Monthly Archives: May 2013

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?

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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.

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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.

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Filed under General Musing

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.

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Filed under Mental Health