He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he gaze long into the abyss... only to find his own reflection.

A Blog, Sort of

This Panic Attack (PA) is acute and severe (coming on fast, very painful). It will last all night. There is nothing I can do to stop it.

Except by drinking some heavy booze, really fast.

I won't do that though - though I do contemplate doing so - how could I not?

What happened was, I posted some code I wrote to a "social website" - Github in this case if you don't know it.

More later, to explain what this means, but basically, a PTSD inflicted person develops severe anxiety - and I mean fucking severe, painful anxiety - when making one's self "known" by a post to a social networking website.

It's pain. It's fucking pain. The heart not just races, but "palpitates against the ribs", as Darwin wrote about it. What can only be described as a feeling of acid, flows from the center of my chest into my arms and legs.

I cannot concentrate. I am lost. At a loss. "What the fuck!" screams inside my brain.

I fucking hate this. This shit. This fucking shit that happens all the fucking time.

Why do I persist? Reaching out? Participating in the world? When it causes so much pain?

"I have to," echos in the back of my head. "I have to." "I fucking have to." "I have to do fucking something," with the creativity that forms in by brain!

Otherwise, I am dead. Worse than dead. Living in a hollow shell in fucking misery.

(P.S. My fucking apartment neighbors' bed springs squeak, if you know what I mean.)

This place gets very sporadic updates.

Most used phrase by active alcoholics and addicts:

"I'm gonna stop. Honest. I will. But..."

We do fucked up things, when we are "In the loop":

"We stop. We start again. We stop. We start again. ..."

(Sorry for what was in this post before. I had started again.)

There is a button before you.

The text for it says, "If you press this button, you will have five minutes of pleasure. Followed by five hours of pain."

What would you do?

"Caution, the doors are about to close," is announced and my heart rate increases in anticipation of the start of my journey to the city. I can't help but wonder about the differences between me and the other passengers as the car filled up somewhat while it waited.

Who are they? Where are they going? Why are they going? I can't help but wonder, Do any of them feel as anxious as I do?

It's Friday, almost noon. Most assuredly, most travelers are commuters who do this almost every day. Are there any like me who feels terror pulling at his feet as the train gets under way?

Do any obsess over which side to sit on? Which would provide a better view? Despite my fears I want to immerse myself into the coming landscape, through small forests, small towns, the edges of neighborhoods, through other stations, past roads, schools, churches, businesses -- all I want to drink with my eyes.

From which side will I see more of my community?

The window I want to lean my head against to get the most of the view is smudged by the heads, I assume, of past passengers leaning, resting perhaps, their heads. Most of the window is so smudged. I want something to wipe it with. But it's okay.

Graffiti, tenements, trash. I am nearing the city.

Junk piles behind businesses, old cars and trucks, rusted hulks and iron, all fenced off. Backyards, parking lots. And life itself. To me, as a tourist, if you will, it is all beautiful.

A young man with a leather, studded belt and wrist bracelets was in the car but left. Where was he going to? A blonde woman enters -- cute? I forgot my glasses. But women usually do not look my way.

Someone sits right in front of me. Damn! Someone accesses the aisle. That's how the fear starts. I try to ignore it.

We pass a wetlands with a pair of nesting swans. That too is beautiful.

A woman with a head scarf -- I hope we never get to that point I think, recalling head scarf bans in France.

The way back is always a concern. Will I be on time? Never would I attempt to make the last train. What if it's not running? I rush. There's time. I buy the return ticket here this time. Oh, no, what track? Will it be announced? Oh, I remember now, the track is marked.

I do not ask the workers by the train to reassure me it's the right one. I really want to though. Not until on the train and the announcement of the proper destination do I relax.

Except for the fact that's it's dark and I have a car to go to...

The ride back was fully lit and almost full. The first was a shame because I still wanted to look out the window. The other was not a source of anxiety I realized later -- odd, I hadn't even think about it.

Something else happened on the way back. A small child was crying continually for many minutes. That also did not bother me. All my life just hearing a child cry drove me into deep anxiety. Perhaps there is hope for me yet.


Second day. Things do get better in that having done this before I am aware of expectations -- I also have two other people in my life now that adds to this equation. Being alone means that no matter how many times I had done something in the past the anxiety never lessened the more I did it.

One learns, one adapts, when one's mind is not entirely preoccupied with fear and doubt. This time I arrived on time -- the anxiety is less -- although this is the next day, no time to have built up new fears.

There is a sort of pain associated with loss -- loss of a valuable possession, money, etc., can cause a "pang" of pain. Similarly, making a mistake can cause this feeling. The two feelings are nearly identical.

Related is the painful feeling of fear of such events, the fear of such pain. I fear leaving my camera on the front seat of my car. I fear certain types of groups such as parties.

Memories can trigger these painful feelings, memories of past painful events. Thinking can trigger these painful feelings, thinking that you might make a mistake.

These things can turn into a cycle that interferes with life when one wants to do something, and upon thinking of the doing of it one is hit by this painful feeling that one might make a mistake, which then gets reinforced by the memory of an event which resulted in a painful feeling...

The bigger problem is when the painful feeling comes with seemingly no reason, no associated event, the pain just comes.

A person walks into the room and you are in pain.

A dog barks in the distance and you are in pain.

There is a vague smell and you are in pain.

An automobile slows nearby and you are in pain.

There is a look on a person's face -- even on a trusted friend -- and you are in pain.

You are in pain and there is no reason. You are in pain and there is no one to talk to. You are in pain and there is no way out.

This website is, as the name suggests, about writing down pain.

What is pain?

You stubbed your toe. That is a physical pain.

But, if, behind the stub, one is involuntarily moved or sent or otherwise entered into a realm beyond one's control into a dark, psychic... vortex... of some unknown state in which one finds oneself caught up in despair and fear...

That is Mental Illness. And you don't want to know it. But I want to tell you of it. If you are willing to listen.

You have been taught all about "Mental Illness" by the Media... And it's all crap.

Too many people in "The media" do not understand what "Mental Illness" means.

Too many people think of those afflicted with Mental Illness are "those people", and that their lot is "their fault", that "they themselves are to blame", that they are simply "losers" or "moral failures" who do not deserve help.

Worse, too many people think that "those people" are taking advantage of good people like you and me, and are taking "our taxpayer dollars" to spend on "drugs" and "booze".

Poor is the person who feels that. Poor and ignorant is the person — the people — who think that.

Forgotten Wounds Don't Heal

This is a "Blog", such as it is. Bogus crap most blogs are, saying, "Look at me! How clever I am!"

No? Yes?

I don't know.

My — this "Blog" — is, will be, raw and personal.

You don't like words like "fuck" and phrases like "Oh, my gawd I'm a piece of shit!"?

See you later, as in do not come back.

I have things to say. Not pretty, these things to say. Yet say them I will.

Tragically, I am often, here and there... but here, messy and fucked up... So, Hey, look out for some stupid shit!

But it will, to say the least, be very interesting for those who "are interested" in mental illness manifestations and confessions.

Writing Down the Pain
I'd like just once to fall asleep feeling good about myself. Just once. Drunken stupors do not count.