madness
I've got these scandihoovian kitchen witches in the form of salt and pepper shakers. I believe they help me cook. They figure out how much time on the nuker, or let me know it's time to do something with the pot on the stove. They tell me how much is enough of seasoning and other ingredients. They even think up recipes some times.
I was imagining someone criticising me over that. Telling me it does me no good to take what few skills I have and ascribe them to some imaginary supernatural power. So I had that conversation. What good does confidence do me when it makes people hate me all the more? What difference if I am confident in skills I do have or don't have, when they won't be letting me show it anyway. Nobody will say to me "oh, you think you can cook? here, show us your stuff!" So who cares if I think I'm a good cook? I may as well think I'm a good singer, good writer, good dancer, pretty, sexy, friendly, heck, may as well think I have charm. it's all still delusion and nobody is interested in feeding my delusion. Hell, it may very well be that I didn't escape the mental institutions in my youth, but in fact have been dreaming all this life and i"m still in a padded room humming to myself, unaware of the dichotomy. How would I know? I'm crazy! I'm the crazy one, you see, so, even my empirical observations are invalidated.
I may think I know something about myself, but the knowing that matters is what people know about me and they don't know anything past "crazy." So I am nothing past "crazy" unless I am what I am to myself, and that's as far as I go. The feeling of disconnection, the fear that I might wake up and realize they're all right, and I'll never have any real experiences or true experiences is hard to shelve. That I might be in fact quite different from what I love about myself. that there is nothing loveable about me, even to me, and that I am truly a prisoner of this life, no possibility of parole or freedom.
That is one of those things I put away when I'm well rested.
Like, when I think I know how to train a rabbit to quit pissing in the bathroom, but Dan disagrees. He thinks I should take the rabbit and terrorize it over the pee stain a little harder than the last time I did, then cause it some harmless pain to drive the message home. Eventually, I'd reach the level of torture needed to force compliance. i think I should block off the offending room for a couple weeks with a barrier Dan keeps tripping over so that the rabbit stops feeling like he has a right to do as he pleases in there, because it remains a "new" zone.
And then I think, what if what's actually coming out when I think or speak or write is not what I read back in. I mean, oh geeze, if it's happening, you're seeing pure gibberish. I'm reading pure gibberish iinto something that my brain sees as rational. Furthermore, it's getting all the base data skewed and I'm actually just populating an ugly world with fantasy. Rabbits don't learn, you just eat them, perhaps? Perhaps he was peeing all over all year when I thought he had gotten over it but I forgot I cleaned it. Maybe the floor is currently deep in piss and shit and I can't see it? Maybe, once again, I'm in a rubber room analyzing an existence that isn't? Sounds like a movie idea.
Woman lives a whole life, at times fractious, others peaceful, mostly she is always just slightly out of line with it, not quite fitted, maladapted, maladjusted, and too often disturbed and unhappy because of it. Then one day she wakes up to learn she's in fact half the age she thought she was and has been living as a caatatonic schizophrenic on a mental ward. She is awakened by electroshock therapy, and her reaction is utter panicking animal horror, screaming and flailing, till they drug her insensate and within a few days she returns to the ordinary unsatisfying life, wondering at her niggling disquiet and why she can't make any real connections. Yeah, the basis of a pretty good horror movie. My life perhaps. Perhaps "bad days" like this, or the ones where I start crying over bullshit, are caused by activities around my body in the ward, doctor probes and inquries, other patients abusing me or making soundscapes around me. Maybe when I was 8 years old and they took me to that nuthouse in Whitby, I never left?
I remember the place as a scary place. I was in grade 3 and mostly didn't understand anything except the kids hated me and that made me sad, and the world was stupid and that made me mad. I hated waiting and waiting for everyone else to catch up. My grades suffered as a result of the inattention my impatience caused. That brought me to the nut house. It was for an assessment. They did the standard tests for childish IQ and I came out with 135, which I take it is not only high, but remarkable.. I think. I don't know, really, depends on whose scale you use. It's the bottom line for Mensa, I think. I got tested again when I was 32 and got 134, and since it usually goes down a bit, that's nice. Next blog page for the rest b/c it's doing that stupid glitch again.
I was imagining someone criticising me over that. Telling me it does me no good to take what few skills I have and ascribe them to some imaginary supernatural power. So I had that conversation. What good does confidence do me when it makes people hate me all the more? What difference if I am confident in skills I do have or don't have, when they won't be letting me show it anyway. Nobody will say to me "oh, you think you can cook? here, show us your stuff!" So who cares if I think I'm a good cook? I may as well think I'm a good singer, good writer, good dancer, pretty, sexy, friendly, heck, may as well think I have charm. it's all still delusion and nobody is interested in feeding my delusion. Hell, it may very well be that I didn't escape the mental institutions in my youth, but in fact have been dreaming all this life and i"m still in a padded room humming to myself, unaware of the dichotomy. How would I know? I'm crazy! I'm the crazy one, you see, so, even my empirical observations are invalidated.
I may think I know something about myself, but the knowing that matters is what people know about me and they don't know anything past "crazy." So I am nothing past "crazy" unless I am what I am to myself, and that's as far as I go. The feeling of disconnection, the fear that I might wake up and realize they're all right, and I'll never have any real experiences or true experiences is hard to shelve. That I might be in fact quite different from what I love about myself. that there is nothing loveable about me, even to me, and that I am truly a prisoner of this life, no possibility of parole or freedom.
That is one of those things I put away when I'm well rested.
Like, when I think I know how to train a rabbit to quit pissing in the bathroom, but Dan disagrees. He thinks I should take the rabbit and terrorize it over the pee stain a little harder than the last time I did, then cause it some harmless pain to drive the message home. Eventually, I'd reach the level of torture needed to force compliance. i think I should block off the offending room for a couple weeks with a barrier Dan keeps tripping over so that the rabbit stops feeling like he has a right to do as he pleases in there, because it remains a "new" zone.
And then I think, what if what's actually coming out when I think or speak or write is not what I read back in. I mean, oh geeze, if it's happening, you're seeing pure gibberish. I'm reading pure gibberish iinto something that my brain sees as rational. Furthermore, it's getting all the base data skewed and I'm actually just populating an ugly world with fantasy. Rabbits don't learn, you just eat them, perhaps? Perhaps he was peeing all over all year when I thought he had gotten over it but I forgot I cleaned it. Maybe the floor is currently deep in piss and shit and I can't see it? Maybe, once again, I'm in a rubber room analyzing an existence that isn't? Sounds like a movie idea.
Woman lives a whole life, at times fractious, others peaceful, mostly she is always just slightly out of line with it, not quite fitted, maladapted, maladjusted, and too often disturbed and unhappy because of it. Then one day she wakes up to learn she's in fact half the age she thought she was and has been living as a caatatonic schizophrenic on a mental ward. She is awakened by electroshock therapy, and her reaction is utter panicking animal horror, screaming and flailing, till they drug her insensate and within a few days she returns to the ordinary unsatisfying life, wondering at her niggling disquiet and why she can't make any real connections. Yeah, the basis of a pretty good horror movie. My life perhaps. Perhaps "bad days" like this, or the ones where I start crying over bullshit, are caused by activities around my body in the ward, doctor probes and inquries, other patients abusing me or making soundscapes around me. Maybe when I was 8 years old and they took me to that nuthouse in Whitby, I never left?
I remember the place as a scary place. I was in grade 3 and mostly didn't understand anything except the kids hated me and that made me sad, and the world was stupid and that made me mad. I hated waiting and waiting for everyone else to catch up. My grades suffered as a result of the inattention my impatience caused. That brought me to the nut house. It was for an assessment. They did the standard tests for childish IQ and I came out with 135, which I take it is not only high, but remarkable.. I think. I don't know, really, depends on whose scale you use. It's the bottom line for Mensa, I think. I got tested again when I was 32 and got 134, and since it usually goes down a bit, that's nice. Next blog page for the rest b/c it's doing that stupid glitch again.