This is all I can do for now …
Notes While in the Psyche Ward (September 7, 2016)
This has been an extremely confusing timtime in my life. Nothing makes sense anymore. I thought that I had a decent way of approaching the world (and by decent I mean I thought it would get me by because it was the best I could do to survive and adapt to change), but the way in which I approach the world is constantly destabilizing around me, preventing me from uncovering the truths that I desperately seek and need.
It doesn’t take a lot to manipulate me, and unfortunately, I’m manipulated all the time. I am a fragile mind. But I’m also a fragile body, too. I have thoughts and feelings, sensations and desires, that I can’t quite understand or explain, or do anything with. I see the possibilities, but doing something with the possibilities is hard when things keep changing.
The perphenazine (pronounced “fair-penazine by my doctor) is making me hazy. I’m wondering if it’s killing my creativity, because it seems to be making me nauseous and makes me unable to concentrate on the deep stuff that I usually think about. Philosophy (and philology, for that matter …) is distant and hazy to me. The more that I try to figure it out, the more confused I get.
My therapist thinks I should see a shaman. Try something new. Tap into the divine, even though his arguments also degrade what it means to be human. What it means to feel. And to love. He also thinks I need to figure out what is my good. What is my good? Well, love, of course. And no suffering. Why have we hurt ourselves so much? It doesn’t make sense to me. Cancer, disease of the mind, more cancer: Is there ever an end?
I once praised Heidegger for being a Nazi. Of course, I wasn’t being serious. Not at all. I was just trying to establish trust, and respect the power of Heidegger’s thought, while simultaneously trying to figure out why Heidegger’s thought led to so much destruction. How could he posses such a mind and do the things he did?
And, fucking Frege …
Anyway, I’m confused, because I’m trying to think clearly but my head hurts right now from the perphenazine. Which is not fun. Not at all.
But, I followed up my praising of Heidegger in an attempt to deconstruct his method by saying that I’m a Nazi, but I’m also a hustler, which would take skill: Meaning, even Nazis had a heart. To love, that is. I mean, do we really actually talk about genocide? What spurs genocide? I don’t understand it. What is the nature of suffering? That’s what I’d want to understand. Because to me, it all boils down to the mind, and what the mind can do. Everything goes back to the mind. We can think. So why don’t we think harder? Create and evolve via thought?
I came here to get better. To the hospital. I just wanted to understand the world and understand my mind. I just wanted to feel good for once in my life. And apparently I don’t suffer from mania (by definition, it takes place over an extended period …), but I feel something akin to mania. So, then what do I have? The doctor didn’t know.
I’m definitely sad, too. I couldn’t get a hold of Weston, the guy who brought me to the hospital. I wanted to talk to his little kid, who is kind to me, and always awesome and sweet.
It started because I read Skinner’s notebook. No, just kidding, started long before that. But, obviously I need to find a way to get positive reinforcements, since monistic behavorism has taken over. Because dualistic existentialism implies too much freedom that we don’t have. Which is why I feel like a dead man (my in joke …). But I’m listening to In Flames right now, and that’s a good feeling, I guess. I could write forever like this. At least I’m telling the truth.
So, what happens now? Just, that my head hurts. But, I’m writing nonetheless. Because I have to push myself. Just like I have to push myself to stay out of the closet. I like the connotations of being called gay. It’s kind of cool. In a happy sort of way, dream-like. Sounds ridiculous, but it’s not as crazy as it sounds. The problem is, it only seems to work in my mind, because everything is in my head, and because my heart hurts, and it’s hard to be happy in a world of disease and suffering.
I need positive reinforcements.
I didn’t expect myself to get here. To be here. In the hospital. I thought for sure, I would be all right, I could survive my mental illness. My intense energy. I just wanted to feel good. I wanted to feel alive. But I can’t, because I have this pervasive emptiness that is caused by the fact that my mind won’t roam free and can’t roam free. I don’t know why. Is dualism working for me, or is it leading to a deceptive monism? Fucking Descartes. He was worse than Heidegger. Animals aren’t sentient? So, what happens now, just that I think about Derrida and deconstruction, using a mode of discourse against myself. Even if that means using my own mode of discourse against myself. Which I try to do on a regular basis to deconstruct and look for truth.
I know I’m a good person. It just doesn’t always translate. Neither do the things in my mind. I don’t know why.
I feel like the hospital is designed to keep you sick. I just wanted to be … all right. Why I came here. And I wanted to understand thought, energy, feeling.
Well, I have a lot more I could say, but I need a lot more answers and less chaos: I need a lot more rebirth, and less death.
Positive reinforcement …
(Skinner is not outdated …)
Until next time.