@tl, It’s like practice for me, too. And I, too, wanted that respect and esteem thing. I was on Askville, and I thought I worked hard to become respected, and even needed. But every time there was one of those stupid high school questions like who is the best Askvillian of the year, I never saw my name appear. It was extraordinary how crushing that was, and how it messed with my psyche. I pray that no one ever asks a question like that here, so I can not have to think about it.
Being at Askville was actually unhealthy for me. I think it’s because of the culture over there, although a part of it had to do with become bipolar about six months after I go on the site. Another part of it was that I got to be too intense in some relationships there, and that just make me very unstable.
Coming here, it seemed, oddly (because of the large number of high school and college age folks here), more mature. Maybe it’s the moderation. Maybe it’s the assumption that people are adults and adults swear occasionally. Maybe it’s the absense of some kinds of rules and incentives that make Askville a place where just about everyone had some kind of complex.
I guess there are some things that are better not to know. While it matters to me that people like me and respect me, what matters even more is fully being me. I think I tend to squash too much of me into hidden closets.
I think what Augustlan has discovered is very important. It would be interesting to know how her therapy helped her achieve that. There’s an awful lot of fear I carry around. I always worry at work when they are going to discover how little I do (since I spend so much time here), and fire me. I worry that I will say to much of the wrong things one time when I’m manic. When I worry about things like that, I can’t enjoy myself. But my mouth runs away with me all the time, and it is so painful to have to be watching myself, and trying not offend.
I never mean to offend, but a lot of times I will say something that will offend, unless I keep my editor going. I worry that I take up too much time, in any group I’m in. As you can see. I have a lot to say. Give me an audience, and I could jabber on for hours. Give me an audience and the freedom to me me—the absolute certainty that I’m not going to offend or hurt anyone and make them hate me, and I’ll jabber on for days!
And the other thing: I’m so fucking lonely! Oh God, that sounds so pathetic and perhaps even unbelieveable, and maybe it goes hand in hand with not being able to be myself. How could I not be lonely if I’m not myself? Which, of course means I do it to myself, and that makes me shamed, and blah, blah, blah—I could be talking myself into depression before your very eyes.
I have been doing so well, too. I’ve even been happy in the last few days! Maybe it’s too much for me. My eyes are starting to water now. My back is starting to hurt. I want to be loved. Held. Something.
My wife is gone to help with her mother, but even if she were here, I don’t know if she can understand. She’s also scared. Job. Economy. Her mother. Our son’s learning disabilities. Me. It’s a huge weight on her.
At group we had a CBT psychotherapist give a talk about CBT, and one of the things he said is that writing is important to help you get yourself better. I’ve been writing like hell for 18 months. Maybe even six to eight hours a day. All in little bursts. All in response to questions.
Yup. I’m getting depressed. I can tell when the “I suck” thought appears. If I haven’t been attacking myself, I will be soon. The thought occurs in the back of my mind “you could stop this if you want. It’s not too late.”
I argue back at myself, “No, if I try to stop it, I might make it worse.”
“Just stop writing now. Just do something. Make dinner. Get some exercise. Play your horn. You know you need to practice, anyway for the Messiah.”
“I can’t play now. I’m too sad to play. I want to be sad.”
”?!?”
“What? Are you crazy? You want to be sad?!?”
At this point, I have no idea which part of me is talking to which part.
“Hmmmm. Maybe it’s part of an artistic process, eh?”
“As if! Are you making lemonade here? Indulging yourself?”
“What if I am. I don’t get to anywhere else.”
“You’ll end up with no credibility. Everyone will know the games you plan.”
“No, that’s hitting below the belt. This is not a game. It’s a fucking blow-by-blow report about the interior of our brain.”
“Our? You finally admit that we are me?”
“I always admitted that, even the first time Harp suggested it. It was what I wanted to hear. It’s just hard to reconcile. We seem to fight each other. How can I fight myself?”
Go ahead, it was your thought.”
“The fear about being boring?”
“Oh come on, you know that’s it. Stop being coy about it! You’re a fucking wimp, always thinking about them. Be a man! Speak for yourself!”
“They are getting an eyeful, aren’t they? I’m sitting here, watching myself think, reporting these thoughts, which are kind of metathoughts.”
“Metathoughts means something different now, doesn’t it? It’s not just thoughts about thinking, but thoughts that explain thinking. No one can organize a large volume of material, if they don’t have metadata. So what’s the metadata for a brain?”
“Maybe you should ask fluther?”
“Those neuroscientists—maybe they’ll jump all over it.”
“Maybe I will.”
Composing members:
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