Am I a secret genius? The answer is probably 'yes.'

I struggle with anxiety and depression and a sinister form of ADHD which only appeared after the other two beasts had been beaten into a sort of submission. It's no great secret, really, and while I don't recall if I've mentioned this specifically in past updates, I think it's pretty obvious from the way I write.

For the most part, I acknowledge and understand that, and I try to reign myself in when I begin to go off of the deep end. But there are other times, times when I begin to obsess over a problem - or a potential problem, as the case usually is - and there's... there's nothing I can do about it. It's coming down the highway like a spastic caravan and I am powerless to stop it and the people who can stop it are drunk and high and oblivious to the danger and SMASH it's all over. I'm left standing on the sidelines, stooping to pick up the smoking wreckage the best I can while I drag along a leg which is all but useless now that it has eighteen pieces of shrapnel embedded into the bone.

It used to be easy for me to write this off as a manifestation of my ever-present anxiety and tendency towards pessimistic outcomes. The thing is, when I do talk to others about these situations, they agree with me! They agree with analyses and predictions. They just think I let it get to me too much.

Sometimes I have to talk to people uninvolved in whatever situation is going on to make sure I'm not crazy. Because sometimes.... sometimes you have to make sure you're not crazy. I know I have to, constantly. You raise a hypothetical and you give enough oblique facts to let the person make a somewhat-rational conclusion. Or you talk to someone who's close enough to the situation to see all the moving pieces but far enough away - eternally unlike myself - to be clear of the blast when it occurs. Then the other person agrees with you, as long as the 'you' in this case is actually me.

But they always give the same advice: don't let it affect you so much. It doesn't really involve you, don't let it get to you, try to just forget about it. You've done your best to minimize the damage from the impact and resulting multiple explosions, try to be content with that. They do understand why I can't do that, bless their hearts, but in a very general way.

I'll tell you the truth, reader: I think I might be a secret genius. Because - and I swear this is true - sometimes it seems like no one else can see the writing on the wall except me. Which, y'know, is insane, because it's so very clear, and at first blush I am not that intelligent. Yet here we are. When this happened when I was younger, I kept my mouth shut; I assumed that the adults knew what was going on and understood something I did not. It took several large disasters for me to realize that, no, they don't understand something I don't. They don't even understand a few things I do. With that realization came no power, however, and I was still born away on a mudslide of others' choreographed mistakes. Slippin' and slidin' all over creation.

Now, I'm a little older. Slightly wiser (?) and definitely slower, in absolutely every way. But I'm still running into the same old thing. I'm still seeing collisions before they appear. The left knee tweaks and the right eye twitches: a storm's on the way, an it's going to be a bad one. Those who know me, believe me. Those who don't, don't, and I pull and drag at their clothing and shout doomsday predictions to closed ears and vacant homes. They're standing in the fields, hands shading their eyes as they look out toward the sun, blind to the winds bullying them and the storm clouds above their shadows on the ground.

I don't know why I care so much. I try not to care so much. When I fail, I do my best. That should be good enough for me. But it doesn't prevent the tragedy, ever. So it isn't.

Sometimes you get Weird Feelings (Part 2/2)

2) I really struggled thinking about this post. I know what I want to say, but I'm not sure how much detail I should divulge. In the end, I chose to be careful while also sharing what I'm thinking, because this really only involves me. So, that makes sense, right??

I was recently invited to a party. Now I am not a party person, dear reader - I do not number myself among the 'party people' so often invoked among the youth. I whole-heartedly prefer an evening with seven-eight good friends having a good time than going to hang out among thirty screaming college kids, only four or five of which I know. I'd have to be really drinking heavily to enjoy that kind of thing, and that sort of alcohol is expensive. I'm not made of money.

Now I'm sure my invitation is more-or-less a formality; people know I'm not a partying type, despite how entertaining and fun-to-be-around I am virtually all the time. Am I a big hit at parties? Always. But I've also grown out of that phase, and I no longer have to be at a party to be the center of a group's attention. I'm a MOBILE party! So I said maybe, as I usually do - because I really do think about it - and that was that. Leaning towards probably not going, I'm sure I'll be busy that night, but hey, never say never, right?

Then I checked back, and (as this is Facebook and on Facebook everything is always everywhere), I found that someone I really do not want to see in-person - certainly not in a party environment - is going. You know what that means? That means I'm definitely not going. That means I actually can't go.

And in the long run that's fine, because it's unlikely I would have attended anyway. But I'm angry. I'm angry at this person, for no real reason - I can't expect people to stop having doing things because I don't like them to - and I'm angry at myself. Not for choosing not to go because of it; I think that's a fine choice, and I would stand by it regardless of any other factors. No, I'm angry with myself because I still got upset over it, and thus I didn't have a choice. Or don't have a choice, I should say. My hand is forced; and even though if I had no emotional reaction to this situation, and was making decisions completely clearheaded, I would choose the same course of action, it's still not okay; the absence of choice still really bothers me. I don't want to be around this person, particularly not there, and that's an objective decision; my emotional response is "no no no no no not good don't no no way uh-uh nope," and that is not.

And atop everything else, I feel angry that I'm still getting even somewhat worked up, because I thought all the feelings were gone and away (thank God). It's been a really peaceful and anxiety-free week or two, and what a relief that has been after the past few months. I guess it takes a little longer for those ghosts to completely fade away, which is frustrating. Where's my self-neuralizer? Plz, MIB, plz.

Sometimes you get Weird Feelings (Part 1/2)

I have a lot of more interesting, less angsty posts coming down the pipe, but for some reason this came out first. I only thought it up a few minutes ago, but here I go. I guess there's something involving the immediacy of complicated emotions and a need to express them in some cathartic way which prevents me from procrastinating on more visceral posts like this. If only I could harness that power for some good...

Anyway, I actually have two different topics today. Each can be their own post, so that's what I'll do! I gotta get mileage out of my issues somehow, and this is the way I'm doin' it.

So, two recent events which made me feel.... weird:

1) A friend of mine told me some news the other day, about something which was somewhere in the vicinity of casual sex. Very minor, for all that, and something that I'm sure most everyone in college has done.  And yet, my first reaction was... I still can't quite put my finger on it. There was some anger, and a little bit of disgust, and maybe a hint of sadness. All of these little pieces formed one big ball of some new, confusing emotional state, and it really threw me for a loop. I was trying to dissect it and, though I identified some of the component parts, it remained mostly a mystery - like trying to identify an alien metal (this happens in every superhero/sci-fi story everywhen). In the end I identified the feeling as discomfort, but being uncomfortable without knowing the reason why is a confusing and frustrating experience.

So I've been trying to figure out why, exactly, this news bothered me so much, when in reality it was precisely nothing - a blip on the radar, a cloud passing high overhead. I was having a tough time, so I reached out to one or two trusted friends - specifically the v. helpful Kim - to try and work through what exactly my problem was with this unproblematic news. And I think I got it! I think; there's really no way to know for sure, because our brains are all liars, but I think this is the reason:

I tend to be friends with a certain Type of person. We all have our Types that we naturally gravitate to, of course, and I am acquaintances with a lot of different Types of people. But real friends - the people we don't just get along with because we're placed together, but seek out even when we're not together - tend to be Types like me. And that's just the way things are.

Now, if you accept that assertion, it goes to follow that the opposite would be true: people wholly unlike those friendship Types are the kinds of people I'd rather not spend my free time with. Prrreeeetty easy, right? Except there's that whole middle area, where people are like A Type in some ways and B Type in others.

My friend (Steven) is like me in a lot of ways. And though we've hung out in-person on several occasions, we mostly talk online these days (it being summer). When talking about common interests, or daily events, or whatever, it's easy to fall into a comfortable rhythm. However, while I greatly enjoy Steven's company, I know that he is also another Type, one that I treat with indifference but find wholly perplexing. It's moments like this - when I hear some (slight) excitement about a brief and casual encounter - which remind me oh, hey, that's right, we're different. I don't really understand that side of him, and so when it crops up suddenly like that, it can be a bit jarring. It's like learning your best friend since preschool is a robot: in the end he's still your friend, and that part of him that's a robot is completely separate from your interactions 99% of the time. But sometimes he'll talk about having to go plug himself in or eat aluminum foil, and in that moment the reality you've convinced yourself of - that he's a guy just like you - is stripped away.

I think that's the source of my discomfort. I don't have a problem with that side of Steve, I really don't. I'm just not used to interacting with friends who do have that side, and when I'm reminded of it in casual conversation it's like missing a step. You trip a little bit, and regain your balance after a second, but it was still a scary moment. You're walking along and suddenly - "that's right, I'm mortal, I could really hurt myself here - okay I'm back on track I'm invincible *phew*." It's an unpleasant feeling. It yanks you back to reality, and reality is not a place you want to spend much time. It's a hint of his similarity to people I don't really enjoy spending time with, and that causes a bit of negative feedback, even though I've made peace with it the best I can.

Do you ever have those moments when you're talking to people? When they'll make a comment or do something and you're reminded of just how different you are from each other?

Crisis Alert!

This is going to be an extremely short update. I just want to let you know, dear readers, that I remain alive and... well, not 'well,' but alive. There is a lot of chaos in the air right now, and to say that emotions are running high across a wide variety of spectrums is an understatement. I'm concerned for more than a few people, and (at least it seems like) more than a few people are concerned about me. It's a very concerning time, if I'm honest. Then of course there's the requisite confusion of the Self which goes along with all of that.

A lot of existential questions and conversations. A lot of total blanks, half-truths, and non-answers. I feel like I'm regressing. More on these and other topics when it's not almost four a.m. I had a nice, interesting topic planned out and partially written, but I'm not sure it's the thing to talk about now. Strike while the iron is hot, I suppose.

I've been doing a lot of creative things, lately. Which is good: it helps keep the crazy under control. Or, at least, I think it does. Today a chapter of my life will be finished, signed, and sent out for publication. I thought I'd feel more liberated; instead, I just feel sad. Sadness seems to be a recurring trend these past few months. Much less fun than the ambivalence I had courted for so long. Regression, I tell you.

A (very) brief explanation

To those of you wondering where my last update is: I took it down. I'd like to think I convey a certain sense of frankness and objectivity on this blog - at least as much as I can while being an emotional disaster - and that won't change, I assure you. I will not censor myself or avoid talking about difficult topics, because that's what this blog is here for.

However, there's also a case to be made for respect and accommodation. And while it may not be reciprocated, I shouldn't use that as an excuse. I do not withdraw anything I said in the previous update, and can only state once more that it was simply my own take on a series of events, one which I was finding particularly vexing at the time.

Look forward to more updates soon!

What to write about now??

Hello there, gentle reader.

I've been remiss in my updates for a while, which is something I told myself I'd try to avoid with this blog. This is for a few reasons:

1) I've been less miserable of late. I'm finally starting to put the past in the past and not let it bother me anymore. Notice I said starting to; I'm not even close to being back in my usual tip-top (?) shape, but I've come a long way from the beginning of summer, and that has made such a difference I can't rightly put it into words. Which means that, the fewer emotions (primarily negative) that I have about X, Y, or Z, the less I'll feel the drive to use this blog as an outlet.

2) I've very nearly run out of 'general' things to say about my situation. At any given point there comes a time where, in order to really dig into something, you have to stop making large extrapolations from hidden data and start to discuss the data itself. Which is far too personal for this blog. At least, it is for now; I'm sure there will come a day (fairly soon) where no Party will care/be concerned with what I write wherever I write it. Even were names and situations changed, I worry that maybe... well, we'll see. There's some possibility there, if I keep it encoded enough. Stay tuned.

I was going to try to continue on longer with this list, but the more I think about it, the more I wonder - why not? Why not just go into some stuff, if it's bothering me and/or I've learned something from the experience? With names changed to protect the innocent it seems like that would be a no-brainer. I really don't believe I have to worry about anyone I mention seeing my writings, and this is a place where I'm supposed to be able to drop the act and cough up some Truth.

So yes, I have now made up my mind. I'll get into a little more of the specifics that have been worming their way through my cortex lately, and assure myself that this will not lead to any sort of dialog, accidental, angry, or otherwise.

This update has been more of an update about updates, gentle reader, hasn't it? Yet fear not, for I shall soon return with tales and puzzles of a most curious nature for your reading pleasure. And maybe more real honest-to-god writing one of these days.

Look to the skies a day hence....

Scrum Outline

Now that I no longer have to write for any classes, I decided (at the prompting of a friend) to once again begin to write in my free time. Which is something I used to do sometimes when my head was feeling big enough and I believed I might not be a terrible writer, but that stopped once I began taking creative writing classes. Because really, what kind of loser does extra schoolwork in addition to their normal amount, am I right?

The problem was that, since this is not a school assignment I'm scrambling to complete three hours before the deadline, there was no pressure and heat to forge my scattered wisps of ideas into a semisolid reality. Instead, I decided on the very time-inefficient method of writing an outline of what I knew I wanted to have in the story first, and proceed from there.

Since I didn't have many ideas fully-formed yet, however, and as I do have just so much time available, I ended up turning the outline into a story itself, sorta. I knew I wanted to make the story first-person, but after i thought through the history of the setting and what the reader might need to know I realized this could end up being a very, very long story indeed. So to get the general plot and several details squared away beforehand, I ended up working on an outline written in a fairy-tale style. It uses repetition and simple language and really just serves as a kind of proto-draft, so I can see what's happening and where changes need to be made.

I'm not finished, but I needed to update the blog and thought this might interest some people. Or not. I will say that I enjoy the fairy-tale format and think it still holds a place in fiction, and can be used to tell certain stories in a uniquely effective way. This post might also help me to finally finish the outline, since I've left it languishing for a week or two now. As always, chalk the crudity of the writing and story up to a pre-first-draft and a bad storyteller.

Scrum (very much a working title)

Once, in a time like now or maybe before, there was a beautiful woman chained atop a great marble pillar. This pillar sat in a cave, its roof open to let the sky in, and for forever she could only see the stars, and the sun, and the rain and the clouds and the walls of the cave. Near that cave was a spring, single and lonely in the desert. In time a group of travelers found the spring, losing many people, and established a town. In their tongue they named it Scrum, and though living was hard, their ingenuity and the crystalline spring allowed their village to thrive.

It wasn’t long before a group of young villagers found the cave with the beautiful woman, chained atop the great marble pillar. They shouted up at her and asked her questions; she spoke in return, and the sound traveled down to the villagers as clearly as if they were next to her. They asked who she was, and why on Earth she was up on that pillar, and if she would like it if they got her down. She said she would very much like to come down, and that she had been up there so long that she had forgotten why she was there or who she was; the only things she knew were the stars, and the sun, and the rain and the clouds and the walls of the cave. She knew a great deal of these things, however, and the villagers learned much from her.

Every man and woman who left that cave did so under the woman’s enchantment. Whether that was her intention or not, I cannot say; in any event, I do not believe it was magic or slyness that had bound the villagers so tightly, but rather her knowledge and her naiveté, her vulnerability and her strength. Each one made a vow to themselves to rescue her from that pillar, to be the one who freed her from a life of only the stars, and the sun, and the rain and the clouds and the walls of the cave.

So they worked, each alone. I cannot say why they worked alone; perhaps the young villagers felt they were in competition, or perhaps they knew that this was something each must do of their own strength. Either way, each made a valiant attempt to reach the woman: some constructed wooden ladders which rose for hundreds of feet; others cut stone from the quarry and stacked them atop each other; still others attempted to climb over the mountain and reach her through the great opening at the top of the cave. The woman spoke to each, encouraging each one in their efforts, and this made the villagers work even harder. And while they spoke the villagers learned much of what she had seen of the stars, and the sun, and the rain and the clouds and the walls of the cave.

One by one the ladders broke; one by one shoulders spent lifting and stacking stones gave out; one by one those who sought the mountain skylight did not return. And one by one the villagers abandoned their quest, leaving their tools and their failed attempts. The woman saw this happening, but did not despair; for though she had dared to hope, she had never truly believed she would be free. She had just been happy to, for a brief (to her) time, she had gotten to know more than the stars, and the sun, and the rain and the clouds and the walls of the cave.

As the young villagers returned to their lives in the village, the knowledge the woman atop the marble pillar had given them - and the skills they had developed trying to reach her - enabled them to live better lives, provide more for their families and the other villagers alike. Soon their children were of an age to wander, and discover, and once more found the cave of the woman chained atop the marble pillar. And they also spoke to the woman, and were spoken to, and fell under her enchantment, and vowed to rescue her. And so the story went, and the village of Scrum obtained knowledge known to no one else about the stars, and the sun, and the rain and the clouds and the walls of the cave, and so became profitable and wealthy and comfortable.

In time visiting the beautiful woman chained atop the great marble pillar became a rite of passage for the children of the village. They would see, speak, build, and, eventually, destroy their attempts to reach her. She did not mind this cycle; it was something new to her, events which served to punctuate her conception of time much better than the stars, or the sun, or the rain or the clouds or the walls of the cave. The woman knew that no one would ever reach her, yet still remained hopeful that someone would.

There was a child born to the village called Mok. He was quiet, and thoughtful, and adults often said he had an ‘old soul.’ He grew up, like all children did, hearing the stories of the beautiful woman atop the marble pillar. But Mok was also rebellious, and stubborn, and when the time came for him to travel to the cave, he refused. Mok saw the wasted years spent pursuing the woman on the pillar, and heard the adults talk of the enlightening but painful memories of their own youth.

The elders resolved that, if Mok would not go to the woman on the pillar to learn strength, and commitment, and knowledge of the stars, the sun, the rain and the clouds and the walls of the cave, then he would spend his time learning in the village. And so he did. Mok was a voracious learner, and the first true student the village of Scrum had ever seen.

When his friends returned from their days spent at the cave, Mok would listen to their stories and think them fools. He would tell them, in turn, of his own days, spent learning and building, creating works of engineering mastery and intellectual creativity, but they seemed unimpressed, occupied by their own endeavors to reach the beautiful woman atop the marble pillar.

Finally his friends grew tired of their efforts, and returned to their lives in Scrum. With their quests finished, they were amazed and envious of the things that Mok had done while they had worked and talked to the beautiful woman atop the marble pillar. Mok not only knew almost as much as they about the stars, and the sun, and the rain and the clouds and the walls of the cave - though he had never seen the walls of the cave, of course - but he had pursued other knowledge as well, the knowledge which the villagers of Scrum had created once they had learned from the beautiful woman atop the marble pillar. He was acquainted with science, and theology, and medicine and mathematics and literature.

Mok’s friends had learned also, though, and while they praised Mok for his vast stores of knowledge and marveled at the numerous ways he excelled, they also looked at him the same way the other villagers had for all those years: with pity. He had learned to recognize that gaze from his instructors; it’s what drove him to work so hard for so long, and he hated it. Yet now he recognized it on the face of his colleagues, his friends, whose own achievements were far inferior to his. At first he tried to ignore the looks, yet they pressed upon him each day, pressing in and smothering him until he could no longer stand it and he exploded. He demanded to know what made them look at him in such a way, what right they had to place themselves above him, Mok, who had surpassed so many so quickly.

Those he demanded answers from could give none. They only replied that his accomplishments were truly amazing, and averted their gazes and whispered in corners where he could not hear. Mok, who had never belonged while those of his age were at the cave, still did not belong now that they had returned. And he grew hateful, and suspicious, and bitter. He stopped speaking to his friends, and locked himself away from his teachers, and remained alone all day and night.

Until one night, when Mok was granted a flash of inspiration. In his dreams he saw Scrum as it once stood a small, impoverished village. Slowly the village began to expand, and grow, and the tiny hovels were replaced with larger homes, the few rows of struggling vegetation with vast fields, the crooked people with villagers tall and strong. And amidst all of this change, a monument was begun. And as the homes become larger, and the fields expanded, and the people became stronger and more beautiful until they seemed almost as the gods, the monument grew, and revealed itself to be a statue. Mok had never seen the woman it portrayed, but he knew who she was, for she sat atop a great marble pillar.

However, just as the great monument was finished, so large that it seemed to dwarf even the great constructions of the future, it began to shake. It was blown in the wind, and waved from side to side, and began to swing so violently that Mok was sure that it must fall. Which it did. And as it fell, it crashed into the buildings of Scrum, and the fields, and the people, and by the end not a person or place remained in Scrum that was not reduced to rubble, to its component parts.

Mok awoke gasping and trembling. He told himself that it was just a dream; that it meant nothing; that it was only a result of his fears and insecurities about the shared experience the others had had, one which he could no longer participate in. He even told himself he believed that. But he spent the next day restless, unable to focus; he would begin daydreaming and find himself facing towards the cave, and the woman sitting on the marble pillar inside. Or so he figured.

Three days of this and Mok was ready to do whatever it took to regain his peace of mind. He attacked the problem from every angle, analyzed what exactly he had seen in his dream and how likely it was to come to pass. He made this discovery: the woman in the cave atop the marble pillar had too much power over Scrum. She was, he realized, the one thing everyone in the village had in common. This singular experience, this singular source of knowledge, was what bound Scrum together and made it strong. Yet it was also Scrum’s greatest weakness. Mok had been to other towns before, had seen the disorder and lack of cohesion there. But he had also seen the camaraderie, and the unity, and although it was not nearly to the extent of Scrum, it was free from reliance on any one person or thing. Mok feared what might happen if the woman atop the marble pillar in the cave ever decided to wield this power; the damage done to Scrum could be irreversible. She hadn’t yet - or had she? Mok tried to put a stop to those thoughts - but to all appearances the woman was immortal. Who could know the mind of such a being? Had Scrum been merely a puppet the woman caused to move as she willed? These thoughts filled Mok, filled him to the very top of himself, until he finally decided that the woman in the cave atop the marble pillar had to be dealt with. He didn’t want to harm her - he wasn’t sure if she could even be harmed - but removing her from the cave seemed a fine first step to limit her continued influence on Scrum.

So Mok set off for the cave, where the woman chained atop the pillar sat. The younger members who were on their own, mandated quest stopped and stared the first time he stepped into that chamber, with the marble pillar and the roof open to the sky. Even the beautiful woman, who was in the middle of a friendly dialogue with one of the youngsters, felt the force of that hush and followed along in its wake. Mok was not much older than they were, and yet they knew - they all knew - that he was too old to be one of them, and yet too young to be one of the elders in charge of hauling the failed experiments away.

Mok stood in front of the pillar and looked up, to where the beautiful woman chained to the marble pillar was. And he looked at her face and she looked at his; and what he saw was what he had expected, and yet not. He had grown up hearing the stories of the woman; her beauty and wisdom was legendary in Scrum. And Mok found himself… disappointed. All this obsession and ritual over her? he mused.

Mok spent the rest of the day - as the youths were made to leave at night - studying the chamber, the marble pillar, the roof open to the sky, and everything in the cave which was not the woman, who was, after all, the last part of his plan which needed thinking about. He estimated lengths and widths, and sketched the pillar and the walls from multiple angles. Lastly, as the light overhead was growing dim and the other villagers in the cave, having quickly overcome their shock at Mok, began to head home, he brainstormed a few ideas. It was going to be tricky, he admitted; the slenderness of the pillar relative to its height made constructing any time of ramp or ladder questionable at best, and he had long ago discarded the notion of finding a way over the mountains and down into the cave from the top. He stood up from the small boulder he had been using as a seat, stretched painfully, and began to the trip home.

All this day the woman chained atop the pillar had watched him, without stopping her conversations with the others in the cave. She had addressed Mok (though she did not know that was his name) directly a handful of times, but he had paid no heed, and listened only to the dark thoughts inside his head. When he began to hobble home, away from the woman chained atop the marble pillar, the woman exhaled a tension she did not know she had; there was something about Mok that disturbed her, though her conscious mind did not yet know it, it’s as though she could feel he was an agent of change, and both hated and loved him for it.

What Gaia taught me about grief

I've mentioned several times on this blog that emotions and I have not been super pals throughout most of my life. Everyone remembers that great (terrible?) cave and wall metaphor - something which now certainly is reminiscent of the Cask of Amontillado - and I like to think that I was at least somewhat clear in that post. Particularly when talking about the positives and negatives of opening yourself up. Most of the people who have commented on it to me have said how happy they are that, for me, the wall lies in a pile of rubble.

I wish I could share their enthusiasm, but as I also said in that post, it's a double-edged sword at the best of times. I recently ran into a situation where, again, I reacted quite differently than I have in the past. And while I feel like a large part of that is the different factors involved in this scenario, I can't deny that the wall-shaped hole in my brain may have something to do with it.

I don't want to spend too much setting the scene. At my step-mother's house there are many cats. Or at least there used to be; it seems like that number is shrinking almost daily now. I lived there from summer 2008 to winter of 2013, so a fair amount of time spent in one place. And in that time I got to know all the cats and dogs, like you do. Gaia was one of these: a rescue together with her daughter, Luna, she was a tortoiseshell who was pretty round, kind of like a meatball, and had a real attitude. It used to lead to some stand-offs with her and one of the cats we brought, Ricky, a Scottish Fold who was just super-awesome (and also had a real attitude).

Gaia was nuuuuuuuuts about me. This was often annoying, as cats so frequently are: she would hear my voice in the kitchen and come running, then lay over my feet/in the middle of the kitchen and attack me (playfully, but still) as I tried to walk by; she would follow me around meowing with this urgent cry that made you wanna shake her; she liked to go into the basement (where I spent most of my time) and then refuse to get off the steps, either deciding she wanted to leave immediately or just generally getting in the way of everyone trying to get up and down the stairs all the time. You know - annoying.

But she was also adorable and lovely, and a little nuts (as all torties are). She would lay on my feet, as I already mentioned, and I'd pet her rough and she'd make hilarious noises and rub against my shoes so hard she fell over. She would then attack the shoe, often clinging to it as I tried to walk away so I would be half-dragging her across the floor. Among many other awesome and excellent things she did, but that's the most immediate one. Oh, sometimes after getting her all worked up she would scratch her face/neck and go "mrow-row-row-row-row" VERY loudly. Hilarious.

In the past year or two, however she's been looking worse. She lost a lot of weight, and last year she was in real bad shape - in fact some people already wanted to dismiss her as 'old and dying' and put her to sleep - but through the intercession of my sister she was taken to the vet, they looked her over and helped her out and she was back to her old self. More-or-less, anyway; she never quite regained that lost weight, and Meatball Cat became more of a parody name than a truism.

Fast-forward to this past weekend. I hear from my brother (who is the only sibling at the house right now - my sister is pet-sitting for another family) that she's in bad shape, and will probably be put down soon, so I get ready and I go over there to see her one last time. We spent some time at the pet-sitting house hoping that my sister would get the green-light to come over and leave the pets there for a while, but that never came so my brother and I went home without her.

I can't really describe what it was like. She was in my brother's room; she had crawled under his desk, as cats are wont to do, and was laying there. Stretched out, arms and legs straight out, like she had just fallen over sideways. Her eyes couldn't close, and there was a large amount of liquid issuing from the one, which didn't stop while I was there. She couldn't move or focus the eyeballs themselves. There was a dish of water next to her which she had not touched because she couldn't. I put some water on a finger and tried to get her to drink at least a little, but to no avail. Her breathing was shallow and labored.

But she was still alive, and as I spoke to her and pet her and tried to reassure her however I could over the next two hours and change, I would see glimmers that she was at least somewhat conscious of what was going on. Her face would twitch, the muscles around her eyes moving slightly. Sometimes her paws would twitch. They were cold, so I asked my brother to provide a shirt to throw on over her. It was a small gesture but at least it made me feel like I could do something.

Now, this isn't a post about anger. Anger comes much easier to me than grief, and I right now recalling events I'm feeling a pretty even mixture of both. I learned that she had been virtually unable to walk since Friday - this was on a Sunday evening, I should mention - and that no effort - none, zip, nothing - had been made to get her to a vet. Nothing. So she had laid there, slowly starving and/or thirsting to death, if whatever had happened to her brain wouldn't kill her first, for literally days, with those who could have done something waved it away with, frankly, ridiculous and self-deluding assurances.

But like I said, that's not what this entry is about. I don't mean to offend anyone; that's my interpretation of events, which I feel strongly about and which I believe is justified, but that's another post for another time. See how easy it was for me to distract myself from writing about grief - I don't want to deny I was tearing up while writing those paragraphs describing her last day, because I was - by focusing on anger?

The grief is what hit me the hardest at the time. I couldn't even summon the fire to be angry during those two hours, while I was watching her lay there, so far removed from the animal I once knew. I want to put it out there that I have felt grief. Good God have I felt grief. Our family hasn't been the luckiest in the past few years, and I can't deny that I felt grief when Ricky, our excellent cat we'd had for about 13 years, wandered down to the basement one day, laid down under a desk, made a sickening meowing noise, and then went limp. I was petting him and trying to coax him, but it wasn't working; I then took my dead cat and laid him in a box, to be buried the next morning. Or when I learned our other amazing cat (received all the way back in 2000/2001), Leo, who was Ricky's half-brother (but a straight-eared fold), developed serious issues with his breathing. My brother's girlfriend was handling it at the time, and towards the end it was truly horrendeous - his sinuses had partially collapsed and he just.... I mean I can't imagine. I can't imagine how hard it was for her. Mallory, if you're reading this, I... I mean I thanked you at the time, but I don't think I understood fully. Because it is awful.

Or when our other cats died. Or when we showed up, literally penniless, at a house in New York, rented for the next month, which was coated in mold and was essentially unlivable; a house where we spent the next month, what items we could fit in all thrown into the living room, where we all slept on mattresses and tried to stay out of the other rooms (which always gave me a headache if I spent too long there). Or when we came back from the beach one day in Ocean City to learn that our mother had died in New York. Or at the wake. Or other, also-very-bad things which I probably shouldn't share in a public blog.

The point is, I've felt grief before this. But it had always been like pulling off a band-aid: a quick sting which fades. Some stings take longer to fade than others, it's true, but all fade. That's life, and while I'm not quite sure if Time heals all wounds, it can at least reduce them to festering scabs which sometimes burst open again during heavy exertion or changes in barometric pressure.

But a big part of those moments of grief is that the causes were instant. When Ricky died, he seemed fine, came downstairs, and died. Instant. When we learned our mother had died, it had already been several hours. Instant. When other relatives have died, or pets, or any other horrible thing has happened to us, it's either been at a distance or instant. Or, in the case of the Mold House, as we call it, a long (and difficult) present that we hope will get better.

But with Gaia it was different. I had never sat by and watched something suffer before, with no possibility of recovery. I know that humans are the only animal cursed with their own mortality, but something in the animal mind tells it when it's about to die; elephants have graveyards, gulls have the sea, and cats - well, cats are known for crawling under hard-to-reach places to die, so no one can see them. They don't like revealing weakness, which is maybe another reason why I get along with them so well.

What happens when that instinct goes off, and leads an animal to choose its final place... and then it doesn't quite happen? What if instead of an instant death they suffer slowly, locked in a state between both life and death? In that moment when the instinct fires off, do they realize what's happening? Do they lay there, feeling their breaths become shorter and shorter, their vitals weakening and shutting down, their body losing its heat? Do they know what's happening?

Maybe they don't; I don't know. But it's given me a lot to think about over the last few days, and it was a whole lot to think about Sunday night. The immensity of what was happening was clear, at least to me, though it seemed like most others were either blind to it or numb to it. Which is how I would have been, before, I think. Trying not to feel anything.

Because it was fucking terrible. I was crying for about two hours straight, and while I am not the most masculine man in the world, I don't like crying and I don't cry easily or often. But for two hours I sat there, blowing my nose as the tears fell, and I really thought about all this stuff. And I even recorded a video; I don't know why, but I just began talking to myself and thought this might be a good opportunity to have for future reference. I'll never let anyone see it, I'm sure; though I speak to a third party, it's waaaay too personal. And cheesy: in that moment I was not my most articulate or witty, I'm sorry to say. But I felt like it was important, because it shows me myself grieving, something I have experienced before, but tightly-reined and as brief as I could make it. It shows my reaction to an ongoing incident, one happening right before me, and though I'm mostly incoherent throughout it, or silent, I guess it doesn't really matter.

Just sitting there and being sad is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. I really, really, really really really wanted to leave, go distract myself with something, stop thinking about it. Because that would have been easy, at least for me; I've gotten extremely good at compartmentalizing and dissembling. And it's gotten easier the further it's gotten from Sunday, too. I try to think about it at least once or twice a day, just to keep it in my mind, but it is of course a sad memory and my unconscious tries to not dwell on it. Soon, I'm sure, I won't think about it much unless reminded of it by some outside factor.

But I didn't leave, and that's the point. I didn't distract myself, because I wanted to spend the time with her, and be with her. And I don't even know if she knew I was there, or if she felt anything at all. I hope she did, but in the end it doesn't really matter, because I was mostly there for Me. I felt like she deserved, what, at least two hours of my time, after all the years I spent with her. I watched over her because I actually hated the thought of leaving her alone, which I told to my brother (who wasn't sure if he could sleep in a room with a dying cat - and I totally understand that). He eventually decided to stay, otherwise I would have volunteered to sleep there that night. The thought of her in that condition, in a dark room, alone, slowly dying... I hated it. I hated it. I'm not being overly-dramatic; it was anathema to me. I was not going to let that happen, even if she didn't know I was there, even if she was feeling no pain and wasn't aware of anything around her. Couldn't do it. Wouldn't do it.

The next morning she was taken to the vet and put to sleep. My brother said she had begun twitching more violently, so it's for the best. And he not only slept in the room, but slept next to her on the floor, the whole night. Which... I mean, I know it's pathetic, but I'm crying a bit about right now. Lame, lame, I know. But for some reason that meant - and still means - so much to me.

So that's where I am with grief, now. I let it in; or at least, there was no barrier there to keep it out. And it was about as horrible as I expected, and since very few people enjoy feeling grief and sadness, on some level I wish that the wall was still up, that I could have been affected in the moment and quickly scrubbed it from the emotional receptors of my mind instead of tearing up at just the thought of it half a week later. But I'm also happy, because that wouldn't have been fair to Gaia, or my relationship with her, or how much happiness she brought me during a pretty miserable period of my life. Or even the annoyances when I'd trip over her in the dark and she'd meow in reproach at me and I'd shout back "what do you expect you're laying in the middle of the kitchen in the dark!"

As much as I wish it, life can't be just about the good times. Scratch that, because good times for me are in extremely short supply - it can't even be just about the non-terrible times. A lot of it is about the terrible times, the awful experiences, the waist-high lake of excrement I wade through to get to the opposite bank, though the bank keeps getting further and further away, and the lake gets deeper and deeper, and there's something in here with me, and now that I think about it I'm not sure that even is another bank, it could just be an optical illusion of the boiling sunlight reflecting off of the shit that is my life.

And now that I've engaged in my self-inflicted misery, it's time to watch a video or play a game or talk to someone, anything to get my mind off of things. Just because my life is an ocean of loss and pain, and I'm fully committed to acknowledging that, it doesn't mean I can't have a daydream of thunderstorms and northern lights and crisp mountain air, does it?

StoryTime Power Hour: Green Hull

I've been playing a lot of Sunless Sea lately, which is a... game... based around Fallen London, which is another game (apparently) / setting / something. I don't know I'm not a master on these matters. Essentially 19th century London lost a war with Hell, I think, and ended up being carried away by a mass of bats to the Neath, a gigantic underground sea with exactly the kinds of Cthuloid terrors you'd expect.

The strange part of it is that I wrote a story a few months ago - titled 'Green Hull' at random - which is remarkably similar to this, down to the steamship and sickly glow underneath the dark waters. But I really didn't begin playing this game until the last few days, and I want to stress that. It's simply coincidence!

But that has got me thinking about the story I wrote. Unlike most pieces of refuse I dredge up from the shallow scummy pond of my creativity, I think in theory it's not terrible. Written over the course of one day while already late, absolutely. Sloppily assembled? Yes. Yes it is. I also figured out exactly who the characters were (really, I only decided the narrator was the First Mate in the last third of the story) late into the story, and then didn't have enough time to go back through and retroactively add in salient moments of characterization where they really needed to go.

So it's unbalanced and wobbly, and lurches forward like a zombie with only one shoe, but I think the core there is decent enough. It's made me think about going back and editing it. But why not post this very first, very rough draft online? That way, if it does become something I can be less ashamed of, I won't ever be able to get it published. Sounds good, right? It's a good idea, right?

So sit back, relax, pop a 5-Hour Energy and enjoy the descent into hackneyed terror that is the very first draft of the future award-winning acclaimed published second draft of 'Green Hull.' Feel free to post comments here/Facebook/tumblr/twitter/Instagram/snapchat/tinder/MySpace/Skype/Livejournal/xanga/Youtube!

Green Hull

What I remember most clearly is the stillness.

The rest of the crew says otherwise; Peabody says we were stuck in the middle of a howler, pelted by Poseidon as we shivered in our overcoats and held on for our lives. Francis tells it a little different every time, but always makes mention of an island he calls The Wash, where the sun shone down always, even at the darkest hour of night – that is, when he can get to that part of the story, before he ducks his shoulders and hides inside himself and asks to be taken back to his room. The Captain says... well, I guess he doesn’t say much anymore.

What I remember is the stillness, the damnable calm before a storm we never saw coming. It’s an odd thing, a still sea. Because there’s always noise from somewhere, even if it’s just the steady slap of the waves against the hull while the engine chugs over top, a duet which is the closest a man can get to peace and quiet when he’s stuck in the middle of the Atlantic, looking down the barrel of three more weeks on the waves. But that evening it was still, like the water had forgotten how to move, or it had seen Medusa and turned to stone, only the stone was translucent glass and showed us just how far we couldn’t see into its holds.

We hadn’t seen any wind or heard any clouds for a week, as best as I can recall, and we were toasting our luck each night with Peabody’s private reserve, a little secret he kept from the Captain. Did the Captain know? I can’t say. But he never said anything about it, and as it didn’t much matter to the others, it didn’t much matter to me. I remember waking that morning to anxiety and a bowl of oats. The galley was a ghost town, the deck a mourners’ gallery. We all felt it, I think. Seven days of good fortune was a blessing, but another morning with no chop nor gale was beyond strange in that part of the sea. I checked the cargo three times before noon, ensuring the crates were stowed properly. If Lady Luck was about to deliver a comeuppance, I wasn’t going to be the one left swinging in the wind.

Around noon is when it began to change, in fact, and we felt the first breath of a breeze in days, and a fine mist rolled in to smother us whole. Or perhaps we rolled into the mist; it’s hard to say, out there on the water. The mood picked up; Francis began talking to Big Peter about some lady he had ‘made acquaintance with’ in Boston, and even the Captain relaxed a bit, giving me the wheel while went to his cabin to read. He liked his books, the Captain, and not a man in the crew but respected him for it. Hell, Peabody couldn’t even read, and I had to go over the manifest with Francis repeatedly until he could speak it from memory when we reached safe harbor.

Around six bells we came out the other end of the sea mist. Soon after the escorting breeze left us, and we chugged along to the gentle rocking of small cresting hands. I looked behind and saw the fog we had left behind sitting on the ocean, a ghostly wall we had shot through, stretching as far as I could see. The sun was muted by a layer of stationary rain – must have been some low-flying clouds, they do that sometimes – and at first the shade felt pleasant, and we picked up speed. But as it continued, I began to remember my misgivings from earlier. The filtered light began to blur the edges of what I could see, and though I can’t rightly explain it, it was impossible to see far in any direction. The Captain took the helm again, leaning forward slightly as he gripped the iron wheel, knuckles the color of bone underneath. I moved down and stalked the decks, which put the men on edge, particularly Big Peter, who was a superstitious man at the best of times. I watched him shovel coal until he spent more time glancing at me than the furnace. It beat being outside.

Yet somehow at seven bells I found myself on the main deck, staring at the water. Many who know the sea only in parting believe they have her tenor, whether the fishermen of New England or the traders of the Caribbean. I don’t doubt they know their seas, the local divinities which bring riches and ruin in equal measure. Hell, I thought I knew the sea too, before I began making cross-Atlantic voyages. But it’s all bravado, boasts you tell yourself to make sense of the ups and downs. It’s only when a man is thousands of miles from land, when the deeps below him sink fathoms upon fathoms, and the dark of the depth is so black it threatens to swallow you while you stare at it from the security of an iron tub built by men just like you in the span of the few months... it’s only then you can admit to yourself, faced with evidence which admits no denial, that you are small.

That was something like how it went, at any rate, as I stared down there with the sun fighting through overhead, when the quiet came. The ship no longer chugged and sputtered, but glided silently on her belly, a steel-gray seal flowing over ice. The men noticed at once; heads whipped around to the helm, where the Captain stood behind dark glass, his face a dim mask. Affecting nonchalance I made my way inside, where he assured me that we were still moving – the valves and meters and every piece of equipment said we were still moving, the engine still running. I ran down to the furnace to check the fire, and the instruments were right – the fire raged like an angry god; the sound roared as if to make up for the silence above. I couldn’t find Big Peter.

As I climbed the ladder from the engine room, and the fury of the fire faded behind, a madly ringing bell took its place, and I felt the ship lurch to one side. I scrambled the rest of the way up. I saw the Captain, clutching the wheel and straining to turn against the pull of whatever current we had run afoul of. I ran over and added my strength to his, and the iron circle inched starboard, squealing in protest. I glanced outside and saw the muted evening reflected in the black waters, the men holding on to the port railing as they made their way below deck.

The Captain roared ‘Slow Ahead’ to Francis, who had been ringing the bell on the bridge, and he stumbled across the floor to the chadburn. I shouted that Big Peter was missing, but I couldn’t hear myself over the dull roar which had crept up on us as we fought the ship for its life. Instead I stepped towards Francis, shoving him in the direction of the wheel while I half-jumped, half-fell down the hatch leading below deck and, clutching my bruised ribs, lumbered to the galley, where I found most of the men breaking into Peabody’s stash with abandon. I pointed at Young Donald and Jackson, disregarding Peabody’s slouching form, and screamed at them to get to the engine room.

By the time I made it back to the bridge the ship had straightened, for the most part, though the Captain still fought with the wheel. We were caught in the wake of something, whether a current or trade wind or God knows what, and he was having a hell of a time shaking us free. Asking Francis to check on the cargo, I stepped towards the bridge window, peering out at the preternatural gloom, peering right out at Big Peter.

He was tangled up in ropes at the bow. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to free himself or hold on more tightly; either way, I didn’t like his chances. I slipped on one of the overcoats hanging at the back of the bridge, and tightening a pair of rope-handling gloves, I moved to the door. It didn’t want to open, like all the winds we had avoided on our journey were here in this moment, shouldered up against handle.

As I struggled the ship lurched, leaning harder to port than before. I felt something slam into my back, driving the breath out and away, and as my vision went dark I felt the door under me give way. I managed to keep just enough wits about me to grasp the handle as whatever had hit me slipped sideways along the deck and over the rail. I never learned who it was.

I shook away the stars and my way slowly to the starboard rail, slipping here and there, saved only by a snaking cable which must have popped free during the tumult. I shouted for Peter over the roar of the bubbling surf, but even I couldn’t hear my words as they left my throat. I peered back to the bridge and saw the Captain; it looked as if the wheel was the only thing keeping him on his feet, a friend and foe combined in that terrible moment.

I made it to the rail, discarded the cable and grabbed the sturdy brace with both hands, moving along inch by inch. My feet found purchase where they could. In my slow crawl Peter grew closer, until I noticed his open mouth and wild eyes, and his throat straining with a howl which couldn’t be heard.

The ship seized, and I half-jumped, half-fell into the tangle of ropes which Peter was even now clinging to. I looked down and found my feet dangling free. The deck was nearly vertical, being sucked in by a water darker than any starless night I’ve seen before or since. In a spot about twenty feet wide, a little farther up the ship, the ocean buckled accompanied by a deafening crack, like a tree falling. The surface of the water rose up, pushing out at various places, the surrounding sea stretching to keep it contained, like a great pressure was building underneath the surface that the water itself was trying to keep hidden.

A rough hand grabbed me and held on, and I was reminded of the dull ache in my arms as Peter leaned over and shouted something in my ear. I couldn’t hear a word over the fray, but I turned and looked at him anyway. His face was pale, and shone with a greenish cast, while his arms shook, not entirely due to the exertion of keeping himself on the ship, I think; his red beard stuck wildly out in all directions and made him look more than half-mad, though I suspected I might not look much better. I pointed at the bridge, shouting myself hoarse trying to be heard. He shook his head and let go of me, tightening his grip on the ropes.

I grabbed him and stabbed at the bridge with my finger once more, my fear finally getting the better of me. I told him that we had to get to the rafts, that staying entangled on the bow meant assured death, that it was only a matter of time before the stacks flooded and the ship was gone for good, and us with it if we didn’t move right then. I don’t know if by some miracle he heard me, or if the image of my face screwed up with dread and anger convinced him to move, but he began to climb to the rail above. With once last look at the scene below, where the surface of the water now bulged outwards in half a dozen places, I pulled myself up and over the side of the ship.

On hands and knees we crawled back towards the bridge and the lifeboat beside it. The sun had all but disappeared by that time, and it was slow going over the rails in the greying gloom. Peter would stop sometimes, when the ship tilted or another massive crack echoed up the deck or sometimes for no reason at all, but with a shove and an unheard shout I’d get him moving again. About halfway to our destination smoke began to roll in from underneath us; the stacks had been flooded. If there was any chance of the ship being salvaged, it had now disappeared, and so we grimly continued, coughing and moving more slowly as our path was obscured.

At some point on our doomed sideways climb, with the ship twisting and slipping underneath us, the stacks had been pulled completely under the water, and the smoke dissipated. I looked past Peter and saw, saw that the lifeboat was gone; at that moment I lost hope, for the first time in my life. I continued forward as a mechanical exercise, my body proving more stubborn than my mind, though it, too, was approaching its breaking point, for that at point I slipped and slid down the hull, losing sight of the devilry which had all but slain the old girl who, even now, was putting up as good a fight as she could. As I hauled myself back up, telling my arms to simply let go and end it, I noticed a splash of color off to the side. I turned and the sight of the small boat sitting on the unblemished sea ushered in a wave of relief which almost accomplished what my doomed will had not. It was only a few hundred feet away, by my reckoning, and though I couldn’t see who was aboard, the waving figures told me they had spotted us.

With a loud curse I hauled myself back up onto the side of the railing. Peter hadn’t noticed my fall, and so was about a dozen feet ahead. I rushed forwards, throwing caution away as the possibility of rescue loomed large in my thoughts. I caught up to him quickly, for he had stopped moving. Directly below us was that cursed Hell-spot, and he sat on the rail, looking down. That was when I noticed the light; a flickering green glow had encompassed this side of the ship, casting Peter’s face in a sickly light. I had no time to marvel at monstrosities – I shook him by the shoulders and gestured to the salvation waiting behind him.

He didn’t look, though, or respond to me in any way. He just sat there, staring down, and that’s when I realized the light was coming from beneath the surface, shining through the edges of shattered sea. The fractured water now spread almost the width of the ship, and I had the very immediate sensation that we should be gone from there. I grabbed Peter by the collar and made to slide down the hull into the water, and make a swim for it, trusting to good fortune that we wouldn’t be dragged down in the ship’s wake.

The scar of broken ocean erupted. Light poured forth from the gap as something – something – crept out, and as if Time itself was taken aback at this perversion of the natural and sacred, it seemed like hours as it emerged and unfurled itself, luxuriating in freedom from whatever dark millennium it had come from. Then the sound came, like a scream of something that came before, and the sea fled the opening, and the ship was held in the grip of that nauseating light, and Peter fell forward, and my hand released his collar, and he dropped into the light, and I turned and slipped down the hull, and was torn up by rivets and barnacles on the way down, and I swam hard against a current trying to bring me back, and that’s all I can remember until I awoke on an English merchant vessel alongside Francis and Peabody and the Captain a week and a half later.

Like I said, it’s not the only story. Each of us have one, and that’s mine. I don’t know if it’s the right one; it doesn’t seem likely. It feels like the right one though, at least to me.

What was it? Could have been anything. A man’s mind plays strange tricks, and sailors know that best of all. Sometimes it was a great fish, a winged monstrosity called up from the ancient fathoms of time; others it was the image of a heathen god, brought forth from profane idols to assert its dominance over our race once more; and still others it’s the fetid hand of Lucifer himself, come to snatch a ship of sinners down to his infernal realm. Most often, though, it’s something that can’t be seen entirely, like it exists in the blind spot of reality, the tip of some alien iceberg; an invader of our reality, one which may not even notice the comparatively small, insignificant race of man.

Trapped in a Mind send Help

This is kind of a companion piece to my last update, where I was talking about being trapped in my own head and how you can fall into certain cycles of thought. The reason I brought that up, in fact, was due to a conversation I had with my friend/roommate and my brother, where we were talking frankly (because that's the only way we talk, Frank) about the kinds of 'bizarre' mental habits we're afflicted by. It was an eye-opening conversation in a lot of ways. This kinda stuff comes up every so often tangentially, but usually not spoken about at length in such a way. I dunno, maybe you'll find it interesting.

My roommate, for example, has problems with social anxiety. Among the various ways this manifests itself, two stood out for me at the moment (I'm sure there are many more things he did not mention). For one, I've noticed - anyone who's spent time around him has noticed - that he has a tendency to curse or grumble seemingly at random. Asking him what's up leads to a noncommittal 'ugh, nothing' or something similar. It turns out, in fact, that these moments are frequently brought on by thoughts about mistakes he's made in the past - and not big, life-changing mistakes, but minor mistakes, often social in nature, going back months and years. The way he explained it, just remembering saying something that may have made him seem foolish, or a reaction to something that he wished he had controlled better, is enough to bring his mood down. And it happens a lot. It's a mode of thought that seems to be occurring near-constantly, and is (as he has described it) the kind of stuff that you or I may find completely unremarkable, forgotten almost immediately afterwards.

Similarly, my friend explained that he often second-guesses (and third-guesses, fourth-guesses, etc.) his reactions to people when caught off his guard. An interaction as simple as noticing a person you know walking down the hallway is what he used as an example. His initial instinct may be to nod to the person. Midway through the nod, though, he may grow concerned that the person won't notice the nod, so he'll also begin to wave. Then, as he's switched tack midstream, he'll sometimes attempt to smooth that jump over with a third action (for this example, perhaps a simple 'hey').

Once the person is past, though, he will then go through and repeat all the actions he just did in miniature; as he described it, "if someone could see the whole thirty-second interaction, they would see me nod, wave, say something, then as soon as the person was past nod again, make a little waving motion, and mumble under my breath. They would think I'm insane." He does this because he's going through every action and double-checking that they were all sufficient and/or not weird/creepy/etc.

These are two great examples of the patterns of thought we can get swept away by without even really noticing it. This stuff rises so subtly and over the course of our lives that by the time we take notice of it, it's already part of us. Which means it's really, really hard to let go of, and some people don't want to let go. Because it's normal to each of us, even though we may know logically that it's kinda strange and other people don't have the same exact issues.

My brother does something similar, where he'll sometimes obsess over an upcoming interaction with people, particularly if it's important. Which isn't so strange, I suppose, except he gets very, very concerned with it, and rehearses the way it might go ad nauseum so he's not thrown. Then, when it doesn't go exactly has he plotted it out in his head, he gets thrown off his game. Now, thankfully my brother is a suave enough guy (what can I say, it's in the genes) that this usually doesn't negatively impact him much in the long run, but it is something he's very concerned about.

He also has a very strong tendency to stress out over every possible decision. We make jokes about it, actually, because it is so prevalent and often involves decisions which are just not that big of a deal, objectively speaking. He gets so many points of view from so many different people that I begin to wonder exactly how helpful any of it can be, since he almost always gets a variety of different answers. He also often does this with decisions he's already made, maybe in the spur-of-the-moment.

Much like my roommate's social anxiety issues, I feel like most of us can sympathize with some form of this behavior. It's certainly not super bizarre, and I can say from personal experience that there are aspects of these thought patterns that I share - quite a few, in fact. Because I think most of us have social anxiety to some extent, and regret decisions we may have made, and moments we reacted without thinking and wish we could take it back. God knows I do.

Speaking of myself - my favorite topic, obviously - I'll go into some more specifics, if anyone's still reading, since I'm something of an authority on the subject. I also feel a lot more comfortable sharing details about the way I think versus other people, and then judging myself accordingly.

For one, I talk to myself constantly. CONSTANTLY. When I'm alone I sound like a raving lunatic. I'll hold one-sided arguments, go through past decisions, reevaluate current plans, all of it audible to anyone with a wiretap inside my apartment (or wherever I may be). It's just the way I think things through. I mean really think things through. I have a massive tendency to go off onto tangent after tangent after tangent - now realizing this may have been an ever-present symptom of my ADHD - while speaking, and this is magnified about a thousand times worse when it's just in my head. I find it VERY difficult to think in a straight line for an extended period of time (2-3+ minutes) keeping it all up in the ol' noodle. I also often find myself thinking faster than I'm capable of processing information. Does that make sense to anyone?

Have you ever had racing thoughts? Due to a bad trip or drug reaction, or overwhelming stress or something like that? I have. Boy oh boy, that was a bad two days. If you're fortunate enough to never have experienced this, the best way I can describe it is... it's like tripping over your own thoughts. You begin thinking very, very quickly, and the problem is that they're frequently disjointed thoughts connected by only the barest thread - because by the time you're about to formulate a singular notion, you've already jumped onto three more thoughts springing from that idea, and it goes on and on like a runaway train. It is awful.

That's not how it is for me most of the time, however; or should I say, it's an extremely minor version of that very awful experience. How often do you forget what you were about to say? That's essentially what it's like - a thought was fully formed, ready to come out, but somewhere on its way out of the mouth it gets lost. Sometimes you track it down and bring it home, and sometimes it freezes to death in the woods and is eaten by raccoons. Thought-raccoons, I mean. They might stand for, ah... no, I'm not going to waste your time by trying to make this into an extended metaphor, because that would be a real shitshow.

However, when I talk to myself, it forces every part of my brain to hold on a minute. Translating the thoughts into words and then speaking of them is so much less efficient that it slows the whole process down, and in turn allows me to focus better on one idea for longer. Do I still get distracted and forget what I was talking/thinking about? Yes, yes I do. But by processing my thoughts that way, and then hearing myself speak them, I'm able to pick up where I left off soooooo much more often.

This brings me back to my last update, where I was talking about being alone trapped inside my head. One of the reasons I have always valued solitude is that it has provided me with that very opportunity to think things through more clearly. Which is extremely important for me. However, much like my brother and roommate, what may seem normal (and even useful) to me when used in moderation becomes a sort-of nightmare when left unchecked.

Because I will just keep talking. Sometimes I'll be watching a show/movie or listening to music while alone and I will pause whatever it is just because I feel the need to talk. Talk talk talk. Talk some more. And a lot of times, I'm dealing with issues I have already dealt with. They're already done! I will not have received any new information, and often will have already made a decision (if I haven't already put said decision into effect). It's just a retread of what I've thought about before. I have the same arguments with myself, come up with the same solutions, and in general just repeat myself. Over and over and over again. Depending on what I'm thinking about, I can do this for weeks or months - and a few times, for years. YEARS! Of having the same exact conversation with myself.

Taking self-inventory is important, and I feel like I spend a lot of time in introspection. And this process helps me with that, and that's super-great. But once it begins to seem obsessive to me, it becomes something I want to turn off. But I can't. It's always there, and I know it's an exercise in futility and it actually takes up a fair amount of my time, and I want to stop it. But I can't. It's extremely frustrating. I can squash it if I put my mind to it, but it always creeps back in. I'll realize I'm mumbling to myself while walking to class or washing my hands in the bathroom at work, and ffffffff I mean it's just real annoying. Real, real annoying.

Now I don't know if you've seen the link between all these worthless ramblings, but it's basically 'uselessness.' Or futility, I suppose, or whatever you might call it. It's about how your mind can take things that are, more-or-less, healthy and/or helpful - asking those you respect for input/advice, taking care of how you come across to others, giving yourself time to think matters through - and turn them into crutches, and eventually labyrinths. Run through the maze, mouse. It's the same maze every time, and we all know that, but we also know that you're still going to run through it.

On a more uplifting note, however, my point is that we all have these kinds of things. At least, this small sample size does, but I would be highly surprised if most everyone didn't have certain mental prisons they've constructed for themselves. I don't get trapped inside my head the same way my roommate does, or my brother does, or you do. But we all do get trapped up there sometimes, and it can make us feel a little crazy. And frustrated, and useless, and just bad. Bad bad bad. Sometimes we might ask other people if they ever feel the way we do, and if they say no we go 'heh alright nevermind' and drop it.

But while the people you ask may not know exactly what the dimensions of your cell is, or the material the bars are made of, or how many excrement buckets there are (are there excrement buckets? Did you luck out enough to get a functional toilet? You are literally killing me here), I can bet with a good deal of confidence that they have their own prison. Maybe you even know about it. One of them, at least. You now know about one of mine, but the mind is dark and full of terrors. There is plenty of space for a whole Panopticon in there.


I'm thinking I should start breaking these walls of text up with pictures. What do you think. Would that help with the boredom?