Rediscovering My Metaphysic, or the Reemergence of Something.

One of my first posts on here was to briefly record my journey into an acknowledged atheism. Towards the end of that post I blamed Deepak Chopra and metaphysics for creating a difficulty in a relationship with a good friend. Although that blaming statement was meant to be tongue in cheek, I have found it haunting my mind a little. I would never give Deepak Chopra the credit of my friendship’s near destruction, it just so happened that it coincided with mine and my friend’s reading of the same ‘guruistic’ text, yet nevertheless, we were parting ways by interpretation and application of individual metaphysical developments.

Now, I find myself reengaging with the concept of metaphysics. It’s important to note that I have not been devoid of the “What is it like?”, as that would be impossible, though my interpretation has been solely reduced to the ephemerality, impulsiveness, and profundity of art, rather than any practicality of being. As an aside, I will probably regret not writing more poetry and music, but from what I’ve discovered the nature of despair isn’t always conducive to applied creativity. However, it could be said the applied creativity is a constant reminder.

In retrospect, I believe my disapprobation and divergence from the metaphysic occurred due to it being conflated with physics, deified mysticism and the occult. I could be creating a memory there and assuming too much. Though with its reemergence in my interest, I feel I am encountering familiar displeasures; that is, conflation with physics, deified mysticism, and the occult, except now I feel I am better able to accept the relevant. That said, my metaphysic seems to be quite simple in its philosophy. Basically, my subjective interpretation of the world is good, intense, and confrontational, but ultimately it’s the created fiction of a trillion single cells working in unison to maximise their biological fitness.

It’s not a very sophisticated philosophy at the moment, though it seems the hardest part will be preventing from falling into those exploitative narratives perpetuated by a capitalist metaphysic. Despite my thinking I have a trumpet to blow regarding my awareness to the psychological consumerist tricks for material dissatisfaction, I still find myself guilty of making myself the commodity. When someone I love decided they didn’t love me, I have become the poor commodity. When someone I love has been in pain and I have failed to help, I have become the irrelevant capital. These are indoctrinated responses. I do not like to conform to the expectation, and part of my metaphysic is to naturalise my revolt against that narrative.

I am freaky, but empowered by emotion and the executive. I don’t intend to ruin this wonderful thinking machine; it’s fun.

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Here-ing and Now-ing

It has been a couple of months since I put anything on here. I had been having a pretty rough time, not from anything objectively external, though it was all subjectively external. I lost my Self. If you have read some of my posts from the past few + few months, you will probably know that I lost love and have been having a really difficult and testing time. For moments back there I thought I was dead in more ways than one. I was a ghost. I was painfully haunting. I will not pretend that I’m over her withdrawing from me because I do still love her; but my ego is now having a hiatus, allowing me time to exist here and now rather than in a fantasy of perpetual unworthiness, a past of failure, and a future of desolation and despair.

The here and now is a rather unexciting place, yet after months and months of being psychosomatically run through my fantastical ringer I am at this moment contently and understatedly happy with the respite. I realise I am still here, and want to be here. Despite a few times when I felt the primitive draw towards the permanent exit door, I now know I am not ready to end my absurd adventure just yet. I am beginning to feel good again. I may only be an okay minus at the moment, but there is now progress. I am wanting to do things again. I am feeling my libido returning. Those other externalities of social justice, radicalism, anarchism, Humanism, evolution, and reform are finding the vigour of their footing once again. I am feeling I can again contribute. I feel I can again enjoy the good fight. I feel I can once again push my rock up the hill and watch it roll back down with a comical smile.

I am now learning to acknowledge the love I have for myself. It has been the case for far too long that I have not given myself enough credit. It has only just very recently dawned upon me of my admiration for me in those times in my life when I have been compelled to extreme risk and selflessness, but it simultaneously became apparent that I have failed to appreciate the profundity of those comparatively less energetic bits in between. Those flashbulbs of denial and repression are the grotesque manifestations of my care, my ideals, my ambitions against cruelty. Learning to reward myself with acknowledgement for being a caring and conscientious human is a hard task. The naturalisation and ignorance of being those ‘virtues’ seems to have been completed a long time ago. I never gave myself any plaudits for being what I thought we should all innately be. I still feel unease about it. I will still probably not do it as often as I should, but like a pat on the back for still breathing, I know I deserve it.


… Here and now, I still love her; a memory and a capability in which I revel…

… Here and now, I love her and that makes me feel happy…

… Here and now, I feel “I wish” vanishing from my impulsive vocabulary…

… Here and now, I can raise a comical smile towards the absurdity of my life’s creation…

… Here and now, I can wave my smile like a banner at the empowering realisation of my ability to end the absurdity anytime I want…

… Here and now, the thought that there were 14 billion years of my oblivion and nonexistence, and that when this absurdity ends I’ll be oblivious and nonexistent for perhaps googols and googolplexes of years, raises a smug smile about MY time in the Sun…

… Here and now, the past is a shape-shifter, the future is unknown, and they are both grandiose fictions…

… Here and now, I am happy that my contradictions and hypocrisies are not cruel…

… Here and now, I am happy I fell in love and continue to love…

… Here and now, I am happy I am a good guy, and an admirable fella (if only to me)…

… Here and now, I’m feeling better about getting better…

… Here and now, I am absurd, I am lonely, and I am happy.

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Normalising the Sadness

My fineness didn’t last too long. I have been bouncing around for far too long. Down for weeks; up for days. I’ve been trying to come to terms with a relationship ending. Some say that the grieving process of a relationship is much like the grieving for death. I have to admit that for me personally, though deaths are traumatic, they are permanent. I don’t hold any supernatural beliefs. I do not believe there is a heaven or hell waiting for me. I do not believe in the ghosts of the dead beyond the imagination of the individual. Death for me is permanent. The energy that created me spent 14 billion years not being me, I’ll be here for a relative fraction of a blink, then I’ll not be me again forever. That’s the permanence of my death. Once those who die are gone. They are gone. Destined to be recycled and dissipated in the Universe. While I am here; their ghosts live in my imagination. They bring a smile to my face in remembrance. Every thought a celebration. But, this is where grieving the end of a relationship is different. Neither of us is dead.

It’s not like grieving death at all for me. Perhaps it is similar for those people who still believe in the supernatural. Who still believe that they can communicate or reconcile themselves with the dead. Those people have my empathy and sympathy. They do not need to feel the way they do. I do not want to belittle what they feel because the pain is the same. The only difference being that my ghosts are real. I still see her face. I still know her thoughts. I still know what she is doing. They are not memories. They are a life running parallel with mine. A life I have no impact on. A life I value so dear, but must endure its dematerialisation again and again and again. I want to talk to her. I want to feel her; hold onto her. You could be confused by my talk. As much as she is a ghost to me now; I am as much a ghost to myself. I remember who I used to be only 9 months ago; and he is equally a phantom. I can’t hold onto him either.

I went to sleep last night feeling hopeless, and I’ve awoke and continued that way. My mind is just a hum; a synesthesic power-line. It feels like there’s a precarious drunk finger resting on the volume. A weighted slip one way; and my hum becomes an unbearable din that’ll result in an impulsive flick of the power button. I mean death by the way. Suicide if my analogy is too overly poetic. And the other way, well, that’s just the silence and pretence of the status quo. Nothing changing. I wish I could see me rising like a phoenix from the flames, but I can’t. I feel broken. I feel like as long as I am that fraction of a blink I am always going to be reminded that I’m broken.

You may, or may not know, that I’m a proponent of science. I trust the scientific method’s endeavour. Although psychology isn’t as confident in its theories as physics or chemistry say, I do trust those established hypotheses to supply a route to conclusion. The one that I keep coming back to is Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s 5 stages of grief. I come back to this because the outlined phases of the grieving experience are well tested and adopted in psychological assessment. I have to admit that I’ve seen these stages so much now that they no longer have much meaning. Like my ad blindness, they have just become a whisp of incoherent colour in the background. Even now as I try to absorb and relate, I might as well be looking at a Jackson Pollock painting. No opinion; just a meditative stare at work of art.

So, here I am. I want to understand Jackson Pollock. If there is a profound meaning, a release from the hum, then I want to know. I am going to tackle each stage and relate it to myself.

1. Denial

Apparently, in this phase the heart rules our belief system, rather than the head doing so. This is a little vague and subjective for me. My heart just feels like its aching. It says that even though it is known that the relationship is over, I really don’t believe it. This is true for me, though it doesn’t fill me with any hope to know I’m still rooted in the first stage. I have said before in a past post that our circles are firmly intertwined. I cannot avoid her. I still hope she will talk to me. I still hope she will wrap her arms round me. I still hope she will tell me she loves me. Can you see? I hope for what I know I will never have. It is my hope fuelling my hopelessness… maybe. I know the truth, but I continue to entertain the fantasy. I suppose I do understand the heart’s rule really. It just makes no sense. I still hope things will work out. Within the clear indications that it’s over are the remnants of what we used to have. The promises I made to her, and the belief that the promises she made to me are still as deeply felt as mine. I still love her; and I still want to believe she loves me too. I want to say that I know she doesn’t love me. I want her to say she doesn’t love me, but I’m afraid she’d tell me she hates me instead. I am still in denial.

2. Anger

Anger is a strange one. I am only angry at her for not talking to me. I feel she has left me hanging. I don’t know what I did wrong. I don’t know why she stopped loving me. I am just full of questions. I know she knows I’m full of questions and I’m angry that she won’t give me the opportunity for answers, or even the opportunity not to ask the questions. I just want to hear her voice. And I suppose that’s why the anger I have for myself is of a magnitude far greater than what I can have towards her. I know that I’m the problem. I am the cause of my sadness, or my demise. I get angry at myself for being selfish. I get angry at myself for feeling entitled. I get angry when I find myself hating. I get angry at myself when I’m jealous, when I expect something, and most of all I get angry when I see her smiling. My relationship with her was born out of altruism, and all I really want is for her to be happy. I know that her relationship with me was born out of emotional desperation. I really hate myself for wanting to perpetuate that scenario. I suppose I’m angry that she never thanked me or told me that I was a beautiful human being for loving her. I felt beautiful at the time. I’m angry that her beauty was taken from me, and that I’ll never be beautiful again. I wish I could just rage and scream and hurt myself, but I repress this anger. I internalise it into self loathing. I’m angry because I need her.

3. Bargaining

Bargaining is said to go hand in hand with denial. It’s the act of trying make the relationship work through negotiation and/or threats. This whole idea of bargaining seems like something I’ve bypassed altogether. I’ve never consciously tried to negotiate. I only negotiate with myself. I tell myself that being benign and invisible is the best thing to move forward. Not much of a negotiation, but it’s been enough to frustrate the shit out of me. Like I said I want to rage and scream and physically hurt myself. As for threats, well, I would never threaten her in the sense of intentionally physically or mentally abusing her. That’s just not me at all. I even repress my call for help and support in case this might be construed as an abuse by her. She is such a beautiful human being. I would rather die than take her back to where she was when we first met. I would rather die. I wish we could still talk…

… That last sentence sounds like a negotiation doesn’t it? The one before it sounds like a threat? Another reason for my self-loathing.

4. Depression

I am in no doubt that I am depressed. What kind of depression though? I have no idea. I have tried making connections, or should I say self diagnosis, by revisiting my past and through research and comparisons to others. I’ve encountered major depressive disorder, bipolar disorder, and post traumatic stress disorder, but they really make me feel like a fraud. I mean all I am is still in love with someone I want to love me back. I feel like I’m exactly that dude that people would say ” What’s wrong with him? He’s depressed? He doesn’t know what depression is. He just needs to pull himself together. What; it was all over a girl? There must be something wrong with him.” Even though that reaction is one I retaliate against in defence of the legitimacy of other’s feelings; I cannot apply it to myself. I feel a fraud. I have sought no clinical diagnosis. I feel like a fraud. Despite reaching and doubled this 3 month ‘get over it’ threshold, I still cannot take myself round the doctors to ask for help. I dread the thought of being told there’s nothing wrong with me. I dread the thought that I’m not detached enough, my sleep patterns are not troubled enough, I’m not empty enough, disconnected enough, desperate enough, hopeless enough, suicidal enough, and being told that as long as I’m eating and exercising I’ll be fine. I’m worried I’ll be told to get out and stop wasting the doctor’s time.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no pushover. Even in my desperation and low self esteem I know what is right. I know when people are being horrible bastards. I know when people are being cruel. I will still fight. I’ll fight because I think of that scenario being applied to someone else. I think of a doctor saying that to her. I’ll fight for her. I’ll fight for you. I just don’t think I could fight the feelings inside myself from hearing that. I want help. The only problem is I only want her to help me. She is the only one. The thought that it’s only me to help me leaves me desolated. I feel hopeless today. The past two days of relative freedom seem like someone else. I don’t know how that person did it. This inability to move on perpetuates itself. I feel like I’m never going to be free of it. I know I must be wrong. I know I will probably be all right one day, but that doesn’t help. There’s no comfort when the thoughts that consume me now threaten to truncate my fraction of a blink. I should seek help.

5. Acceptance

This is the only glimmer, though I have little proof of its prolonged onset. Here’s one arbitrary quote regarding acceptance “… this is the phase in which we are able to make peace with the loss. It doesn’t always come on suddenly; it often happens gradually, little bit by little bit,  interspersed with some of the other phases.” Now, I been here for 6 months. I’ve been interspersed so fucking long it’d be a joke if it didn’t feel so tragic. Those other phases are there all the time; they never go. I read all this lot out like a chronology. These stages are like a fabrication. It’s totally delineated. Here’s more quote “… there is almost certain to be lingering sadness.  Acceptance entails making peace with the loss, letting go of the relationship and slowly moving forward with your life. Sometimes it feels like this phase will never come, which usually means you’re still struggling in an earlier phase.” How’s that for a ‘Get out of jail’ card?

I’m sorry; I feel like this is antagonising me, despite it really being solace. I don’t want to be cynical; cynicism scares me. I suppose I do think I will be okay. I just become frightened by the darkness. I really do love life. I don’t care if you’re a jet setter, an adrenaline junky, a charity worker, bone-idle, a bookworm, homeless, a professor, incapacitated by illness, or even a sociopathic politician. Every life is important. Every life is precious; even mine. When someone dies there is always one Universe less than there was before. Well, perhaps I revisit acceptance more often than I thought.


I guess I just need to carry on carrying on. Though, there seems to be one thing in the 5 stages of grieving. They never once tackle the fact that someone may not want to let go. I suppose this acceptance will eventually win and I’ll be destined to some form of latent sadness for the rest of my life, but I do not want to stop loving her. I want to love her. I can’t shift that. My want, my love, is that which continues this grotesque round robin. How can it end? How do you stop loving someone? How do you want to stop loving someone?

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The Peril Of Negating the Peril

Those who may have been following my blog may have noticed I’ve been depressed recently. This has been exacerbated by losing the affection of someone I am in love with. Though, this post is about diagnoses, of which I am a proponent of despite a lack of practical personal application.

It may surprise, or make you consider me a hypocrite, to know I’ve never received any diagnosis for my perceived mental anguish. Many years ago, in the early-noughties, I suffered a prolonged and sustained psychosis. My family, being from complex large families that experienced bad times with little emotional support, just reactive measures, knew I was going through a rough time, but the medicine that they grew up with was ‘pull yourself together’ and ‘just get on with it’, which probably explains the prevalence of alcoholism within the family. This is more notable among the men, as the women in my family seem to be more resilient, but perhaps the reasons behind that need more exploration. Needless to say, I grew up in a matriarchal family structure, which probably explains my implicit bias towards women, but I digress.

Just like those in my family, and many families who shared the same culture and time, who self medicated with alcohol. I also self medicated, though not primarily with alcohol. I was negating the peril, or rather I was prolonging an inevitable crash. In the end it took one of my pals to tell me that I was a mess. This friend’s opinion was particularly poignant because up until that point he had always been a nonchalant and chaotic individual who was contrary for the sake of being provocative, took the fall-out with a pinch of salt, and would fuck a brick wall if it had a hole in it. On the particular day, this friend had sat listening to me ramble on vitriolically, he saw the black curtain that was blinding, and he told me that I had frightened him that day. I’m not a violent individual and he’s not easily scared, but I frightened him.

That shock was enough for me to decide to seek help. I made an emergency appointment with the doctor for the next day. That doctor was in no doubt that I was having a psychotic episode. This is where I think my biggest mistake happened. I do not regret going to the doctor. I think anyone who is experiencing mental illness and turmoil should seek advice from a doctor. But, this doctor gave me options. He said if he were to make a diagnosis he would be obligated to section me under the Mental Health Act 1983. He said because he was a locum doctor this scenario would probably be detrimental to us both. His reasoning was based apparently on me losing my liberty and the subsequent (then-)stigma of mental illness, and that him having to make such a drastic call would jeopardise his employability in the area’s practices.

Always being of a conscientious nature, even during psychosis, I acquiesced to his reasoning. This, and what happened next, continues to baffle me. He gave me some tranquillisers, told me to take them right then, and gave me a cup of water. He then phoned someone about psychiatric assessment, he gave me an address, wrote me a prescription for more tranquillisers, and told me not to use my local chemist. At the time, I was all over the place and was actually just overjoyed, in a warped sense of the word, that someone was acknowledging my mental detachment and attempting to help. I questioned nothing, though in retrospect the whole process seems really fucking shady, subjective and unethical. Anyway, the locum told me to go to the address that afternoon and not to miss it.

I didn’t miss the appointment. Despite having collected the prescription and dosing myself up beyond its direction. I was determined to get help. I turned up at a relatively new building made of sandy yellow brick that sat in the footprint of what was probably an old bomb site. It was quite well fortified in a pleasant politically correct and benign kind of way; though there was no hiding the tall cast iron fencing, the intercom system, and burly warden with a massive loop of keys. I was escorted to a room with a piano and told to wait. Once alone, I was impulsed towards the piano. I lifted the lid and began playing Pink Floyd’s ‘Comfortably Numb’. I don’t know if it was the noise of my naive triad-driven style of playing or just coincidence, but I never got to get another verse in after the chorus finished.

A small man came in. He smiled and acknowledged he’d recognised the tune. I suppose it was this acknowledgement, mixed with the uncanny resemblance he had to my first mathematics teacher from Comprehensive School, that negated the frustration I had felt at cutting the song short. With hindsight, regardless of its dreamlike quality, I now think he was waiting outside the door for me to finish the chorus and actually waited for me resolve to the first chord of the verse. The psychiatrist introduced himself, but I can’t recall his name; I just see my old maths teacher. He told me he was involved in developing a new approach to mental health that was being tested in the area and asked if I had any problems with that. I didn’t… I didn’t care. He asked me about my physical health; I said I was alright. He asked me about my drug use; I told him the truth. He asked me if I felt suicidal; I didn’t. Then he asked me if I held any fundamentalist beliefs.

It was the nature of my psychosis that I never wanted to harm myself permanently. I had in the past ameliorated my frustration and mental pain by destroying my knuckles by punching walls. This would now be coined self-harm, though that term wasn’t part of the common lexicon at that time. I didn’t want to hurt any of my friends or family either. But, there were people that I disliked for varying reasons, and it was them that I was directing all my aggression, frustration, vitriol, and darkness towards. This is what had scared my friend. He knew this was totally detached from anything I had been, or what he had known. My deranged cognitive dissonance was allowing me to consider using what I regard as anathema as a solution to what I regarded as anathema. It was at that moment of being asked about fundamentalist beliefs that I recognised the dissonance, and the total lack of logic. I subjectively and impulsively identified the anathema as part of a fundamentalist belief. I thought admitting this would jeopardise my suitability for treatment. So, I lied; I said no.

I had a few more meetings with him over the following weeks. He was mainly interested in me reducing my use of drugs. I hadn’t taken any more of the tranquillisers I had been prescribed after that first binge. In fact as a response to lying to him, and the revelation of lying to myself, I had gone Cold Turkey University. I stopped all the drugs I had been taking; I even stopped drinking Coca-Cola, which previous to this had been something of a mini religion to me (another blog post I think). That one day I refrained from it all; I only continued smoking tobacco, which I later stopped in 2005. After a follow up appointment with another doctor, I never saw the locum again, I was told I had a stomach ulcer. I was prescribed a heavy dose of antibiotics. Then a nutritionist put me on an enriched cancer patient’s diet to gain weight; as they regarded me as dangerously underweight. The psychiatrist thought I was making leaps and bounds, and because I held no fundamentalist beliefs, recommended that I might be a prime candidate for group therapy, which he thought might help reconcile any underlying issues.

Well, the group therapy helped. It wasn’t so much talking about myself as it was listening to other people. Some had been through really horrific traumas. The act of thinking about my thinking, and being aware of the minds and lives of others were the best medicine. I allowed empathy to exchange with the vitriol, and was back to how I had once been. I was clean and the treatment for my malnourishment and stomach ulcer were working. They did work. I stayed in group therapy through Spring and Summer. It was only when I was feeling brand new and relaxed that I nonchalantly admitted the lie I had told to get treatment. This signified the end of my treatment. The group members reacted positively to my admission, though the group manager’s reaction was in stark contrast.

Despite the apparent success of my treatment, he suggested afterwards that I had abused the trust of the group, had put the other members treatment at risk, and that it would be better if I did not return. This was a bitter blow, but it cut the strings. I met one of the other group members in the local market about a month later. According to her, the group manager had antagonised many in the group to the point that there were only a handful left, he was no longer turning up, and those remaining were basically running the group themselves. I don’t know how long this initiative survived. It was a really good outlet.

Anyway, it’s only now, all these years later that I have had a relapse into mental illness. Though, this depression is distinctly different from my psychosis. My psychosis never affected my self esteem; this depression has. I never felt suicidal with the psychosis; though I have with the depression. The black curtain is different. I am not detached with this depression; I am absorbed. The delusions of my psychosis gave a clear misguided clarity to my thought; whereas with this depression everything is conflated with everything. Depression lacks edges. This depression has felt like more of personal danger. I still haven’t sought help though, and I still haven’t sought a diagnosis. I feel fine today and I felt fine yesterday, I write this now as a remedial action for when I don’t feel fine. I’m hoping I can use my clarity now to make some positive steps towards cure.

In spite of my science degree, I don’t even know if you can cure depression. In spite of my scientific study, I still do not seek professional help. I still feel a guilt, and downright cheek, for even having the audacity of assuming an acknowledgment of illness. Others who suffer from depression seem far more legitimate. I can’t even ring The Samaritans because I feel like a fraud. It’s these days when I feel fine that perpetuate that. I know there is a real possibility that something relatively innocuous could just send me hurtling into a bottomless pit of blackness and despair, but right now I think I’m getting better. I feel good. This post has been cathartic. It’s the optimism of the now that apparently invalidates the depression’s pessimism.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking bipolar disorder has ups that are as much of a problem as the downs. I only discount bipolar because I have been good for many years. It hasn’t been something I’ve had to deal with. During my light intermittencies I have no elation; just relief. I’m even finding it hard to say I’m unipolar because I still write, I still read, and I still get up everyday and jog with the dog. I know I write to communicate as I have no one tangible to talk to most of the time. I am isolated for long periods. I read to distract myself from pessimistic thoughts, creation of fantasy, and to find answers. And the dog jogging has become an almost automaton task, where my mind is blank. Dog jogging is a distraction, where I am essentially only moving legs, listening to the sound of breathing, and acting as a barometer to the weather.

I may be getting better though. I’ve been bad for about 6 months now. It may be longer, I lose track of time. I read in a study today that those who suffer psychosis are usually between 20 and 30 years old, which I was, and that those people often have a later peak in mental illness between the ages of 30 and 40 years old, which I am now. It doesn’t go on to say what happens after that peak, but it got me thinking about that locum doctor’s coercion and reluctance to section me, and how I’ve lived my life since. It’s possible I would have benefitted from it. I have lived a life comparatively removed from that of the rest of society. I have had no lasting relationships. I have shunned being employed for the relative impoverishment of being a sole trader. I often reject what’s popular; not out of dislike, but out of becoming part of it. I am antipop because the herd mentality scares me. I do not want to be popular, and this really seems to grate with what’s expected… I don’t want the swag.

I wonder if that early acquiescence in the doctor’s office put me on a course for lovelessness and childlessness. I remember falling over in Primary School. The headmaster conducted a standardised broken bone test, which entailed me pulling his arm. So, I pulled his arm and was subsequently deemed in good health because of my achievement. I completed the rest of day of school in pain. I ended up in casualty with a broken collarbone. Again, in Secondary School I fell off the climbing apparatus during a physical exercise lesson, and hurt my leg. The teacher performed the same test, this time involving walking about, and jumping up and down. Again, I passed the test and continued the rest of the day in pain. And again, I ended up in casualty with a broken fibula. No one asked if these tests had hurt. I did them because they asked me to. They never asked if I was in pain.

I know my analogy is wearing thin, but I wonder if some of my eccentric behaviour is a long drawn out equivalent to those painful days at school with broken bones, and that this apparently correlating mental illness peak is an equally abstract equivalent to me needing casualty. Who knows? I am just desperate to remain where I am right now. I’m not in blackness. I am not hopeless. I am not helpless. I am not in despair. And most importantly, I am not suicidal. I just wonder if I had cried out in pain earlier, let people really know how much pain I was in, I would have got treatment sooner. I just don’t like the thought of others going through a mental illness and then living with a seemingly benign consequence that would deny them love, support, and biological fitness.

I think I’ve lost my way a little with this post. It has drifted somewhat from what I originally anticipated. Regardless of its incoherence, I’d just like to let you know that although there are things I regret doing/not doing, during my ‘seemingly benign consequence’, I have been content through most of it and I am proud of who I have become. It’s a strange life, and I make no claims as to what constitutes mental illness or a life well-lived. This is purely my anecdote and my cathartic exercise. I feel it only remains out of some sense of duty, due to the subject matter, for me, a perhaps-overly-dramatic-perhaps-hypochondriacal hypocrite, to suggest that you seek professional help as soon as possible if you think you are ill, or in trouble. At best, help could save your life; at worst… well, let’s say it could prevent you typing out wayyyyy too much ignorant postulation a decade down the road.

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I’m Really Disappointed, They Voted A ‘No’ In Scotland

♩ ♩ God save our gracious meh… Long live our noble blah… La la la bollocks! ♩ ♩

Union Flag

So the Scots voted in favour of staying part of the United Kingdom. If you’d read my previous post you’d know I was hoping for a ‘Yes’, but even I’m a little more disappointed than I expected. I had the feeling that the Scots would vote ‘No’. It seems that the comforting and comfortable march to corporate serfdom is exactly what 55% of Scots wanted. Despite a great turn out for democracy, they’ve actually voted to maintain the system that is eroding its raison d’être.

Anyway, the struggle continues in its current form. Getting Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Oh Well’ played as my earworm on BBC 6 Music before 8am. I think the fella who requested “… anything by Status Quo.” just couldn’t be arsed with even attempting the facade of an earworm. I had to laugh. So, I took to Facebook (I’ve reactivated again) and put this little nugget up.

Response to Scotland referendum

As you can see; this post hasn’t been very popular. Maybe I’m really out of step with my dreams for a global Humanist society. I have been very contentious on Facebook though. I think I’ve antagonised quite a few people. Perhaps I’m using too many long words, or something. I’m not really bothered though. Some of those on my ‘Friends’ list post all sorts of right-wing and fascistic crap. I have to admit I was hoping for a bit more support, but like I said “Maybe I’m really out of step… ”

Oh well, there are still some pertinent questions to be asked and impulsive promises to be fulfilled. There may be some neoliberal unveiling and hornet tormenting yet. Ho hum! There’s always tomorrow… Until there isn’t!

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I’m Really Nervous, But I Hope For A ‘Yes’ In Scotland

I know it’s up to those living in Scotland to decide whether they should become independent of the UK. Though the question ‘do you think Scotland should become an independent country?’ makes me hope that they vote ‘Yes’. I can empathise with them. I’m disenfranchised too. The Scots have an opportunity to change that, and I want them to try. There is the opportunity to get power back from the those who wish to pursue a neoliberal doctrine, which promotes stealing from the majority for the benefit of the wealthiest. It’s quite possible the Scots may end up with their own brand of neoliberals to compete with England’s neoliberals, but the opportunity for change is there now for it not to be that way.

Scottish Saltire

The world is a mess. Neoliberalism is taking us all towards a globalised corporate serfdom. The Scots can stir the shit. They can hit the hornets’ nest. They can lift the veil so that those who have bought into the cancerous fiction of neoliberal capitalism will see the lie. Even if the Scots decide to stay in the union the conversation is going to happen. I hope the Scots, and the English, and the Welsh, and the Northern Irish won’t let the issues disappear whatever happens in the vote. Things need to change and this is an opportunity for everyone everywhere to redress the balance.

I like the comforting and comfortable falsehoods that the United Kingdom supplies, but I like the idea of possibility for progress even more. Independence is a risk. It may even end up being a sacrifice. But, we need to change politics, and we need to change the prevailing philosophy for the better. The Scots can do that for themselves today, and they can start the process for all of us. I have no ambition under neoliberalism. My inspiration to ambition now rests solely with social evolution and social justice. Scotland have the ability to give that to me. I hope they vote ‘Yes’ for independence. So with 10 minutes until the polling booths open, it only remains for me to say “Change the world!”

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The Jeopardy Of The Instagram Unfollow

I’ve been on a bit of a purge recently. Sick and tired of feeling ignored, and needing a better gauge of who’s actually paying attention, I’ve unfollowed anyone who wasn’t following me back on Instagram. Even though I enjoyed many of the posts, I have decided to ditch those whom I had previously followed out of a want to balance the mutual interest. Gone has Sabina and her culinary inventions. Gone has my sister’s goddaughter Morgan with her proto-anarchistic and radical memes. Gone is Keeley and her screenshots from Tumblr. Gone have many, not out of dislike, but out of balance.

Even though this has thankfully left me with many conscientious fellows, it has also left me with postings of the more apathetic and impulsed follower. Specifically, it is my cousin’s son who has provoked this post. For days now I have been checking into Instagram to see what my diminished band of mutualists have uploaded. Unfortunately, no one has uploaded anything. And it is a subsequence of this that I continually keep getting greeted by what is supposedly Justin Bieber’s dick.

Now, I’m not really inclined to see anyone’s dick. In fact, I’m not really inclined to see any intimate photo of anyone at this moment in time. I resisted my voyeuristic urge to see Jennifer Lawrence’s hacked naked photos out of a want to shore up my resilience and lend support against violation and intrusion. I will not lie, I would like to see Jennifer Lawrence naked, there are many women who I would like to see naked, but only if they want or are welcoming for me to see them naked. I have no problem with anyone, anyone! being naked whenever they want, wherever they want, if they want to be. I’m an easy going dude in this regard.

Yet, seeing Justin Bieber’s static knob day after day is becoming tedious. It’s like an advert made specifically to mock me. 1. I have a heavily weighted preference for the female form, if given the choice. 2. I really dislike marketing and advertising as a consequence of studying the fallibilities of the human mind and how those fallibilities are exploited. 3. I don’t mind people being celebrated, but I dislike celebrity. 4. I don’t think Justin Bieber is a very good role model. I’m not worried that I’m going to be turned homosexual by Justin Bieber’s dick through the exploitation of my mental capacity in the form of advertising. I’d have no problem being homosexual if I was homosexual. I don’t even mind people posting pictures of Justin Bieber’s dick on Instagram, just as long as Justin Bieber doesn’t mind. I just do not want to see it for days on end.

I do not blame my cousin’s son for apparently being attracted to Justin Bieber. I do not blame Sabina, Morgan, Keeley and the rest for not following me back. I do not blame my remaining follow reciprocates for not posting a distraction. I do not even blame Instagram for not having a deactivation process similar to Facebook and Twitter. Though, if I were more reactionary, self pitying and paranoid I’d feel it were a bespoke contrivance specially formulated for me.

I know I’m far from being the most prolific poster to Instagram. In fact, if the mathematics of my upload rate were an average Instagram would be regarded a failure. But, come on people. It doesn’t take much to outstrip me. 3 days is far too long not to be posting anything. Excellent black and white photo of two dogs playing on the beach. That conversation screenshot that I really don’t understand. I loved that pic of a bonfire; have you got any more? A pizza? Anyone have a picture of a grumpy cat? A ‘Keep Calm and Follow Everyone’ meme? Anyone? Anything? Not Justin Bieber’s dick though… Anyone’s dick but his.

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