Yesterday afternoon, I suffered an intense personal hell for maybe two hours. Why? I don’t know. But I have some hunches.
Root Causes of My Insanity
- Substance abuse: I have the caffeine dependency to rule all caffeine dependencies–literally, I drank half a cup of coffee and felt better almost immediately. There is a soothing sense of comfort in a cup of brewed black beans. Coffee is the dagger I see before me, cutting through the enemies of my mind.
- Omphaloskepsis: I think too much. Sometimes, I’ll think too much and I’ll start thinking about really weird shit; but then other times I’ll start thinking about really depressing shit, like losing everyone I love or dead puppies, and it’s hard for me to breathe or think happy thoughts and my only solace is to tell myself how I’m overreacting and need to calm down, which generally doesn’t help because it does wonders for my self-worth.
- Guilt: I feel guilty about everything. Like, I can’t not wash my hands and not feel like some imaginary god is going to smite me. I blame my parents for this one, but all the others are personal character faults. I remember feeling guilty about something, but I can’t remember what, because everything got really fuzzy after it got hard to breathe and everything felt the same.
- Repetitive office work: I’m sorry, but you don’t know the meaning of the words “intense personal hell” until you spend five hours collating calendars and folding papers. It drives even the best of us mad.
And that’s why I am the way I am. Or, at least, part of the why. I left out the other part about brain damage and being dropped on my head as a child.
The reason I told you this is blogging is a form of therapy. It’s maybe not the most constructive form of therapy, because I’ve been writing for four years and blogging for almost two and I haven’t improved that much. It might even be destructive, because it implicitly celebrates the qualities of mental health issues–Vonnegut was depressed, Hemingway was an alcoholic, Joyce was a narcissist, and don’t even get me started on Marcel Proust. It’s still therapy, though; for while it doesn’t necessarily cure my insanity, it does add age and refinement to it.