which incites a profound sense of confusion and fright within the reader. In Metamorphosis, the vagueness of Gregor’s transformation is the catalyst of these feelings and would not succeed without it. Lovecraft on the other hand relies on the intertwinement of setting and character psychology to inflict a meticulous, disturbing set of emotions. For instance, as James Anderson elaborates in his review of Lovecraft’s work, “The connotative code schematizes the dominant connotations of the text's language in regard to character and setting. This code often develops characters in traditional stories, and, in Lovecraft's work contributes greatly to the overall mood of terror that the author tried to produce” (Anderson 11). Lovecraft seeks to bind the internal aspects of his writing with the external, fully fleshing out his horror elements in both areas. As observed in The Outsider, the emotional distress of the narrator is further emphasized by interactions within the setting. Where Kafka is not inspiring terror, Lovecraft is (and vice versa). Yet, despite these disparities in writing style, both Metamorphosis and The Outsider share a commonality beyond the position of their characters in that they rely primarily on surreal occurrences in places of realism to impart their vision of horror. This is an unusual tactic for works of Gothic fiction, but makes sense in the context of science fiction or psychological horror. As explained in The Gothic Origins of Science Fiction by Patrick Brantlinger, “Although some authors have produced stories in one genre or the other that are fully realistic in the second sense-works of great esthetic power and profound meaning- most stories in both genres necessarily fail to be realistic in either sense” (Brantlinger 31). Gothic fiction’s tendency to estrange itself from realism is exactly what makes these two stories unique- they navigate some sort of unphysical, psychologically-based plot using tangible settings and objects.

Both Kafka’s Metamorphosis and Lovecraft’s The Outsider are strange examples of Gothic fiction that go beyond their usual boundaries by way of a distinguished use of metaphor. Although the works share more differences than similarities, they are understandably alike in that they use the projection of horror onto their characters as a vehicle for their themes. These stories provide an understanding of mental disorders that cannot be captured otherwise, exceed the visions of thematically similar works, and ultimately make for two remarkable works of fiction that have rightfully earned their literary significance. For these reasons, they will undoubtedly remain iconic for as long as horror maintains its draw.

Works Cited
Anderson, James A. Out of the Shadows: A Structuralist Approach to Understanding the Fiction of H. P. Lovecraft. Open Access Dissertations , 1992, digitalcommons.uri.edu/oa_diss/696.
Brantlinger, Patrick. The Gothic Origins of Science Fiction, Duke University Press, 1980, www.jstor.org/stable/1345322.
“Index to The Lovecraft Annual 1–10.” Lovecraft Annual, no. 10, 2016, pp. 229–239. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/26868525. Accessed 27 Apr. 2021.
Kafka, Franz. “Metamorphosis.” Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, 16 Aug. 2005, www.gutenberg.org/files/5200/5200-h/5200-h.htm.
Kim, Yeon-Soo. “Reading Reality into the Fantasy of Kafka's Metamorphosis.” Gale Academic Onefile, Feb. 2016, skynet.ccm.edu:2131/10.1353/trh.2016.0008.
Lovecraft, H.P. “The Outsider.” "The Outsider" by H. P. Lovecraft, 20 Aug. 2009, www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/o.aspx.
von Buelow, Christiane. Troping toward Truth: Recontextualizing the Metaphors of ... New German Critique, 1989, www.jstor.org/stable/488235.

This week has been very disappointing so far. It is my "spring break" I guess you could say, but there isn't all that much for me to do. I don't have many friends who I can see in person, and even if I did I doubt there is anything worthwhile to do. Recently, I have fallen into a sort of slump, an obvious depressive episode with no real cause or pattern. I woke up today feeling pathetic and have just returned from doing nothing for a painfully slow hour, scrutinizing each of the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. I feel a bit miserable from it, but I am still inclined to write.

My therapist used to tell me to remember my "happiest memories" when I felt this way. Usually during times like this, I think about my experiences in Seattle or something similar; things I can remember vividly and contrast from the weird static that many of my memories become after a week. But today I pulled something out of the mess, a specific night on the last day of August that somehow doesn't feel tarnished yet.

I was with one of my closest friends, Will. We had just driven 8 hours to Maine where we were sharing a rental house with my parents for a week or so. The trip was a testament to the type of trust my parents had in me at the time, but that was all very elaborately staged. So much so that Will and I had stopped in Portland for about an hour on our way up with the intention to acquire cheap THC carts, something my parents think I am totally unconcerned with. Really, I had mastered the art of finding dealers online just a few weeks prior to this event and became rather good at it. But I digress.

My parents had gone out for the night and left Will and I at the house to enjoy the late summer weather, and we did so while cautiously stoned. The house was secluded in a tapering forest of Acadia pines, with a tall wooden fence blocking in a large section of mossy earth which my dog paced aloofly while we remained inside. Will and I had opened all the doors and windows on the first floor and then locked ourselves in the twin bedroom where I had become quite nervous about traces. We used a pen so that nothing would smell afterwards, but being two mentally ill teenagers, we feverishly searched for a way to get the steam out of the room as discreetly as possible. The AC unit on the window satisfied, and so we took turns blowing thick clouds into whatever apparatus was sucking the air out. When all was said and done, the tension subsided and nighttime had just begun to fall. Will told me to follow him downstairs, and we remained outside for some 30 minutes, running around and gathering stones, pinecones, and other miscellaneous items that caught our eye. I remember standing out there and thinking that it felt surreal, telling myself to just hold on to it because things would change come September. And of course they did, and I guess this moment also disappeared with the late sunsets and warm breezes.

Eventually, the last daylight of August fell away and we had not even noticed. We were laughing infinitely out there in our pajamas and barefoot, completely unconcerned with the world around us. That is, until I heard the distant crunch of gravel beneath car tires which sent me into panicked frenzy. I took Will by the wrist and we ran awkwardly into our room, locked the door, and pretended to sleep in just a matter of moments. My parents had not even pulled in, but we remained there for a few minutes in fear. I don't remember much after that. Looking back at some of the photos I took, the time was only about 8 p.m.. It's a silly memory really, and probably a pretty boring anecdote. But it seemed to appear out of thin air today, so I decided I would place it here where it can't be forgotten again.

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Strangeworld

washed up and watered down

Entries tagged with analysis

I’m Actually Sick This Time

Step Forward

Home Media

Whoops

Belonging

Lucky 7

My Usual Boring Rambling

Temptation

Bad News First

Seasonal Depression

I Am Not Miserable

I Hate The News Media

Something Clicked

Pushing The Envelope

Fine In Her Details

Octopus II

Accidental Truck Driver Application Essay

The New Zipper Blues

Obligatory Entry

I Am The Worst of the Best

Everything Will Work Out In The End

Dichotomy III: Weak Of My Own Volition

An Interview

The World is a White Box

I Was A Teenage Human & Other Tales

Thematic and Structural Analysis of "Metamorphosis" and "The Outsider"

Ramblings of Maine