Out of the Wilderness.

Hello again.  I’ve been preoccupied and distracted.  Busy.  I wish I could tell you that my life was improving.  Well, on paper it is… I’m going back to college and I’m doing okay.  Alas, on the psychosocial front I am dissolving.  It has been a foray into the wilderness of humanity.  Dating unsuccessfully, meeting loads of new people and not making any friends.  I have been chemically prevented from anything like serious disdain or regret but lately… I’ve been more circumspect.  As I think about my experiences I am reminded of “As Good As It Gets” with Jack Nicholson.  Wherein his character, who has psychosocial issues comes to the realization that maybe “this is as good as it gets”.  The more I think about that, the less hopeful I become.

I feel lonely so I reach out.  It starts out fine.  Then a joke is told, usually followed by some confusion or misunderstanding and it all goes south rather quickly.  What was supposed to be funny becomes a serious discussion and then degenerates into an argument.  You can’t say anything nice about yourself without people getting extremely precious about it.  Whether it is true and you are simply stating a virtue or it is a joke and you don’t actually mean it at all.  It just turns into a tragedy and every bit of hope that you had for having a nice easy happy social life goes completely to shit.

I like people less and less.  I like myself less and less.  I become introspective about the entire thing and the suicidal ideation that hasn’t been a part of my life for so long starts creeping back in.  COmpletely welcomed like an old friend.  Why bother?  You try to be nice, it starts a fight, you try to be defensive and keep people at arm’s length and it becomes an argument.  Dating is a mixed bag of solipsistic and shallow women and meaningless encounters that range from indifference to casual sex.  Nothing lasting or progressive.  I’m an odd virus in a petri dish.  Nothing else can exist in this space without corruption by or with me.  I either devour it, or it is so hallow that I simply spread right through it, obliterate it completely.

So, without love… Without support or close ties, friendships or lovers, what exactly is the point?  If this is as good as it gets, why carry on?  I cannot be cured, I cannot live a healthy balanced and normal productive life, so why live?  I’m not feeling sorry for myself.  I genuinely want to know.  How can I find meaning in this wilderness.  What is my purpose?  To continually attempt to have a better life that I am utterly incapable of maintaining, only to fail repeatedly and simply be frustrated…?

I don’t want that.  Every single street has a one way sign…

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Dead Inside

My emotions have taken a beating in the last little while.  The woman I love has become an uncertainty in my life and this simply destroys me.  I genuinely love her.  More than anything.  I want nothing else in this world than to be with her always.  Yet, after months of receding texts and pictures, no visits nor phone calls of any kind… she seems to have turtled completely.

I’m not saying that it’s over, but it doesn’t look good and I am distraught.  I don’t have what it takes right now to deal with something like this.  I don’t know if I will recover from this.  I don’t know if after all of this neglect I will be able to see her the same.  I feel like you can’t care about someone and treat them this way.  So, this is causing me harm.  It is doing damage.  Damage from which I’m afraid there is no healing.

I don’t want the woman of my dreams to become something I resent because she has totally failed to provide me with any kind of relationship.  I don’t want to look at her as selfish and cruel.  I don’t want these to be the surviving traits that come through this storm.  Because if they are then there was no sense in weathering it to begin with.  I want to girl who genuinely thought about me.  I want the girl who loves my everything.  Who sends me cute pictures.  Who doesn’t withhold things from me or flat out lie to me.  Alas, this woman is slowly disappearing and I am left with nothing but the dream of her.

I have been very depressed and I think she has been as well.  Yet this is no excuse to treat one another poorly.  I am always kind to her, I always think of her.  She never thinks of me, never texts unless I have first.  I feel more and more that this relationship is one sided and as I do despite the love that I feel I am angry.  Not so much with her but myself because I know I deserve better.  She wanted me because I was so considerate, yet totally fails to earn that.  She takes me for granted and neglects me completely.

So.  I guess I have to pull the trigger on another one.  My heart really can’t take it.  I can’t help but feel like this was the goal all along.  I just wish she had been a better person about it and had simply let me go rather than waste my time, my hopes and emotions.  Now I’m going to be hurt for a good long while and I won’t be able to be with anyone.  At this point even if it could get better, if an improved version was offered I don’t know that I could take it… I love her more than anything but I doubt that it will get better and even if it was it will always go back to shitty.  Now that I know she genuinely doesn’t give a shit I will always know that.  It will always end up right back here.  So why fucking bother?

I don’t know why I do this to myself.  I meet women who seem so great and then they just abuse the shit out of my good nature.  Which is why I’m a total asshole most of the time because I don’t want anyone to get close like this and do shit like this to me.  To exploit my empathy and care and then just fucking ditch me.  I’ve gotten nothing from this relationship.  Nothing.  I can’t even get her to call me!!!  If you love someone this isn’t even a thought.  This isn’t something that you ever consider NOT doing.  So yeah, the more I write about how so totally fucking horribly shitty this whole fucked up deal has been for me, the more angry I get.  I don’t want to hate her completely so I have to stop writing.

The question is, when I go do I fucking torch the shit out of the bridge or not…?

 

Dark Side of the Moon.

I’ve made references to being on the “dark side of the moon” in the past.  It comes full circle.  For me it almost always does.  It is a place only the mentally infirm will know.  I know many do not view bipolar as “insanity” in the traditional sense.  Talking to ourselves, being paranoid or distrustful.  Making delusion assertions or hysteria.  No, for the most part we bipolar types fly under the radar.  We are primarily acceptable.  Until we aren’t.  In those moments when we are not it isn’t evident that we are suffering from an illness.  I’ve said things of this nature in the past but I will reiterate: our mood disorder and the behaviours that accompany it are attributed by onlookers as personality traits.  Even when they are aware of your disorder.  Sometimes they become hostile especially because of it.  Like, don’t you know any better?  As though mid-episode you can snap out of it merely by focusing on the fact that it is happening…

Human beings are small.  Despite having the largest brains and being the most intelligent species we are on average super-stupid.  My estimated IQ is half again what is considered average.  This is no boast, it is actually a curse.  Things that are mundane to me are super challenging or do not even register for the average person.  Even in attempting to explain it to them in very carefully chosen, simplified language I still think that most of the time I am misunderstood.  People who believe that in marching for equality that property damage is in some way acceptable or will not in any way hinder or override their cause…  Protesting in general.  Pointless.  A show of force is only good for one thing.  War.  If you are not prepared to fight, the side that is will win.  People still do not get this.  I digress.

Between ignorance, emotions and plain stupidity I find myself in a very unique place.  A kind of loneliness that few will ever comprehend.  For unless you have a mood disorder or have dealt with one long enough to truly understand it, are of above average intelligence and will not take anything I say as an immediate affront, you and I will probably not get along.  I know, it seems like I pity myself.  There are times where I do.  There are times where I miss being the center of attention.  I used to have hypomanic episodes that placed me in party mode and made me indispensable.  Now there is a part of me that no longer really tries because I recognize the value in my separation from everyone else.  Social media is still an issue…

Back to the Dark Side of the Moon.  This is the place that I reside.  Like many of my ilk.  I knew the song “Brain Damage” by Pink Floyd off of the album “Dark Side of the Moon” since before I could talk.  Only recently did it enter my thoughts due to my current mind state.  I went over the lyrics as I recalled them.  Sure enough it struck me… the song was about Syd Barrett.  It has themes of loss of sanity, well clearly the word “lunatic” is used frequently.  Moreover however is the lyric: “I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon” which is Roger Waters essentially admitting that he feels that sooner or later he is bound to join Barrett in his psychological state.

There we are, standing off the path, on the grass.  When everyone else is happily strolling along on the path as intended.  You find yourself playing music, yet the people in the band are all playing a different song than you are.  You are the odd one out, you don’t know the melody and no matter how you try to play along your song isn’t the same.  Like Syd Barrett you stand on stage with a band you’ve been playing with for years and mid song you find yourself launching into a completely different one.  Eventually you simply wander away.  You are no longer a member of any band.  You fade away and you find yourself alone.  On the dark side of the moon, as nobody hears from you in years.  Moreover, nobody is really looking for you all that hard.  You do not get invitations.  Christmas cards are a laughable concept.

So you dig a well.  You sit at the bottom.  You die inside.  The few voices that break through into this void you have created tell you not to give up.  You have no clue why.  If there was any need of you the phone would ring.  Isn’t it simply easier in the long run?  Just to fill the well with water?  Or concrete?

February is the worst thing that can possibly happen to me.

Triptych Pastiche.

The title will support the theme of this article and were I half the writer I believe myself to be I would actually make of it as such.  Though I am a finely crafted mimic, a recurrent undertone in the homily that is my life’s tale, I am only that and nothing more.  However… As a pastiche one can be renewed as unique, sublime, original and divine, for this is upon which I have been mired for so long.  It is possible to pay homage to multiple things and thus be set apart as something wholly individual.  To be defined, whilst still tipping ones hat at those from which it draws its characteristics.

Contrary to what I had originally believed to be true, I am really rather well defined in three parts:

There is Jack McBastard, the interloper.  The unwelcome rogue.  An agent of chaos, he brings to the table a litany of useful tricks and characteristics.  Even though the result may invariably be ruin and carnage he is an agent nonetheless.  An agent provocateur.  The mad keeper of the gates to Mania.

Dysphorian Alpha, the future self that I strive for always.  A partially built, megalithic construct assembled from the parts of great men that I admire.  He is found in my visage as it is the simplest part of myself to shape.  The finest shave, a collection of eau de toilette, finery and positive charms.  Socially acceptable at my best behaviours and always upbeat.  I find him in my genuine confidence, my lack of fear or need for competition as these things suggest loss of control or rivalry.  Alpha is peerless, yet humble, his confidence dictates that he has no need of displays.  He is rarer than the other two as he is the final stage of my metamorphosis.

Then there is Dysphorian the curator.  My present and evolving regular self.  The glue and stitches holding together the poorly grafted frankenpersonality.  The man who plays between these two diametric titans and is torn asunder from the fray.  When they clash, he is crushed between them.  When they dash in opposite directions, he is drawn and quartered.  This is the character that everyone sees.

As I have stated in the past, there used to be confusion with regards to bipolars and whether or not they were multiple personality.  It is easy to understand, we aren’t multiple personalities, we are several personalities attempting to be one.  He is the curator, the keeper of the characteristics and traits.  Perpetually under the weight of the opposite poles and far behind schedule.  Always playing catch-up.

With regards to Kali… I have been the ass.  I have been playing catch-up between these two and finding myself much needier than I should.  I have been impatient and moody and there has been no need of it.  Things aren’t going to be like a newlywed’s honeymoon everyday.  That is the matter of going through life without being in control of our own circumstances as of yet… That can be expected.  I am merely going to do my best to keep the romance alive and not worry so much if she isn’t always available at every moment.  I knew, and know, that this is an unrealistic expectation.  I should know better than to push so hard when there is nowhere to push to, that is exactly how pressure is made and nobody likes pressure.

I love her.  I can never lose her.

 

Under a Dark Cloud

I find it seriously disturbing that because of the way my disorder can manifest how differently I am treated.  I mean on a less-than-conscious level.  People do it automatically without noticing it.  They don’t give me the same concessions or considerations as they would other friends.

When a friend is hurt, upset or emotional we often immediately do what we can to help, or at least sometimes just put out the offer.  We bake cookies, we watch movies, we spend time, share a drink perhaps.  Maybe we go out to the range and blow off steam by shooting up pictures of their ex.  Whatever works.  However I have noticed that in dealing with me (or others with depressive, dysphoric or elevated conditions) people act as though they are on a minefield.  Perhaps they expect me to react differently.  Maybe they feel as though they will get sucked into my deeply involved psychological issues.  Or perhaps it’s as simple as just not having the energy to deal with me.  However the reaction isn’t merely distancing and indifference, no it gets much worse.  People will treat you like an asshole.  An interloping shit disturber.  They will call you names and get into arguments with you, maybe only on social media but this will probably result in them unfriending you and then never talking to you again.  They get downright hostile with you because even though they know that you are bipolar and prone to fits of manic dysphoria they just don’t care that there is an inherent underlying issue.

They don’t care that your reckless behaviour lately is the fallout of self-medicating.  Nope, you’re a dangerous drunken jerk and you piss them off.  You could endanger their family so why don’t you just go fuck yourself?  Forget that we’ve been friends since high school.  Forget that they should know better why you are acting out this way… Forget all that.  You’re not welcomed there anymore and your problems don’t fucking matter.  I want to say that people are selfish and self-interested, self-preserving and judgmental assholes.  Well, I can say that because they are, to me.  Yet you see them with their neighbour whom they’ve known for a few months and their cat has been hit on the highway.  You see them make soup or bake a cake for this person.

I don’t expect you to bake me a fucking cake.  However, when you have a full and busy day of people screaming at you and your boss riding you, think about how you feel.  Now imagine that while combating a demon all day.  One that can possess you and make you say and do strange impulsive shit that makes enemies out of even your closest friends.  Imagine that.  Think about what that must be like.  Wondering if the next time your boss yells at you you won’t come out of a rage-haze fifteen minutes later eating a sandwich with cut and bruised hands covered in his blood.  Having no clue what happened until you hear him crying under his desk into the phone for 911.  Wondering why you are sitting on his berber tapioca carpet crosslegged and eating the sandwich his wife packed for him.  You know it’s his because he has one everyday wrapped in wax paper and you always buy fast-food…

Fortunately the violent extreme episodes have been limited to three but you don’t know what triggers the ‘fight’ portion of your “fight or flight” response.  And once that switch gets flipped it has one setting: Maximum.  Also, you won’t remember it.  Except when fight turned into flight…  Out of love?  No clue, I digress.

So everything you can do I can do drowning.  Or on fire.  Or however you want to look at it.  Here are two of the primary reasons that I know I’m more intelligent than most: genetics, can’t discount that, and war.  I have developed a keenly honed sense of cunning from having been at war with myself for my entire life.  Imagine being locked in a battle against someone with every advantage that you have exactly.  You share the same mind and you have to outwit them.  My mind is an arms race.  So yes, I’m sorry that my border skirmish is spilling over into reality and causing some heartbreak on your end.  To wit:

“I need you to hear. I need you to see.
That I have had all I can take
And exploding seems like a definite possibility
To me
So Pardon me while I burst into flames.
I’ve had enough of the world, and its people’s mindless games
So Pardon me while I burn, and rise above the flame
Pardon me, pardon me. I’ll never be the same.”
-Excerpt of lyrics from “Pardon Me” by Incubus.

Oh, and my mind is like a junkyard.  I keep everything.  I remember every lyric.  I remember every slight, every conflict and insult.  I don’t hold grudges but the heart can only take so much.  Especially given my junkyard gallery of horrors, populated with the social atrocities inflicted upon me by friends.  The alienation.  The double standard and guilt.  The regret.

Most of this precipitated by nothing more than a bout of depression or dysphoria, or a combination of the two. Or maybe a flawed medication. One wrong phrase or a few sentences and people are more than willing to throw a whole person away. Because… feelings. And people wonder why disenfranchised loners with psychological problems shoot up a mall. Because you push them out into the wilderness by themselves after years of friendship for no reason at all whatsoever after a single conversation like nothing about your relationship ever mattered and never talk to them again…
I can’t help but totally commiserate with these people. You wonder why the world is broken? Because you are actively breaking it.

Compassion.  For everyone, especially those of us who desperately need it the most.  Need it the most because whether you see it or not we are taking on your pain at the same time as all of the above.  I’m reminded of a small exchange in “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”:

Charlie: There is so much pain. And I-I-I don’t know how to not notice it.
Dr.Burton: What’s hurting you?
Charlie: No, not… not me. It’s them! It’s… it’s everyone. It never stops. Do you understand?

This hit me pretty hard.  Because it’s true.  Our empathy is too strong and it drives our passions.  It’s the reason that we get so upset about good causes and stopping all the injustice in the world.  It’s the reason that we care so deeply and in turn become so wounded when we aren’t given that care.  We know that it’s hard to see through the conflagration and chaos that we drag around like our own personal pet hurricane.  Please just know that it’s there and be nice to us.  Know that we are hurting.  In ways you have yet to imagine.

Balanced On One Hand

I had an epiphany with respect to my girlfriend: she isn’t crazy.  In fact, she is by far the most sane woman I have ever dated.  The second most sane is still a good friend of mine and her nickname is in fact “Crazy”.  No joke.  I’m forever a Gomez seeking a Morticia, a Joker in search of his Harley.  I’m a wild spark leaping for the stray black powder around the keg.  All of my relationships play out like Sid and Nancy, with or without drugs…

My girlfriend is regular folk.  There is nothing at all wild about her.  Which has pros and cons.  You might recall my complaints about being stale and bored.  Well I’m not.  It only occurred to me just recently that I was feeling that way because I am used to things being more chaotic.  Having a woman that picks at me until something happens, either we argue or we fuck.  Or we argue and fuck.  Then we make up and fuck.  It’s a whole process.  With my girlfriend we are copacetic.  Even keeled.  We fuck without event.

Toward that end, if you remember from this post I am very skilled with my hands.  I was able to give my new girlfriend, at the young age of twenty-two a vaginal orgasm that lasted no less than five minutes.  As it persisted I would whisper: “A little more…” and it would go on for another twenty seconds.  When it was over I said to her: “This is likely the best thing that has happened in your life thus far.”  She agreed.  The reason that this is news and noteworthy is because she was having intermittent mental blockage of her orgasms.  She would get right to the edge, over and over and then stop herself.  Also, generally speaking, younger women (even ones that masturbate) aren’t open to rolling vaginal orgasms.  I’ve found it to be nearly impossible to produce in anyone under the age of twenty-eight even with stellar technique.  I was going to attempt to bind this to a follow-up clitoral orgasm, however it seemed like once I released the rolling vaginal one she almost instantly lost steam.  Good enough though, for a start at any rate.  I actually pity her a little in a way.  You might wonder why, well the answer to that is simple:  She is very young and I am long in the tooth.  She is in her first actual relationship (I will note here that I am not her first sexual partner) I am just adding another nickel to my first dollar.  Should things go south for us (knock on wood) it will be probably a while before she encounters another man who can do this for her.  Men are notoriously horrible in the bedroom.  Largely because they are convinced everything is done with their penis.  I won’t claim to the be the best, though at least I put the work in with some skill.  This is, from what I understand, a rare quality to find in a man.

There are obvious reasons for why I have put the time into the aforementioned.  My bipolarity has found me in enough situations in order to practice it.  One of my favourite symptoms is the hypersexuality.  Women and cigarettes are the only two drugs that I just can’t quit.  If I was told that women were giving me dick cancer I would quit them, but even if I was told I had lung cancer I wouldn’t stop smoking.  So, big tobacco wins in the end.  Too bad “big vagina” isn’t how we refer to the porn industry.  Though, to be fair not all porn has something to do with vag…

So, my girlfriend isn’t crazy.  I feel as though she might be centering me.  She has become like a focal point.  I have two problems with this:  What happens when Jack feels trapped?  What happens when I no longer have her to center me?

 

Poorly defined.

There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman, some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me. Only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our life styles are probably comparable, I simply am not there.”  – Patrick Bateman from American Psycho, by Bret Easton Ellis.

 

I have spoken in the past of my poorly grafted frankenpersonality and my social mimicry, now it would seem that it is time to revisit this subject.  Because I truly believe at my core that I am empty, a hollow shell of a human-being with nothing of substance inside to offer.  I have been asked by my therapist, Lilith, to make an exercise of it.  To determine who I am.  When I was a teenager, around fifteen I think I wrote two poems and coined a term for what I believed myself to be.  The term is the title of the first poem as follows:

Never Man:

I am the reflection of a paperback novel,
I am poet type casted as a murderer.
I am an act but not an actor,
I am blessing under cover.
I am a fact but not a factor,
I am a lesson as a lover.
I am a demon on vacation,
I am the product of experiments.
I am your roaming free spirit,
I am the bearer of an evil eye.
I am the season of winter,
I am a psychological sneeze.
I am an antisocial nocturn,
I am a black and white collage.
I am never going to happen,
I am Theodor Geisel’s biggest fan.

You know, I was probably more clever and switched on then than I am now.  That kid has me figured out.  He was utterly correct and still is.  The second poem is a continuation in the negative, titled the same, part two!  As follows:

Never Man II:

I am not an artificially intelligent ego,
I am not a self inflicted sacrifice.
I am not among the socially profound,
I am not a hedonistic daydream.
I am not the product of our society,
I am not the echo of an afterthought.
I am not without a sense of tragedy,
I am not going to wait for life to happen.
I am not a reality addict,
I am not interested in what others believe.
I am not going to allow myself to delegate,
I am not the conductor of routine ritual.
I am not a dissipating disappointment,
I am not your enemy.

Oddly enough I think I’m working against the grain on the second one.  I mean, yeah I may not be those things but I am slowly drifting toward them.  It looks like I need to shape up.

The Neverman is poorly defined and has been since.  Nothing has changed.  Dysphorian and Jack are one and the same and both are a middle shade of grey.  Sure, my behaviours may land in the extreme but are they all that defines me?  Almost.  I have few hobbies.  Few friends.  Few relatives.  No pets.  No mate.  No accomplishments, unless you count surviving depression but to what end?
There are always soft skills.  I can undo a bra through a shirt with one hand.  While mixing a martini with the other.  Just kidding.  About the martini, the first part was true.  I’m fashionable.  I’m fashion conscious, tapped in to changing trends and I advise others when the situation arises (sometimes when it isn’t even requested).  I am a very fine cook when I have the required equipment at hand, owing to an endeavour that I never saw through to the end.  I refer of course to my culinary experiences.  I haven’t finished any schooling, I hold no tradesman papers and I have no certificates.  I am not an angler nor a hunter.  I am a novice archer.  A promising novice archer at that.  So am I defined by an antiquated skill with an obsolete weapon/tool?  I am not Dysphorian the archer.

I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

Canto XXVII of In Memoriam by Lord Alfred Tennyson,

I have abundantly loved.  If such love is lofty and I have ascended, my descent was equally thus and tragic all the more.  My heart is an icebreaker.  Carving through tundra ice shelves until run adrift on craggy sharp rocks and dashed.  This is where my lust takes me.  I have a passion for women that cannot be sated.  I pursue them with the intention of no more than a sexual encounter.  Instant carnal gratification.  Alas, my foolish heart becomes mired in the ice, carving away at the austere exterior of a woman I only just met.  A woman fascinated with Jack’s boisterous and charismatic nature.  They are quite taken with me right away.  I will be honest here, I usually go through the motions because I don’t have the heart to be mean, I lack a killer instinct as I’ve mentioned in the past.  I cannot simply walk away on them and while I am physically attracted to them there is always the chance that we could carry on sleeping together…  Then it happens, I begin to fall in love, my own lust and passion becomes legitimate emotions, feelings of attachment.  As this is occurring, little by little she begins to lose interest in me.  This is why my longest relationship has lasted 2 years.  The rest of the time the plan mostly works, I meet a woman who is in it for the ultra short-term and she calls it quits before either of us becomes invested.  Win-win.  There are pros and cons to this.  Pros:  I understand female sexual anatomy better than about 99.99997% of the standard male population, I’m very pro-women out of an organic relationship with femininity and I usually put the seat down when I’m finished.  Cons: I will grow old alone.  Are we defined by our relationship with a spouse?  I’m not even sure that monogamy is natural to humans.  So no, we are definitely not defined by our partner, those come and go, die of cancer, cheat on you and leave, or just betray you because they don’t like the fact that you are depressed.  If you rely on other people to define who you are, I think you need to do some soul searching.

“We are what we repeatedly do.  Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit.”  – Aristotle

I’ve held many jobs.  This and nothing more.  I’ve never had a career nor a vocation.  I’ve never been truly passionate about anything other than the feminine form and the destruction of dislogic.  I cannot abide the spread of misinformation and falsehoods which grows alarmingly contrary to what you would believe given our increasing connectivity.  You would imagine that with breakthroughs in science and technology we would have become more enlightened and have been able to disseminate this information more effectively to the masses.  One would like to think that the population of Earth would be better informed and able to detect myths and fallacies.  However things are going the opposite direction.  The religions of the world are doing their best to confuse and obscure the truth from the masses.  They are actively attempting to sabotage and even shut down educational and scientific research programs in favour of religious teaching.  There are conspiracy based “concerned parents” clucking like Chicken Little over the sky falling about every little thing from drinking water, vaccines, what our food contains to GMO’s.  None of which is remotely a concern to anyone.  At all.  In fact, the opposite is true in every case.  They are rallying for a worse planet.  People who are free of disease, with a virtual limitless supply of clean drinking water, plenty of food and places to live. These people are actively attempting to reverse all of these by combating science and replacing it with prayer because that’s working so well everywhere in the world that this is the case.  So I am in the habit of trouncing this whenever and wherever it crops up.  I am also in the habit of finding myself on/in/under any or all attractive women I can find who are willing to do so with me.  I don’t know that this makes me excellent by definition but my fourteen year old self is giving me a high five.  Good enough.  Again, not sure if these are viable ways in which one gauges or qualifies themselves.  They are traits, but defining?  Distinctive, definitely.

Self improvement is masturbation.  Now self destruction is the answer.”  – Tyler Durden

from Fight Club, by Chuck Palahniuk.

I put effort into appearance.  For the sake of women.  For the perception of responsibility and competency.  The clothes often do make the man.  I go out of my way to present myself well.  I exercise as a matter of course for my current occupation.  I am in good shape.  I am no body builder but I am fit.  I am naturally attractive and I take steps to preserve and highlight my features in order to accentuate my natural allure.  I am man pretty.  So much so that as I have mentioned in the past teenaged girls have remarked on my appearance.  I don’t know why but I consider this a big deal, if young women still find you attractive then you must still have something.  This being said however, and for as much as I love being appealing, I think that improving yourself is mostly a self-indulgent exercise.  Not saying that you shouldn’t do it.  As I wouldn’t tell you not to masturbate.  However, this is all that it is and nothing more.  Now, getting to the heart and fun of things is when you tear it all down.  The act of ruin is what I excel at and infinitely more exciting.  There is something that becomes giddy and effervescent inside at the thought of binge drinking (possibly doing drugs, I won’t lie) and sleeping with random women.  Like the thrill of throwing yourself out of a perfectly good plane.  Or perhaps more extreme such as Russian roulette.  In any case the thought of going so wild I might never come back sometimes is all that gets me through.  Life is so dreary, it requires chaos from time to time, otherwise what really is the point?  I am not entirely certain how this defines me though I am certain that it does in a fairly big way.

 

I who am dead a thousand years,
And wrote this sweet archaic song,
Send you my words for messengers
The way I shall not pass along.

I care not if you bridge the seas,
Or ride secure the cruel sky,
Or build consummate palaces
Of metal or of masonry.

But have you wine and music still,
And statues and a bright-eyed love,
And foolish thoughts of good and ill,
And prayers to them who sit above?

How shall we conquer? Like a wind
That falls at eve our fancies blow,
And old Maeonides the blind
Said it three thousand years ago.

O friend unseen, unborn, unknown,
Student of our sweet English tongue,
Read out my words at night, alone:
I was a poet, I was young.

Since I can never see your face,
And never shake you by the hand,
I send my soul through time and space
To greet you. You will understand.

To A Poet A Thousand Years Hence, by James Elroy Flecker.

It saddens me that poetry is a dead artform.  I blame slam poetry.  I blame New York.  I blame the same people who are watering down our education system.  Don’t get me wrong I love a good rapper, KRS-1, Mos Def and Eminem are all extremely talented poets.  There are also many others who are very good except to be fair a resounding majority of rap is murdering english and making people at large moronic.  So is pop-country.  Not country music, pop-country, there is a huge difference.  Merle Haggard is alright, Johnny Cash knows what’s good.  This modern bleating that is essentially pop music with a steel guitar and a twangy voice can fuck right off.  Also to be fair to everyone else my poetry wasn’t the finest.  I was a blend of Pablo Picasso  and Salvador Dali in English free verse.  I would sometimes blend words for evocative imagery and flow rather than logic or even cohesive ideas.  I left meaning to the reader sometimes at other times I lead the reader and if they didn’t follow I didn’t care.  Once a poem is written my concern with it’s perception and interpretation is over.  So when I say that I was Picasso/Dali I am not boasting, I mean that I adapted these philosophies and techniques, their style and attitude and applied it to words in English and did so quite organically.  Poetry used to be a very large part of who I was.  For a time I was inspired to write and I am the very picture of the tortured, struggling writer.  It isn’t that I don’t have the ideas, more really that I hate them and by extension myself for them.  I don’t doubt that they are better than a majority of what is out there but I hate myself before I even write them down.  I do not take even constructive criticism well.  When I am actually proud of my writing if someone doesn’t like it I pretty much think that they should die instantly for being the stupidest person ever.  I’m actually not kidding.  Not even a little.  I wouldn’t dare to believe that I am a poet.  Or that it is even a badge that I wear.  I’m not published, it is hardly a defining feature.

So who then, am I?

Lonely Morning:

Like shadows christened in your kiss, a gesture only you could know, like sighs that follow laughter.

A winking eye captured in darkness, like squinting at intruding light which rapes the wholesome breath of day. Clouds are forming in your brow, the cigarettes that follow sex; in this we share a single truth.

Lie to me; I prefer your hasty words. I’d rather that I didn’t know what wrinkles lines into your lips. Drying saliva marks your neck with glossy memories of me, which last much longer than the moisture.

Christened shadows awoke your kiss to sighs I breathe into your flesh. Is this the truth we share? Only to hide it from ourselves with lies? You are the sighs that follow my laughter, the sex I smoke away.

Dysphorian, original. Age 16.

My pale, languid sixteen year old body made a canvas of several girls and spat forth this.  Even then a lover and thinker.  Perhaps I was pretentious or a little bit too ambitious.  Maybe I was ahead of my years in so far as my experiences and reflections.  Who can know?  All that we can know is that it is obvious that I was gifted, troubled, alone and hypomanic. I keep hearing from people that I can’t let my disorder define me. This is horribly unhelpful advice. In many ways it’s at the very core of who and what I am. My compulsions, reactions and impulses fueled by it. And I own it. I’m not ashamed of who I am anymore than a leopard is ashamed of its predatory nature. I am what I was genetically predisposed to become. I am raw potential and capability. I am an alpha. An apex predator. So when I hear people complaining to me about my nature, about my behavior. When I hear people telling me that I need to fit in, I feel like a wolf being asked to fit in with sheep. I was born resplendent. So why relegate myself to mediocrity?

So who am I? How am I defined? By what significant feature am I marked? My journey. Upon reflection, what might be considered an identity crisis was only a perspective readjustment. You see, the definition of self isn’t a static picture. No person is ever complete as you are perpetually working toward a more complete you whilst discarding aspects of yourself no longer useful to you. Identity is a process. I am defined by my struggle, so in a way I actually am my disorder. Jack is as much me as Dysphorian. This is not to say that I’m good where I am or that I’m done. Far from it, I have lengths to go and many more trials yet to face. I am defined by the obstacles that I face and how I react to my challenges.

In short dear reader, I am a leopard. The spots won’t change that’s true and I will still be a stealthy and cunning predator. Though I may have to adapt to a new environment to learn to overcome. Accept that I might no longer be the apex predator in these parts and maybe even learn to work in a group in order to survive.