My Mind Is Bound to Ramble

I can’t believe how long it’s been since my last post. Time has been going by much too quickly.

I finished Season 8 of Supernatural. I loved the finale, but there are a few thoughts I had about it . . . but I won’t waste space here rambling about something most readers don’t know about. Plus, if you ever do watch the show, I don’t want to spoil it too much.

I’ve been working a lot on my Supernatural fanfiction story. I have actually posted it online somewhere, but it’s a bit embarrassing, so I’m not going to link to it or anything. Funny thing is that this story has helped me get my creative energy back, while my short stories didn’t. With the latter, I’d struggle with what to say. Part of it could be because I’m not as concerned about the quality of the fanfiction. Don’t get me wrong, I have a standard to maintain, but the other stories require more attention to polishing, especially if I want to try to submit them somewhere. Except I don’t even know who the audience could be for my latest short stories. I’ll keep pondering the matter, though.

I’ve finally started editing my novel, working on a chapter a day. That pace might change once I get further into the story because the chapters get longer. Well, toward the very end they get almost ridiculously short. So far, most of my editing has consisted of deleting things that are irrelevant or rewriting sentence that don’t make sense. I have a hard copy I wrote notes on, and I follow along with it, but I also go with my instinct at the moment. I’ll read a few paragraphs then look at what I wrote on the hard copy. Oftentimes, the phrasing I want to change is the same. What I want to change it to is as well. I like reading both copies as I go through the story, getting two perspectives (current and past) on the initial draft.

There have been some things I’ve been meaning to write about, like therapy, or Asperger’s, or empathy. Maybe one day I’ll get the motivation to write those posts.

Speaking of therapy, my therapist is moving to another practice. Luckily, I get to follow her. Problem is, that practice is at least 30 minutes away. But I really do think she’s the best therapist I’ve had so far, which is why I’ve been meaning to write about sessions with her. I don’t want to gamble anymore with the therapist bin; it could be years until I find another one I like, if ever. So that’s why I’m going to continue to see her.

When she told me she was leaving the place I currently go to, I teared up because the news was unexpected. More so because I didn’t want to look for another therapist. She asked how I was feeling about the situation, and I said I just felt like I wanted to give up rather than do another search. My one thought was to ask if I could see her at the other practice, but bringing up the idea made me nervous, almost shaky with panic. After me talking about how anxious I felt about what I wanted to say, I eventually made the request. I don’t know why bringing up the idea made me that panicky. I’ve revealed other things before that should’ve been more likely to induce anxiety. It probably goes back to my fear of rejection and blah blah blah.

Anyway, at the current place, she had to make sure I could get approved for meds only. Because apparently they don’t like you seeing a pdoc there if you’re not seeing one of their therapists. I was afraid of how things would go, but it seems they’re working out on that front.

Well, that concludes today’s ramble.

Hey-O

I’ve been back home for a few days now. My summer class got canceled, which is sad. I’m going to be bored . . . not to mention the loss of income. But I guess I should be doing things like looking at jobs and working on my writing.

I haven’t come back here right away because I’ve been working on my writing. I haven’t gotten around to editing my novel yet, but hopefully I will after I finish revising this short story I’ve been editing. I’ve also got a short story idea I haven’t started working on yet, and another one that I just finished. The latter is rather dark . . . It would make people wonder at the screwed-up things that go on in my head. I’m not sure what I can do with this story. I’m not sure what I can do with the story I’ve been revising, either. I find it amusing, but I don’t think anyone other than me would. I think the idea is clever, though. I just don’t feel like people would get it.

Then there’s the obsession I’ve referred to before . . . Supernatural. I started writing a fanfiction story because I just couldn’t get it out of my head. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it, though. It’s rather embarrassing; I don’t want to go into detail about the story itself. Well, I guess it’ll all just be for my own entertainment.

I’ve finally reached the eighth season of Supernatural, so I’ll probably be spending most of my free time watching that. Since I’m so obsessed and all. It’s bad. Half the time things remind me of little moments in Supernatural. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, lol.

And now we come to some heavy news.

While I was home, my dad almost had a heart attack.

I’m serious. It’s shocking and scary. One morning, he wasn’t feeling well, so he had my stepmom take him to the ER. No one thought it would be anything too bad; after all, he almost passed a stress test. But then they found that he had 100% blockage in his coronary artery. If my dad didn’t go to the hospital when he did, well . . . not something I want to think about.

My reaction to this event makes me think I’ve been lying to myself. I like to think I’m this sensitive, caring, and empathetic person, but I’m not.

I woke up late that morning, and based on certain cues in the house, I could tell something was up. However, unlike what I’d usually do in such a situation, I didn’t call to find out what it was. I didn’t want to, so I didn’t find out about my dad going to the ER until a couple of hours later. At that point, the doctors still hadn’t discovered how bad the situation was.

Then as the truth slowly came out, I felt emotionless. Complacent, even, like of course things turned out okay, because the alternative doesn’t happen in real life. Logically, that’s stupid.

I continued to feel emotionless. I didn’t even see why I should be otherwise. Everyone was concerned and worried, and there I was, a callous person.

It seems I have only two modes sometimes–being callous or being overly emotional. Perhaps that has something to do with my reaction.

The whole thing even seemed funny to me, and I occasionally had to restrain short laughs.

I’ve noticed, though, that sometimes I laugh when I’d normally cry.

But I don’t think that was one of the situations, because as I said, I felt nothing.

Only a few days later, as my mind sifted through the implications of the event, did I get weepy.

I don’t like what my reaction says about my character.

My dad’s fine now; he’s resting.

Little Anomalies

I was going to write about how I experience empathy, but I’m suddenly tired and unable to think. That’ll have to be for some other time, like in a couple of weeks.

I’m going to visit my family tomorrow, and I’ll be there for about two weeks. So, I probably won’t be on here. Not that I’ve been on here much lately, anyway. I haven’t been very good at keeping up with blogging lately. But my summer shouldn’t be too busy, so perhaps I’ll be on more regularly in June.

A couple of odd things lately:

I’ve started experiencing intense smells in my dreams. I thought there weren’t supposed to be smells in dreams? And that if were are smells, those smells were intruding from real life. But these smells are most definitely not from my sleeping surroundings. I smell things that couldn’t possibly be there. All sorts of things. Cake. Mud.

I’m curious as to why this is. I’ve never had a keen sense of smell to begin with. Why would I suddenly begin smelling things in my dreams?

I’m also someone who usually sleeps curled up, as scrunched into myself as possible. If I’m on my back, which I am often, I lie rigid with my arms around a stuffed animal, behind the pillow, or alongside my body. My legs are then crossed at the ankles or just stretched out straight right next to each other.

But lately, I’ve begun to sprawl out in my sleep. Consistently. I have to be sprawled out to fall asleep, often, too. Why would my sleep position suddenly change so dramatically?

**********

I think I’ve figured out why Supernatural resonates with me so much. For some reason, it puts me in an artistic mood, the same mood that impels me to write my stories. I’m not sure how to explain what this mood feels like. It’s got ingredients of inspiration, flashes of emotions and tableaus, bursts of creative energy. Then when I write, it’s like I go into a half-trance, like I’m here but also placing myself in another place. Occasionally I have to pause and sit there, perhaps close my eyes, until the right mood arrives for the part I’m writing. Like something in my brain has to percolate and I have to wait for it to finish until I can fully articulate it.

This artistic mindset explains the weird impulse I’ve been having to write fanfiction. That is not something I do. I don’t want to write any of those novel-length types, just really short pieces. I keep getting glimpses of imagined emotional moments that I feel like writing. I’m not silly enough to have acted on the impulse (so far?), thank goodness. Fanfiction is not a world I wish to deeply involve myself in . . .

I’ve also gotten snippets of an idea for a non-fanfiction short story; it revolves around thoughts about God and angels.

*********

I’ve been thinking about my lack of ambition again. I’m afraid to strive for anything because of the big break.

Today, I described it to my therapist as a “pretend breakdown.” She asked why I called it a pretend breakdown, and I explained it’s because I wasn’t truly non-functional. Wouldn’t I be non-functional if I had a breakdown? Problem is, it’s hard for me to tell, since blending in and not drawing attention to myself are big motivators for me. The therapist didn’t say much in response to that, so I assume she agreed with me. I kept getting irritated during therapy today and thought she was acting like she was bored. Logically, I know she wasn’t, but I wanted to start cursing and getting angry and telling her to fucking pay attention and that if I was boring her maybe I should just leave. Luckily, I reined in those impulses. See, these are the sorts of instincts I have, and with very little justification, and that’s why I feel I’m a bad person.

Then I talked about how hollow I felt, and she asked if I’d ever found anything fulfilling. I said writing, but then I’d sometimes begin thinking it was pointless and lose that fulfillment. She said she thought I could talk myself out of feeling fulfilled. That could perhaps be true. She asked if the point could possibly just be the fulfillment itself. But I can’t fully buy into that, because why should the point just be to make myself satisfied? If it doesn’t serve some other purpose, if all my writing does is sit around and no one ever reads it, what’s the use? It’s a lot of work for very little.

Anyway, back to the big break. I’m afraid. I’m afraid if I have any ambition, reach for anything, I’ll have another big break, and I’m not strong enough to go again through whatever that was.

For some reason, toward the end of the session, I started feeling emotional. We were talking about my upcoming visit to my family, and suddenly a rapid montage of the past played in my mind. I remembered everyone not getting along. Then I imagined lots of shouting and me inwardly cowering and wanting to run away and not get involved. Brief feelings that everyone hated me, intense feelings of self-worthlessness. I didn’t explain all that, though.

If you read my blog at the beginning, you might dimly remember when I used to whine about my childhood. All of that just briefly took over. That’s not a can of worms I’m going to open right now, ha.

Now, my family never hated me; I just felt that way. If anything, these days there are moments when I can almost feel their love radiating off them. This has to do with what I wanted to say about empathy–sometimes I feel as if I can perceive people’s emotions radiating off them when they speak. Maybe that’s absurd. I don’t know.

Oh, gosh, I can’t believe I wrote so much. I’m done with my random rambling.

Immersive

I like to completely immerse myself in almost everything I do. It helps me connect with the material, get work done. If I’m in the zone, I’m in the zone.

But there’s something dangerous about my predilection for immersion–it threatens to take me away from reality. This is why video-gaming entertainment would never be for me. (That, and the fact that I was never good at video games, nor did I enjoy them all that much.)

But I immerse myself in other things–books. Movies. TV shows. Food.

Anything can become an addiction, so much so that I will live inside that world rather than reality. Not  that I’m unaware of reality or ignoring my real-world responsibilities. Far from it, but my mind is elsewhere. Perhaps it’s not an addiction per se, but it’s something akin to addiction at least.

Blogging used to be one of those immersion activities. That’s one reason I don’t blog as much as I used to. It might not have been noticeable to anyone reading, but blogging had started to consume my life. I suppose there were signs, such as the fact that I occasionally mentioned that my blogging life seemed more real than my “real life.”

Writing is different. My stories, they’re an immersion experience, but they’re much more than that. By “immersion experience,” I mean something that I submerge myself in. While that happens with my stories, there’s also more to them than that. With them, I also take parts of myself and submerge them in the stories.

But with reading, it can be a different story. Sure, I absorb knowledge about writing styles and analyze what I’m reading, but that involves me burying myself in the book’s contents.

TV shows are easier to immerse myself in than movies. There are dozens of episodes, and the result is a TV show’s own intricate universe. It’s easy to get lost in that universe.

We all need a little escapism now and then. That’s why forms of entertainment exist. But I’m afraid, for me, it might go too far. It’s not something anyone would ever notice. I don’t seem to indulge in entertainment any more than a normal person would. (Food, maybe.) But my brain, my mind . . . it halfway lives elsewhere.

Sometimes I wish I could let the fantasy, whatever it is I’m immersing myself in, take over. Then I’d have an excuse for the fact that I’m often drowning in the real world.

I fervently want to live in an alternate reality. I want another life, not my own. Not because my life sucks–it’s not that bad, and there are tons of worse lives out there. But I just–I don’t know.

There’s a hollowness, an emptiness, inside of me that never goes away. There’s a sense of intense guilt that fucking never goes away.

I don’t want it, any of it. The loneliness. The knowledge of how abject I am.

No matter what I do, it never fucking goes away.

That’s why I’m so pathetic that I am compelled to immerse my mind elsewhere.

There’s nothing I can do to express the intensity of it all. I can’t act against myself; I’m too cowardly. I can stuff my face, but at the moment it’s not working as an act of self-destruction, but as an immersion experience. It sounds beyond pathetic, the fact that I will immerse myself in the taste for one split second, for each bite, and let that be all there is for that second.

I need to do something to punish myself, but I can’t. I can do nothing but wallow and cower.

The more the darkness consumes me, the more I immerse myself in other things, other things that my mind buries itself in, other things that can do nothing to counteract the darkness, that can in fact increase the darkness even as they give me one ephemeral moment in which I am free.

Is It God?

First, I want to post this short clip from Supernatural, from an episode I watched last night. In it, Castiel has just told Sam and Dean that he’s going to try to find God. Dean makes a joke about hearing God was on a tortilla, and Castiel responds that God isn’t on any flatbread. This part makes me laugh so much. Misha Collins, who plays Castiel, has such a straight face, and for a second it’s clear that Castiel’s considering the possibility. The moment is just great.

A couple of thoughts about God did occur to me earlier today. I don’t wish to get into any theological or religious debates, but I want to document this train of thought.

Earlier today, I was thinking, I wish I could feel as if someone loved me unconditionally, that there was an everlasting force of warm love surrounding me. It seems as if that feeling could help me with some of my troubles. Maybe even fill the hollowness that I sometimes feel is engulfing me.

Then I remembered, that’s precisely what I thought when I was fourteen. (Have I really changed so little?) That’s when I went through my religious phase. I firmly believed in God, and for a couple of years, I believed that a feeling of fulfillment was coming. But it never came. That’s one reason I turned away from religion. That, and I’m not much of a fan of organized religion in the first place. I feel like it keeps people from thinking for themselves. Why should I believe something about the Bible just because an “authority figure” tells me that’s the right interpretation? Why can’t I interpret it myself? This is actually how Protestantism formed, the idea that the common person should be able to read the Bible for himself or herself, not have a third party as a medium (i.e., the Catholic church). Plus, some of the most hypocritical people I’ve met have been the most fervently religious. But I’ve known many wonderful religious people, too, and I admire them.

Then of course there’s my whole personal background, what with my parents being of different religions and so not raising us with much of either one. I can’t accept the idea that there is only one true path to God. There are many paths, and the path can be different for everyone. People might believe contradictory things, and that can still be right since God is ineffable.

Well, I mostly believe in God. I say “mostly” because I can’t prove God exists for sure, so I’m slightly agnostic. It’s a character trait of mine; I can’t commit to something unless I’m 100% sure. There are also some principles I believe in, and they go along with my beliefs about God, but I don’t want to go into that topic right now.

Anyway, I was driving, and I was wondering–if I give myself to God, accept the idea that God unconditionally loves me, accept it fully, 100%, would I feel that warm love? Would it help me?

But is that possible, or would I be deluding myself? Would I be thinking something is true merely because I want it to be true? I don’t want to commit myself to a lie. I can’t be 100% sure unless I have tangible proof, and if I can’t be 100% sure, my mind won’t fully commit to an idea. (This aspect of myself is what has frustrated most therapists I’ve seen, but I can’t change it. I’ve tried.)

This might not make any sense, and it’s probably a passing fancy, anyway. At least, this angle is not something I’ve thought about much before.

Glimpses of the Past Week

This is not going to be cohesive, just a few snippets of things relevant to my past week.

I saw my pdoc Thursday. I told her about my steadily high levels of anxiety. It keeps me from sleeping at night because my jaw is constantly clenched. I have a perpetual urge to grind my teeth, and sometimes I feel a tingling in my teeth because the urge to chew is so strong. No matter what, I can’t see to relax my jaw. She prescribed me guanfacine, explaining to me some basic facts like it used to be a blood pressure medicine but sometimes it’s now prescribed for anxiety and ADHD, etc. We’ll see how that goes.

I haven’t been able to see the therapist in the past two weeks, and I’m a little sad because I thought we were going to talk about Asperger’s next time we saw each other. The first week, she had to cancel, though I don’t know why. She was out for some reason. This past week, I had to cancel because my plumbing needed fixing.

I’ve been thinking about this Asperger’s thing, and my mind has fixated on something the therapist said, that Asperger’s basically means a person is wired differently. I can’t quite articulate the import of this idea yet, but I feel like it could relate to me. Maybe this is why CBT is something that rubs me the wrong way–it assumes people inherently operate similarly, that thought structures/influences feeling. But as I told my last therapist, I can’t just believe something because I think it. I believe things only if I can both feel and comprehend them. She didn’t think that made much sense. It’s sort of like an intuitive method. I don’t believe something if I merely feel it, and I don’t believe something if I merely think it. I believe it somewhat, but not all the way. Skimming through some things on the Internet, I found something written by someone with Asperger’s, and that person said they had a similar way of forming beliefs. I can’t remember where I saw this now, but it gave me pause.

I’ve also discovered something else about Asperger’s that bothers me. There seems to be some content about how people with Asperger’s feel more deeply than others but that they just can’t express it (despite common conceptions). That sounds like me. From most of what I’ve read, though, people with Asperger’s lack empathy. As I’ve mentioned, I think I have more empathy than the average person. And if I have Asperger’s, I’m afraid it would imply that my empathy is somehow false, that my belief that I can easily understand other perspective is somehow false. What would this mean for me as a writer? Because that’s the force I draw on as a writer, and I think it’s something a writer has to possess. If I don’t have it, then there’s something not genuine about my writing. My creative writing, anyway.

I’ve been continuing to watch Supernatural. More slightly spoiler-ish rambling here. The episode “It’s  a Terrible Life” (Season 4, Episode 17) reminded me of myself in a way. The message was that being a hunter is something that’s in Dean’s blood, and he’ll find his way back to it no matter what. That’s how I feel about myself and my creative writing. It’s in my blood, and even when I foreswear it, for months or even years, I find myself coming back to it.

I think “On the Head of a Pin,” Season 4, Episode 16, is my favorite episode of all time. So far, anyway. There’s a lot that happens in it. At one point, Dean is torturing a demon, and the acting is superb. His expression is so cold, as if there’s nothing inside him. And what does it say about me that I thought it was kind of hot? There must be something wrong with me, lol.

I like Castiel a lot. Dean is still my favorite, though. Of course. And I’ve never liked Sam that much. I mean, he’s okay, but I much prefer Dean. I think I might be more like Sam than Dean, so what does that say about me, once again? However, I do think maybe I’m more like Dean than Sam emotionally. Maybe that’s why I find it easier to put myself in his place.

I think Season 2 is still my favorite season so far, but Season 4 is definitely spectacular as well.

Well, I rambled more than I meant to. I guess I just wanted to say these things.

Anyone Other Than Me

Sometimes I wish I could be anyone other than me. I shouldn’t. My life isn’t so bad. But I am, and my destiny is to be completely alone, always.

I’ve known it ever since high school. I’ve known that, once I got out into the “real world,” I wouldn’t be able to function like an average human being, that I’d never make connections, ever, that my life would be one of neverending failure and isolation.

It is, but it’s because I’ve done it to myself.

But I can’t do otherwise. I can’t be anything other than what I am.

I can’t form connections with others. If anyone engages me in a conversation, my instinct is to flee. How am I ever going to find friends if all I do is run away?

But I can’t do otherwise. I get too nervous. I choke up, have nothing interesting to say. I enter Awkward Annie mode.

Then I’m afraid of the person eventually finding out how pathetic I am, the fact that I really have no friends, that I’ve lived here for over two years now without forming any connections.

If they knew that, then they’d know there’s something deeply wrong with me.

And even if that weren’t a factor, it’s just . . . I can’t form close bonds. I’m incapable of doing so.

I crave them so much, but they’re something I can never have. It’s impossible for me, like it would be impossible for me to magically become six feet tall. It’s not something that’s inside me.

I’m destined for a life of loneliness. All my dreams of making human connections are silly, childish. The idea of finding a “true love.” That’s not only childish, but it’s also something that can never be for me.

I have more empathy than the average person. Lately, on occasion it’s as if emotions radiate off of others and I can feel them. Yet no one will ever know that I have even an ounce of empathy because I can’t express it. I can’t even express my own emotions.

It’s not possible to dig them out of my soul.

I instinctively know it. If I live until I’m, say, sixty, I’ll have lived a life in which I’m always alone. My need for a human connection will never be met. Writing, reading, films, TV shows, all stories, they just serve as a poor substitute for something I will never have.

I’ve been feeling odd all day. Maybe this sounds idiotic, but I feel as if I’m on some predetermined trajectory, like a storyline that is manipulating me, keeping me in motion. And in this storyline, it’s certain that I’m destined for a life of coldness, one in which I receive no (or very little) of affection’s warmth.

Most other people get at least a semblance of that at some point in their lives.

And thus, I wish I could be other than me.