takethisforexample: (Default)
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.
takethisforexample: (Default)
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.
takethisforexample: (Default)
"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.
takethisforexample: (Default)
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.
takethisforexample: (Default)
>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.
takethisforexample: (Default)
(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.
takethisforexample: (Default)
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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