Archive for schizophrenia

As goes the psyche, so goes the pen

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 13, 2013 by JC

Drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip…

“Sounds like my faucet in disrepair,” you say?

Try hearing that all day, every day. Try hearing and feeling drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip on top and inside your head all the time and then try such flippant comparison again. Every fucking time there’s the sound, there’s the sensation, the two make the phenomenon—drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip means wetting of the same 1-inch radius, the same pi-inches-squared area, followed by geometrically different but equirhythmic radiations all day long.

I won’t talk—I won’t—and that’s why the dripping and thipping won’t stop, why a bit of my scalp is bare, why little, cracked bowls are wetted in the same time, time after time.

I thought this method of torture was bygone, but it’s 2013 already and still
I’m getting dripped and thipped insane by this routine, these habits, by myself. All the play I have now is with letters. No longer do I play with sounds, spoken words. No one would or will play like I want to.

This, here, my jungle gym, my wooden castle like the one distant daddy brought and built one Christmas—brought and built by daddy, played with ad nauseam, until that consistency became drip drip drip drip thip thip thip thip.

Though I’m aware of what’s happening and my body and the rest of me are free to go, I continue furiously and only semiapologetically; what separates this from my boyhood playground?

I suppose that since I am still that boy at heart I need to play, and since now I won’t play with my body like I used to, I must play with letters.

But can I reengage my muscles, my bones, my connective tissues, my organs? My soul is healthy, engaged. My letters come from my body, so my body is engaged. That’s right. This is everything I need.

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Change her and Minimize the Collateral Damage of her Sociopathy

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 9, 2013 by JC

Doop bee doopbah

That’s the kind of shit we used to fill our “awkward” silences with, the silences when we’d be staring at each other and I’d be content to continue doing that, stirrings of love above and below my belt, and she’d be pathetically self-conscious about not having anything brilliant to say or not hearing anything brilliant from me, not hearing anything consistent with her fantasy of joining up with some pompous, pontificating piece of abjectly cuckoldable shit* who never shuts up, who never allows her a moment to peer into her vacuous, ultimately sociopathic self; who rarely suspects there’s something wrong and says nothing when he does. To her, every silence is awkward because she is awkward, and so she must always be in “conversation.” That’s what happens when you have a poorly developed personality and you need thoughts and words and images and entertainments injected into your brain from the outside. It’s what happens when you have no sense of direction, no sense of personal responsibility for making lists mentally or graphically and getting the shit on them done. If you’re bored, you’re boring and liable to fuck things up for other people. That may damn well be the most verisimilitudinous half-cliche I’m aware of. If you can’t find a way of amusing yourself, and you project this need constantly onto others, and say things like, “I don’t know how I could have acted differently,” in reference to abusing your open-relationship privileges, which specifically restricted serious feelings and repeated events, or “you should read so that we have more to talk about,” you erode all possibility of earning MY respect, and in my eyes degrade yourself contemptibly.

Your dependency on feedback from the outside is your death to me, your cession of all affections and affinities. When you can’t figure out organically what you ought to do, when there’s nothing organic beneath your facade, then fuck off from me. If that’s the state of your soul, then you are pathetic and you should stay the fuck away from people who are capable of self-reliance and clean morals, capable of planning and living their lives intelligently, doing and wanting to do what’s right for them and those around them, because you’ll risk fucking up this certainty, this second-nature showing of real poise that marks the self-actualized and -actualizing. You should stay the fuck away indeed, but you won’t because you want to control those characteristics; you want something outside to hold on to because you can’t or won’t find anything valuable within yourself.

Serial monogamy is a disgusting, pitiful symptom of these deficiencies of the soul, and if you see it, my like-existing, like-minded, like-self-loving friends, run away–especially if she tempts you to be like her; especially if she clamors for your approval of this completely fucked approach to relationships; especially if she seeks or offers justifications for her odd, disloyal, scatter-shit behavior, comments, and patterns of thought instead of seeking heavy chemical interventions combined with heavy talk therapy to address them. She’s a schizophrenic, borderline-personality, bipolar, depressed, narcissistic, bean-flicking, inappropriately-coquettish, wannabe siren. Oops, almost forgot histrionic!

There’s no cure for that stiff cocktail of emotional, social, and intellectual infirmities–there’s only a lifetime of business for mental health professionals and a trail of ground-up balls, hearts, minds, and souls to result from this personality type’s having the right to exist within society’s heart as opposed to provisional relegation to its fringes.

If you see this type emerging, don’t deny humanity the protection of smooshing it into the ground, razing it to the foundation, shattering it completely until all that’s left is a bleeding heart, something real (no physical violence, no abuse). Something real is better than something faked–feigned interest in others for the purpose of attracting interest from them in turn, for the purpose of having more personal acolytes and an as-big-as-possible rolodex of superficial social options that act as alternatives to self-reflection, self-discovery and real connection is something that must be eradicated from humanity, so don’t hesitate to take this work upon yourself. No double standards; no one-sided investment; no need for entertainment in relationships. Don’t let these things define your relationships, and you’ll be doing all you can to protect humanity from this evil. Don’t let her act like a babygurl forever. If she does, give her repeated tastes of her own rank-smelling shit. Cheat, lie, leave, and come back to see if it’s working until you’re done. That’s what she’s doing, minus the leaving part. She always keeps a foot in the door, because it’s cold in that empty head of hers!

* She had her bitchcucking, cocksucking, plagiarizing, taking-advantage-of-women, deserving of bona fide physical domination by a superior male, handlebar-mustached fuckold cuntwipe just two hours away when I was a cerebral young cucky trying to grasp at the threshold of manhood–trying to hold onto the half-finger-long ledge leading up to it while she was trying to set herself up for life by wooing, getting boinked fecklessly by, and marrying some piece-of-shit future physicist with the proportions of a cerebral, aging cucky and, this is no exaggeration, Yosemite Sam as his nearest doppelganger. My fingers became strong, my arms became strong, and even my legs got some action and I pulled myself up that ledge sans help and flung myself through that motherfucking door, past all the “men” who haven’t faced, let along managed, this kind of adversity–the kind particularly generated by a truly sociopathic and fucked up headcase of a young woman.