Author Topic: Anguish Tabulator  (Read 807 times)

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Henry the Fool

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Re: Anguish Tabulator
« Reply #15 on: September 10, 2019, 02:37:35 am »
The anxious animal seeks out a corner somewhere in space-time, to sit and be still with the hunger that is our "natural state," and to contemplate, to reflect upon this [one's own?] life in all its horrific proportions.   I understand that, in a New York Minute, everything can change, and that we would be wise to be kind to those we secretly or openly are emotionally attached to.

I have deep regrets of beating a dog with a leash at about the age of 17 because he ran away from "the yard," to gulp water from the creek.  He turned and growled, chomping the air with his jaws.   I feel great shame for hitting my beloved animal-friend with that leash.  He had been tied to a tree by my father's second wife.  He was dying of thirst.  I had just gotten an automobile and was neglecting the care of this animal when he really needed me, his old age.    For this maybe I am heading into Hell?     I'm not THAT superstitious.   I just feel bad about this event.  The dog would die only months later.   That was his last summer:  Baron von Hentrich I had named him - an Old English Sheepdog.    I once killed a groundhog with a club-stick in the early morning darkness when it had attacked Baron (or just bumped into him in the dark).   I remember dragging the animal corpse like a natural born cave-man … that contact with death, mammalian altercations in the dark gone wild. 

If I had been the kid in the film, E.T., when that poor creature popped its fat head out' the closet, it might have had a baseball bat lodged in its soft skull.  I must be some kind of primordial spaz, just a frightened, squirrely, spooked bundle of nerves.  I thought the groundhog was gonna bite my poor dog's big old nut sack off!

The reason I mention the memory of this unethical behavior with my childhood "Animal Friend" is because I want to catch myself when I am behaving insensitively around "my mom."   I don't want to remember myself as not being there emotionally for "Mommy / Mama" when she begins to be frightened by deep things such as her own mortality and the creeping death, how certain traumas, such as strokes, have permanent ramifications, such as nerve damage.

Well, to be honest, a great deal of crying gets under my skin.  I experienced it as an early teen during my parents divorce.  It was difficult to concentrate on my "school work" with all this crying and gut-wrenching hatred and pain.   Well, today I do not want to care so much that I am crippled by it.    I can only offer philosophical contemplation.   I will not entertain notions of some kind of Family Clam Bake in the Sky where we are reunited with our ancestors.    I have no idea what to expect from death.

The fact is it has been purely accidental that I have this close bond with this creature, My Mom, and I have had to exert great patience throughout my life for all the Wrong Ideas she has attempted to pass down to me.  It's all rather complicated, and I'm not here to entertain any Freudian psychoanalysts.

I have many conflicting emotions, and at this time of my life, I want to be alright with the absence of any particular emotion whatsoever.   I feel hungry stomach and slightly aching heart, but the heart is not too heavy, you know, like I feel I can make it … as long as I have this, that, and the other thing over and over until the end, until the creeping death comes to gather me up as well.

Does the anxious animal find a corner to hide in?   On the psych ward I would rise as early as was permitted and try to make some instant coffee in the cafeteria before the residents awoke and the staff switched.   I would try to gather my thoughts, to get my head together without being tormented tossing and turning waiting to be told what to do, where to sit, etc.

 I hit the hay extra early last night so as to wake up in the middle of the night and not be bombarded with demands.  It's as though I do not have my own life, but am an accessory of my mother's life.  I know I am walking on delicate ground here.   Maybe I am afraid I might secretly delight in not being hounded over and bossed around.    Holy shiit, I have reached a point where I no longer have any patience for any goddamn boss, and here I am the obedient yet disgruntled slave of my mother.   Often I hear the thoughts of the silent protagonist, the real self, and he seems to be longing for liberation.  Presently, this anxious animal has consciously sought out this "space-in-time" to HIDE.  Really, I need to think before another round.   I do not like to be psychologically overtaken by another person, especially when that person is less reflective than I am.   I have disdain for "parental authority."   Yes, I have many dark hidden secret thoughts, many subversive and defiant thoughts!

Like Cioran, I do not wish to be tormented by this world while I am still living.   When I can no longer take it, if I find myself homeless and starving and getting institutionalized for public drunkenness, I will find some way to kill myself and end it all.    I understand that this woman I call "Mom" has animal love for me that few others will have for me in this world.    Many landlords were actually evil, using all their authority to harass me, to haunt me, to get me thrown into the streets.

This world hates me, and I know it.  My personal "diary" may unfold on scraps of paper in a psychiatric hospital or jailcell, for this world does not really have a place for the like of me.

My mom needs me.  This world has no need for men such as me.  We are expendable.  This world has no idea what to do with someone like me.   I am a useless burden, a quandary, just another nervous wreck who will not be paying any doctor bills.

An aside:   I am curious as to how others might interpret the first line in Camus' The Stranger:  Lost in Translation: What the First Line of “The Stranger” Should Be.

note about The Stranger (by Camus):  I understand the "racist" background of the novel, or the "anti-Arabic" undertones … I don't know what other words to use.   The point is most likely lost on modern readers (the youth) that the likelihood of a Frenchman in colonial Algeria getting the death penalty for killing an armed Arab was slim to nonexistent.  That plays a role in the novel as well.  The reader is to understand that the protagonist is being executed for not crying at his mother's funeral, for smoking a cigarette during the "formal event," for his personality or lack of personality.   The sun blinded him on the beach, he thought the guy had a knife.  He shoots him dead, like in the Wild West, Clint Eastwood style, I suppose.

Eh,  yet, in colonial Algeria, getting the death penalty for killing an armed Arab was very slim.  You see?  There is no way to convey that aspect of the novel to the youth of today, or to my generation even, for that matter.   The arguments about the word he uses for "Mum" or "Ma-ma" are important, I agree, but I wonder how to translate the context of what he is actually being executed for: his attitude … no?   He has a bad attitude.   He does not cry on command, at the appropriate times.  He appears disconnected from the present animal-life moment.

Anyway, my animal body is hungry, and by now the mother of this animal body - The Mother - as I coldly refer to her [here, in typing] with a sublime affection, twisted with existential resentment with deep philosophical roots - is up and about preparing her eggs.  Soon it will be safe to grind the coffee beans … and reflect upon this predicament of depending upon stores for vegetables.  She will also require ample space-time for meditation, reflection, reading … some kind of inner life (beyond the reach of harassing phone calls from Bank "associates/employees/soon-to-be-replaced-by-robots" wondering why payments have stopped on the credit cards).   I try to be a good "cell-mate" to my mom.   We get along fairly well, as long as we're both not drinking.  Drinking, we're both most likely "psychiatric ward" material.  I pity either of my parents or my sister in the hands of institutions (hospitals/jails).  Of all 4 of us, I am the most well-adapted to such places as I tend to bond with the pitiable creatures trapped in such places with me … like the more recent Planet of the Apes flicks.   I would be very kind to them (my kin) in such environments.  I would look after them.  Why not display some of the jailhouse hospitality with our living kin, even if it's just one or two?   We break bread, we split hamburgers.   We're cell mates.  I want us to get along, to be part of a healing process, not part of the nightmare, like poor old Schopenhauer and his mother.  They were both careless with their relationship, or their natures/personalities were such that cohabitation was impossible.   We are wild phenomena, after all, and some people just can't stand to be in the same room or house together, can't stand to hear opinions from, etc.   People may not be able to tolerate each other.   So be it.   I cast no judgements on anyone.   I take it back what I wrote about them being careless.  Maybe they were both insufferable - the whole tribe tainted with a peculiar intelligence which made them repulsive or just annoying to be around, to be "in their gaze."

________________________ Chapter 3 of this single post ?  ________________________

The garden is done, so it is back to frozen spinach.  There is none in the freezer.  I have to get some.   This is our existential predicament.   An automobile required to do what our ape cousins in the wild do reaching for a branch to munch spinach-like leaves off of.   The complexity of what it takes to get the leaves to my stomach do not seem worth all the trouble.  I am going to end up nothing but a decaying corpse in the end like everyone before me.

At what point do we see too much to function?

_________________________________________________________
a clue to my distress (or, the significance of the particular texts I am working through at this time): 
This would be the material I was "not getting" during my existential meltdown at age 17/18.

I almost suspect the unconscious mind, the "gods" - whatever - of forcing my mind to become intimate with the material of this text as a method for Slaying some kind of Phenomenological Dragon.  I fear the mortality of my own parents, even though their union has caused me a great deal of anguish, despair, and heartache.   I am just a consequence of their disharmonious attempt at cohabitation.  And yet, here I am, and I suppose I may have already paid my dues here on earth, so I reckon I can pass shortly after them.

I don't "get high" anymore.  Even if I toke on expensive green stuff, I merely become a tad bit more philosophical, but since I am always somewhat philosophical, there's really not much effect, and I most likely am wasting money watching it go up in smoke ---- which causes distress to the belly and the part of me that wishes to gather more empty notebooks and a fresh set of pencils.  Then again, it does help me breathe easier.  It's just, quite plainly unaffordable, and therefore a potential gateway to slavery (laboring for money).

Wine would be cheaper, but that method ruins the calm state required to take delight in algebraic manipulations and geometric representations.

I am not looking for advice, just arguing with myself …
« Last Edit: September 10, 2019, 06:37:38 am by Gorticide »
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

Henry the Fool

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Re: Anguish Tabulator
« Reply #16 on: September 14, 2019, 11:41:29 pm »
Generally, I simply wish to grant myself a license to slander the universe.   There are so many cliched forms of advice, such as "think positive," or even "you have to be strong." (like Nietzsche's suggestion to "become harder.")

It's lame advice.   If one hates this world, this life, other people, other animals, etc, why not allow ourselves to feel exactly how we feel?   How do we REALLY feel?

On that note, I'm going to soak in a tub of water, reflecting upon the skeleton, veins, sinews, nerve endings, feeling toe heal ... I once read somewhere that a good prelude to a restful night's sleep is feeling a little sad - not deeply depressed, but, well, just sad in a way that isn't crippling, a good "tired of life."   

Someone told me today that I "can't be weak in this life," that I must "be strong."   

I find such advice ridiculous.  We feel what we feel.  I don't think it has to do with this so-called "mental strength" some people supposedly possess.  Maybe the people who project a strong persona do not know enough to be scared and depressed.

The toe was merely bruised by the way and is healing rapidly.   Still, though, the only foot gear that does not cause too much pain are the sandals. 

« Last Edit: October 06, 2019, 08:01:29 pm by Haywire Baboonery »
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

Henry the Fool

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Re: Anguish Tabulator
« Reply #17 on: October 06, 2019, 07:59:40 pm »
Everything feels difficult today.
My brain is shutting down, refusing to serve others, refusing to serve even me for very much longer.

I try to continue what it is I am doing, but my heart doesn't really seem to be in it today.

Existential dread?   It's that WHY BOTHER? feeling.   Anything I do, anything I learn or create, it is as though I could just as easily do nothing whatsoever, and there would not be much difference.

Usually when I am between "subjects" or "textbooks" or even between chapters of a text, I tackle a programming project.  I thought that the enthusiasm for such things, while not there when I began, would develop throughtout the process; but all day there were heavy feelings or irritation, guilt/shame (I refused to drive Maman to church this morning), frustration (neighbor involving me in some drama), and a powerful melancholy festering in my guts, throughout my veins and sinews.

Heavy hearted.
It is as though my brain is on strike.

As I said, normally I can muster enthusiasm.   
It's my brain and my heart.  Did Schopenhauer call these intellect and Will?

Then my Will must be severely disappointed or frustrated - my heart is heavy, meaning I feel the tragic ironies encountered in day to day mundane existence.   The awful truth of it all, the dependence on coffee, witnessing this pitable creature wake up NEEDING/WANTING some kind of relief from ___?____ (what).  (dissatisfaction?)

Relief from the Pressure which is the Burden of my own existence.

I am under no obligation to feel well, but I do prefer to feel well.  That is, I do like to "lose myself" in some coding and the mathematics behind it; but there are times when the heart (and brain) is just not cooperative with my "desire for well-being."

There are times when I try to fight it, to force myself to carry on, to drum up some enthusiasm for my "inner life," and yet there are these childish feelings such as wondering what it would be like to for my parents were I to reach the grave before them, just as an exclamation point to my overall disgust with what it means to be a living creature, with the unpleasant feelings of being this particular living creature with all its frustrations.  Surely it is like this for all.  Do I not suffer myself well?

I felt obligated to document such inner struggles here, just to be honest.  Clearly, my way of life (that is, considering myself unemployable due to strong resistance to being dominated and made servile) is not a bed of roses, or, if it is, there are plenty of thorns along with the flowers.

I used to think that were I to find relative contentment living on government relief (social security), if I were able to continue to study with passion and enthusiasm, that this would be the greatest revenge, and that somehow this would "defeat" that public label of "failure," "bum," "loser," etc.

Today I have been down in the dumps all day.  If I were living alone, Hell, my heart can sink pretty low, I might succumb to crying in a bottle of booze; but, damn, I see how easily I can slip into a funk.   I have joked in the past about having needed every drink I drank, but this isn't true.

I'm in a bad place in my heart even though my brain is trying to continue along its "path" ... something is resisting my efforts.    If I were an Exorcist, I might say that the Demons of the Will are rising in an effort to disturb my tranquility.

I would rather not use such a graphically charged analogy. 

In more basic terms, it feels like my heart is preventing my intellect from functioning smoothly.   Is this heart in a state of mutiny against this intellect?  or is Captain Howdy lurking about, settling in for the evening?
« Last Edit: October 06, 2019, 08:35:19 pm by Haywire Baboonery »
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

Henry the Fool

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Re: Anguish Tabulator
« Reply #18 on: December 14, 2019, 12:06:57 am »
Tonight I could not help but come to the conclusion that I do not like very many people at all, maybe not even myself.

It was triggered by an ever so slight argument with a woman.  Later that evening, my mother had shown me a photo with my grandfather (her father) in it; he was laughing.  There was ice in his laughter (a saying of Nietzsche's).  Others were also laughing.  I remember the day ... my grandfather, always the wise-guy, had his foot poking my rear-end on the floor.  Others in the photo can be seen "seeing this" and laughing.   My face?  Embarrassed.  My grandfather's foot ...

I told my mom, "I never liked him."

She said, "So, you didn't like either my mother or father?  That's mean."

I guess I had confided in her that I thought her mom was a bit "mean-spirited."  She'd insulted me once by serving me last on "Father's Day," commenting that I get served last since I am not a father.

So, I guess even grandparents that have pi-ssed me off, even after they are resting in peace, I still have this "disconnection," this feeling that "they lost me a long time ago."  Really, everything that most of the clans value: the weddings, the vacations, the child-births, the "carreers" of the children of cousins ... THIS IS THE CONSPIRACY!!!  It's everywhere.   Optimism is wicked and dishonest.   I will maybe be calling people on their lies with a glare in my eyes.

I understand that my feelings will die in the silence of history, and all I can ever do is scream at the sky, "What kind of a sick joke is this?   Won't one person be honest with me?  Must we forever wear a mask in public?  Must we forever hold our tongue?"   There are those who would prefer I kill myself than to hear me speak or read anything I might have scribbled.   Thankfully I don't need anyone's permission to come to the conclusion that this world is a crock of shiit on so many levels.

There is freedom in writing since there is nobody there squashing what you are writing, as opposed to speech and conversation, when someone can just start cursing you out if you don't agree with them, or if you say something too "negative" or "depressing."

I do not have to like anyone.  It is such a relief to understand this.  I am not obligated to like people, not even my own parents.   I have compassion, yes.  But I know my heart, and I know my thoughts, and maybe it is best to face these feelings which must make dying much easier.

Why is it when someone such as myself, one who honestly probes his authentic feelings, can be criticized as "mean" when all I am doing is declaring mutual disdain?   Am I afraid this truth could "hurt mom's heart" ?   Why should I not be honest?   Maybe I will start a silent inner diary to try expressing "how I really feel."    I think I might be afraid to face how I really feel since I do not wish to hurt anyone's feelings.

There is anger and frustration in me, but I do not wish to give anyone around me any satisfaction in seeing me more distressed than I need to be.

It hurts me to dislike so many people, but I am just an honest man trying not to hurt the feelings of all those who I don't really like, and don't blame them for not liking me.   I am so tired of lies ... all the lovey-dovey hippie-dippy lies ... I understand Hesse's Steppenwolf.  I have passed the age of 50, and I really should have been on my way by now.   

This life is gut-wrenching to those of us facing the empty space, the heads staring at televisions screens ... creepy world.  No God, and --- with mother and sister both firmly committed to promote the belief in God, it is just a given that I am "deserving of the despair and anxiety I feel" since I do not "reach out to God" as they do.    It's all lies.   I am the honest one.  I am the virtuous one by attempting to understand the true nature of our lives, even if the truth is horrific. 

I understand that a baby girl loves her Daddy, and it may cause my mom some pain to look back and realize that, all those years, I was not as impressed with my grandfather as everyone else seemed to be.

Maybe my ancestors despise me.   There are twisted feelings inside that are what they are.   I sense that I am afraid to expose myself to my true feelings out of some kind of fear of punishment, something deeply ingrained.

AHA!   We have been taught to love our oppressors!
« Last Edit: December 14, 2019, 09:27:18 am by Kaspar Heinrich »
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

Henry the Fool

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Re: Anguish Tabulator
« Reply #19 on: December 19, 2019, 06:50:43 pm »
Does depression take on an entirely different dimension when temperatures fall below freezing?

Imagine were one's quarters to catch fire and one had to escape the flames into the arctic cold !

Am I to be considered a weakling just for pointing out the potential for horror we are each exposed to in having been born?
« Last Edit: December 30, 2019, 10:50:36 pm by { ... } »
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

Henry the Fool

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Re: Anguish Tabulator
« Reply #20 on: December 30, 2019, 09:57:03 pm »
In the cold wet rain, when feeling tired and weak, I see where Schopenhauer was so very honest, and where Nietzsche is like a boy whistling in the dark to keep anxiety at bay.   That is, those who insist one "man up" or "become hard" may simply be acclimating themselves to the perpetual misery machine-disease that is life.   

I suppose that what Silenus wrote in this thread can be understood only by those who have experienced similar moods, repeatedly:

Quote from: Silenus
Having very strong anxiousness roll right over me. It surrounds this void of which I call my "self." I feel a change within my mental state, however permanent or not. It's the feeling of being consumed by listlessness while being a spectator of myself. I'm not sure of a "who" right now.

Last night, after taking a couple of drags from a bowl, I sat in the dark for some time, having conversations with myself. Ruminations over my feelings of being crushed.

I have had inner dialogues with myself for as long as I can remember. As a child I would lay in bed and pretend I had an audience as I went off on some auratory. Why have I always been like this, and should I bother to try and find out?

I haven't been able to come up with "definitions" for myself in some months. I can't tell you who or what I am. It's been as freeing as it has been terrifying; such worries over letting oneself go.

Does the anxious animal find a corner to hide in?

and so I hide from the Elemental Forces ... but I can't hide from this realization that there are no doctors or other professionals qualified to "cure me" of my distress.   In fact, most medical (and psychiatric) professionals have authoritarian mindsets, and are probably the least qualified to offer me any kind of insight into the true nature of our lives.

What if those who fancy themselves as "strong minded" are simply less reflective, less contemplative?   In short, what if the most well-adjusted are basically the most shallow with the least capacity for deep thinking?    Those who allow themselves to explore the contents of their own minds/hearts may not fit into the machinery of society in any other capacity than as an outsider, or, more euphemistically, as a mental health consumer.

We are, after all, free to starve to death, and this small but brute fact, as Holden points out repeatedly, may be the purist manifestation of coming to the conclusion that this redundant ritual of survival is not worth the effort of picking up any more eggs at the grocery store.

I should note that, while I had planned to continue working through the Stroustrup C++ textbook, Chapter 21 (Algorithms and Maps) for the month of December, I had dropped everything when I literally got sucked into a task I have been wanting to do * before I die *, that is, upload the scribblings I had digitized (1987-2015).

I still have yet to get to the Jail Writings of 2015, but I had to stop.   I was burning out and I have done enough for now.   Only a handful of people will ever have the patience or even the slightest desire to explore those notes.   It doesn't matter.   I wanted my documentation available to future inhabitants in case it helps them to see what a chaotic process getting through a life not worth living is.

Having said that, no, I have not been able to just "get back into the coding."

The very process of rereading through many of those notes changed me a little.  I mean, I actually feel MORE TIRED of LIVING than before.   It's a little bit funny ....

I wish to muster the enthusiasm to get into studying the algorithms in the C++ STL, but I am not going to fake it until I make it.  No.  I have lost interest for the moment, so I am going to explore some books, reread other books, and wait until the interest reawakens spontaneously.

I can't force enthusiasm.

At least I still get a kick out of reading people write truthfully and honestly.   There are fellow-thinkers out there!   It's not all robots and zombies and armored men.
« Last Edit: December 31, 2019, 11:21:28 am by { ... } »
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

Henry the Fool

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Re: Anguish Tabulator
« Reply #21 on: February 05, 2020, 06:28:53 pm »
Lately I have been getting a taste of what Holden may have experienced on a regular basis.  Certain personalities seem to wish to provoke fear, drain energies, distract from focusing on Inner Life, and entangle you in some kind of trouble, even if simply mental anguish.    I had been able to avoid such toxicity for several years, but one does not live in a vacuum.  Sometimes you can't avoid conflicts with those who target you for harassment, thinking you are a soft easy mark.   The world is a jail-house insane asylum zoo where we are hunted and preyed upon by our fellow inmates.

The thing is ... I wish to stand up for myself.   Why would a female bully (with a male side-kick) target a man (push buttons, jail-yard friend/enemy back-and-firth, and yet there is supposedly an ancient art, something of a Psychic Karate, where one is trained to resist "thoughtless emotive reactions" to an opponent's psychic attacks, be they lies, slander, false accusations, and basically rattling your cage.   I would think such a tactic would be ideal when targeted for harassment by a psychological abusive woman.

How does one harness one's energies and not give into the toxic manipulations of the sociopaths in our day to day monkey-spheres?  There are those who have had so many altercations with others that alarms must go off in the head at the first sign one is being lured into a stress-inducing entanglement with a pathological liar out to extort some kind of gain from you - at the expense of your sanity, of course.

If someone is very gruff and rough around the edges, and their intuitive grasp of fractions, weights, and measurements is faulty, sometimes they forget their own ignorance and attempt to physically bully someone into accept THEIR BLOCKHEADED perceptions over measurable, quantifiable reality. 

Blockhead is the word.  Thank you Schopenhauer for that one.  It is the sociopathic blockheads who cause me the most grief and stress.  It's been this way throughout my life, as though in some kind of Eternal Zoo, where there is always at least one, but too often many more than one, sociopaths.   For whatever reason, when ignorance is mixed with a mean spirit, the result is that a victim may be bullied into bargaining with a dangerous blockhead who will openly lie and then threaten consequences if YOU refuse to validate THEIR lie.

basic everyday life in the confederacy of dunces ...

- Signing off,
Renegade disguised as Village Idiot, abused by female ruffians wherever I go --- Helga the Horrible and her band of Gotham City underground government sociopaths groomed in their jails and psychiatric "Treatment Centers" (for Behavioral Health issues) --- they have their pick for career-minded ex-convict gorts with pleasant looks who might make great professional counselors for the ever-growing pandemic of disgruntled and disaffected youth flooding our societies of highways and malls.

Is there a real secret army of demonic personalities whose sole purpose is to torment us, as order from On High?   No, that would be paranoia.  I want to crawl into an underground bunker and study math and computing.

These scenarios of comic horror were hinted at in the film, Henry Fool, where Simon could not help attracting violent reactions to his aura from the delinquents of his monkey-sphere.    It may be the exact theme Dostoevski (y?) touches upon in The Idiot (Prince Myshkin gets bullied in a manner many of us are painfully familiar with, by murderous thugs and drunken thick-boned frustrated vag-inas). 

Especially out West in the Seattle area, I felt in need of a Force Field to protect me from what I could only make out to be Extreme Hatred Toward whatever it is that is "me."   Stranger rhymes with Danger.

- an honest man is always in trouble

I wish one prayer would work its spell:  I shall not want.

And yet, when I want, I become vulnerable.  And - really, how does one command oneself not to want?

I see how other people can attempt to wreak havoc in your rational-emotive wiring simply to see you placed in a situation, such as psychiatric evaluation.  They can tell outright lies, or simply assassinate your character, your "public persona."   I wish it were all delusional, but their pathological delusions influence the world around them.
« Last Edit: February 05, 2020, 10:51:03 pm by Captain Hauser »
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu

Henry the Fool

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  • Life teaches me not to want it.
    • What Now?
Re: Anguish Tabulator
« Reply #22 on: March 04, 2020, 08:30:47 pm »
I shall not want, I shall not need ... these prayers seem futile against the Frustrated Will.

I think I may have experienced a slight nervous breakdown today when we lost Internet and phone service.  I thought it was due to my refusal to pay a certain $20 fee for insufficient funds which I was promised would be waived.   I had paid the bill minus this fee, and I thought that the Bastards discontinued service over it.    Turns out there was an outage in the area as the telecommunications company was doing some work.     

When we lost the connection, I was in the middle of working on something very important for my mom.   I was not able to contain my frustrations ... the anger I experienced!   RAGE!   How dependent I have become on this technology!    I'm afraid I really must have a mood disorder of some kind, for, at one point, all I could do is lay down on the floor and groan.   In my mind, I thought the Big Company was bullying us.  In reality, it was just a bizarre coincidence.   

Worse of all, my mother had to witness me in action.  She may have seen for herself exactly why I had been diagnosed as bipolar.   I snapped.   With my hands shaking, using another's cell phone, I was able to contact the telecommunications company, at which time, after navigating through the stupid-as-fuuck automated menu system (which gets my blood boiling as well), I was informed that the outage was not a personal thing, but was area-wide due to "work in progress."

Now, in the evening, I feel emotionally drained.   How can I tranform into such a maniac under certain circumstances?   Am I unable to handle the stress and frustration that the day throws at me?   Am I unstable?

There are professional psychiatrist who would jump on such a confession of anguish as an opportunity to "try medication," when the reality is that this is a cognitive/behavioral problem.   I reacted to what I wrongly imagined what was occuring.  It was mostly all in my mind.    In fact, if I had done something besides the tasks I was working on for my mother, I may not have even noticed the interruption in service.

The whole experience makes me ashamed of myself, that I have such a low frustration tolerance for discomfort anxiety and unexpected snags in the road.

... the humility of being human ...  I think I may be just another nervous wreck.   

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jiTf6iJjwxg

"Just Another Nervous Wreck"

I'm feeling so alone now
They cut the telephone uh huh
Yeah my life is just a mess

I threw it all away now
I could have made a fortune
I lost the craving for success

And as the acrobats they tumble
So the corn begins to crumble
While in the mirror
She admires a brand new dress

Live on the second floor now
They're trying to bust the door down
Soon I'll have a new address

So much for liberation
They'll have a celebration
Yeah I've been under too much stress

And as the cloud begin to rumble
So the juggler makes his fumble
And the sun upon my wall is getting less

Don't, give a damn
Fight, while you can
Kill, shoot 'em up
They'll run amuck
Shout, Judas
Loud, they'll hear us
Soldier, sailor
Who's your tailor?
They'll run for cover when they discover
Everyone's a nervous wreck now

I used to think she was so nimble
Would have bought her as symbol
But now I can't afford the pen to sign her checks
Don't give a damn......

They'll run for cover when they discover
Everyone's a nervous wreck now
Life's just a bummer they got your number
We'll give as good as we get now
Rise from the gutter, stick with each other
We'll drive 'em over the edge now
They're gonna bleed, that's what they need
We'll get together and blow their cover
We're ready
Yeah we're ready
Yeah we're ready
« Last Edit: March 04, 2020, 08:49:19 pm by mike »
Things They Will Never Tell YouArthur Schopenhauer has been the most radical and defiant of all troublemakers.

Gorticide @ Nothing that is so, is so DOT edu