impressions

my awakening consciousness

outpourings

Filed under: daylilies — waterlily at 9:06 pm on Friday, May 9, 2008

some days my psychological paralysis is so extreme that i’m afraid to pick up the phone or leave the apartment. i have no idea what exactly i fear. as far back as i can remember, i’ve been afraid of people. in varying degrees. it’s this vague, visceral feeling; people seem sinister, no matter how pleasant or benign they are in appearance or manner. and sometimes they seem beyond sinister….. like, monstrous. i can remember getting these feelings around some people when i was three years old. i want to know why. i’m forty seven years old and this stuff is just now occurring to me and i want to start living. i really don’t understand a lot of what is happening to me. i fluctuate between two main states of mind – extreme anger and complete, numb, dead detachment. i’m so tired. even the thought of living makes me tired. a few weeks ago, i was talking to my older (by four years) sister and we were reminiscing about old times, growing up. i mentioned the fact that i had had these feelings around people even back then and she said casually “oh yeah, mom and dad took you to a child psychologist once, because you didn’t talk for about a year.” i have NO recollection of this!! i said as much to her and i had a million obvious questions, because our mother died years ago and of course asking the big giant shithead (dad) about it isn’t an option. but she didn’t know a lot and i guess it couldn’t have been too big of a deal if nothing came of it. but it nags at me. not that it especially matters now but i keep wondering if it could be a clue, an insight. i keep thinking maybe back then (it would have been the early 1960’s) they just didn’t know enough to make a diagnosis? unless there was no diagnosis to make. but why would a child simply stop talking, and for such a long time? i just need answers; my life has been so messed up. or maybe this kiddie shrink DID make a diagnosis or hell, just gave my parents some good information but my dad decided nobody needs that information and no one needs to act on it. after all, he did decree many years ago that the entire psychiatric profession is a joke, that only a nutcase would be interested in the field. i’m perfectly serious. not kidding. not even exaggerating. what else would you expect from a man who tells emotionally distraught child to “snap out of it”? a man who finds another person’s pain irritating? i could go on, but i think anyone reading this who is human and also has more than two or three synapses firing gets the picture. anyway, i keep thinking maybe there could have been help for me if not for the shithead and if so, then my whole life could have changed course. i won’t latch onto that as the only possible truth though. things could have played out in infinite other ways. i just need to have some answers. i can’t remember anything really traumatic happening to me as a child that would explain the not talking thing. i mean sure, my dad was a shithead but he did not hit us, or abuse us in any physical way, he didn’t drink, he provided well, gave us a clean, safe home and everything we needed to be (physically) healthy and educated. looking at what i’ve just written, now I feel like the shithead for trashing him. but not for long. he spent my lifetime trashing me. telling me to stop being mentally ill. then shaming me and writing me off as garbage when i could not. and for such a noble parent, how did it escape his notice that all i ever sought was unconsciousness. that my only goal in life was to be dead? either walking dead or under-the-ground dead it didn’t matter to me; it all seemed like inconsequential variations of the same hell. and i just kept up the act. all the right little mannerisms, the right little stupid things to say, just a robot living on auto-pilot, programmed for many different kinds of situations but not for deep, substantial relationships with other human beings. and above all else, programmed to never ever let the real self show. programmed for permanent “nice”. for some reason i find i’m suddenly interested in knowing about all of my ancestors, what were they like and what was the nature and the circumstances of their lives? i want to know what their personalities and their mental condition was like. it’s almost become a need like hunger. i have a lot more pouring out to do but for now, i think this is all.

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