Time to relax.
These have been difficult months... tho I don't think that they've been depressive so much as establishing.
Dealing with DID (I think that we've solidly proven that that's one of the things that's going on) is both more difficult and more subtle than I thought that it would be. One of the twisted things about it is that there seem to be intermittent moments of improvement -- but these moments, themselves, may simply be further symptoms. I think that I'm still in the "it'lll get worse before it gets better" phase.
My greatest difficulties come up once I'm able to successfully focus on something. I get stuck in this track of trying to work, without aim. To be productive, without an image of what to produce. It's a survival tactic, I think. A crisis reflex.
I need to relax. To flow.
That's one of the reasons for this entry: to write about something, anything, that's not part of the boards, or a new album, or anything else external. Something that's just words cast out into the void.
Damn my perception of progress.
Damn my need to climb and to be.
Damn my inability to sit still.
Damn my ears for seeking the new in sound and fury.
Damn my hands for reaching.
Damn my skin for sensitivity.
Damn my cock for wanting release.
Damn my eyes for color and light.
Damn my body-as-prison.
Damn my melding of acceptance and apathy.
In the name of nausea and satisfaction, in the name of absolution and sensuality, I cast you out. I banish you in the name of what-need-not-be -- to the lower earth of typography, and structure of words, and purging of retread pain.
I'll draw my new icon in fresh semen: prostrate myself before youthful masturbation, and dig for my fantasy's corpse.
Tonight I'll turn off the television; to the grind of the last legs of the old air conditioner and the hum of the torchiere lamp, I'll plunge into necrophiliac smiles in the abyssal, interred Pantheon of abandoned ideas.
Damn my hesitation.
Damn my doubt.
Damn my care for cares.
But bless my inclinations. They'll need the hands of whatever spirit will carry them, when I forget them and turn in to bed.
These have been difficult months... tho I don't think that they've been depressive so much as establishing.
Dealing with DID (I think that we've solidly proven that that's one of the things that's going on) is both more difficult and more subtle than I thought that it would be. One of the twisted things about it is that there seem to be intermittent moments of improvement -- but these moments, themselves, may simply be further symptoms. I think that I'm still in the "it'lll get worse before it gets better" phase.
My greatest difficulties come up once I'm able to successfully focus on something. I get stuck in this track of trying to work, without aim. To be productive, without an image of what to produce. It's a survival tactic, I think. A crisis reflex.
I need to relax. To flow.
That's one of the reasons for this entry: to write about something, anything, that's not part of the boards, or a new album, or anything else external. Something that's just words cast out into the void.
Damn my perception of progress.
Damn my need to climb and to be.
Damn my inability to sit still.
Damn my ears for seeking the new in sound and fury.
Damn my hands for reaching.
Damn my skin for sensitivity.
Damn my cock for wanting release.
Damn my eyes for color and light.
Damn my body-as-prison.
Damn my melding of acceptance and apathy.
In the name of nausea and satisfaction, in the name of absolution and sensuality, I cast you out. I banish you in the name of what-need-not-be -- to the lower earth of typography, and structure of words, and purging of retread pain.
I'll draw my new icon in fresh semen: prostrate myself before youthful masturbation, and dig for my fantasy's corpse.
Tonight I'll turn off the television; to the grind of the last legs of the old air conditioner and the hum of the torchiere lamp, I'll plunge into necrophiliac smiles in the abyssal, interred Pantheon of abandoned ideas.
Damn my hesitation.
Damn my doubt.
Damn my care for cares.
But bless my inclinations. They'll need the hands of whatever spirit will carry them, when I forget them and turn in to bed.