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Tuesday, June 21, 2016

I Stayed Too Long At The Fair

I need to make revisions. Refactor, if you will. This seems odd to type - not only at the beginning of an entry, but because the more I stare at it, the more it seems like unnecessary exposition.

Yet here I am, a little bit older, with a life that couldn't get closer to the one I'd envisioned without retreating into my imagination permanently. And depressed. If you are not depressed, or have never been prone to depression, please find another blog entry. From the outside, this chemical, emotional, and psychological swing will always seem self-indulgent.

"I'm only faking when I get it right."

For whatever reason, through millennia of random combinations, the stuff of the universe has culminated in a species which is capable of both curiosity and self-contemplation. I am grateful to the friends I've made over the years, and everyone who has given me pause to figure out my coordinates on the big map.

Anyway, there is a point to this...somewhere.

One of the major drawbacks to being an insomniac is having the time to over-analyze (sometimes rationally, when pushed) situations. When coupled with some form of anxiety, it leads to an unconscious need to play out all possible moves across multiple timelines. (I would like to take this time to congratulate those of you who exist as Fire-Breathing Squid Batman in an alternate universe. You are awesome.) There should be a caveat here, because playing out these possibilities often leads to treating life as a deer treats an oncoming car on the Taconic Parkway at 3 a.m. It also does not mean that the best decisions are made, in the end.

Yesterday, by the sheer virtue of having thrown myself at reality and managing not to die, I turned the calendar on another year - possibly by shaving time off of the big inevitability in the process. It was good. I've never been adept at making friends.

"But you write for a living, can barely tie your own shoes, and have hermetic tendencies," you say. "How can you possibly suck at getting to know people?"

It happens when staying locked inside for months on-end removes the social dimmer switch, and I end up either not saying a single word when I'm around people, or I cannot stop an outpouring for...a selfish reason. The need to have someone hear a sound in the jungle. The need to be understood in order to get a different perspective from someone. The need for contact.

Again, it's selfish and self-indulgent. The mind and other metaphorical organs should learn to be happy with the friends and life I have. But it's not. I had a very well-built fence between being alone and being lonely, and I seem to have ended up in the wrong yard. And forgive me: I'm usually quite good at nullifying these maudlin maunderings and self-reproaches to the point of making posts like these unnecessary. But it's not working this time.

There are days I wake up and wonder if I'm still in one of the best dreams ever. I live in a city I wouldn't trade for anything in the world - both the good and the bad of it. Beautiful people everywhere. The sex won't (necessarily) kill you, but the sensuality is more than most people can handle. Like some benevolent Cenobite inundating my life with potential pleasure for all the senses.

I have my own barriers. Not "dare I eat a peach?" barriers, but others which are hardwired. And they need to be broken. A gag reflex, if you will. Getting to the "what now?" point that seems to trigger all-too-familiar social patterns for which there are no vests that fit close enough.

These big lame feelz. I do not like them. I do not like the chemical shift to depression. But at least it telegraphs itself much better than when I was younger. I peek at it from around the corner. I dodge it. I hide from it. I try to surround myself with friends. Attempt to make new ones. Hold my dick of a cat because she is warm and soft, and her claws provide that momentary distraction I need from ad terminus tendencies. (PURRPURRPURR *swipe* "Daddy, let me be the cutter so you don't have to!") I try to explain it, and it only ends up being frustrating, because this shift never sounds as serious as it seems when it's put into words. Hence the title of this entry. If you ever want to heap on more self-loathing when depressed, listen to Streisand. It's a great way to invalidate your own feelings by turning them into caricatures.

And once again, just a few paragraphs in, and the focus of this whole exercise is lost. I'll return to it tonight, or tomorrow, or raise the banner of "Coming Soon!" which seems to be the overarching theme, this time around.

We care a lot about Transformers 'cause there's more than meets the eye.
Addendum:

This is the second major chemical shift in the past year, which is not bad, all things considered. It used to be a pendulum with severe swings of elation followed by falling apart due to small things, like that damned Subaru commercial with the dog and the checklist. (Bite me Subaru, we ALL know what the last item was on that list. Your job is to make and sell cars, not run roughshod over my emotions.)

The problem with these downturns is that there is no actual thing. If I am cold, I can look at the thermostat or put on a sweater. If I am hungry, I can eat something. Loneliness and depression - especially when (analytically) there should be no reason for either - makes no sense. And solving for this unknown is like trying to bite one's own teeth. It's invisible, insidious, and gets less apparent the harder you look for it and try to nail it down - like some emotional scalar wave.

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