Too much. Yesterday was odd and too much. Thoughts come and go, unsorted, unorganized. Too many, too fast.
Too early to write about something limited while the thoughts are still free. The need to curl up but unable to.
Can't focus. How autistic can you be. I stop mid sentence, mid action. Short, sharp, fast.
Can't stop. Can't start.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
The fine line between correcting and abuse.
Or how it came to be.
I think both my parents got raised in a time where it was still considered normal to correct unwanted behavior with physical punishments, rather than showing children where they went wrong and please don't do it again because it makes daddy sad. And where the authority of adults towards minors was unquestioned. And since most people repeat the mistakes of their parents there is nothing wrong there really (except for it being bad!). But I can't blame people for not knowing better. I dislike it, but I can't blame them.
But! There's only two reasons to punish someone, actually there is only one. You want someone to pay for their sins. The reason that gets used is a lie, a filthy one even. We punish you so you won't do x again or start doing y.
I think most parents want their children to be happy (well one can hope no?), but most parents seem to forget that happiness is personal. And you have to balance your own personality versus their personality. Your dreams aren't their dreams. It's very hard to stop forcing your opinions on someone that basically needed that at first.
From crossing a line and getting called back to asking why the line can't be crossed to crossing it again because that line is not your line. Somewhere in that whole process of testing boundaries and figuring out personal preferences a parent has to stop interfering or punishing. Since children are stupid and they will continue to try pleasing parents even if that means destroying themselves. Even those rare moments they realize they are killing themselves, they will. Since nature is a bitch.
I read. I can't actually say I like reading. I just do.
I learned to read when I was 2 or 3 (or so they claim), I know for sure I could read in kindergarten, the first book there I remember is from Margaret Mahy - The Boy Who Was Followed Home. Pure genius.
From the moment I could read whole sentences I have read. Everything. I cannot not read. I tried, oh dear, I so tried. Since I wasn't allowed to read all the time. The claim was I didn't listen when I was reading, which is true. That urge to finish a chapter first or the whole book was so strong. I honestly tried for real. To only read when allowed. But there's so much to read, everywhere. Signs, packaging, pieces of paper, magazines, books! It was impossible to not read something. And it kept distracting me. I was too young to have the sense of stopping, I had to finish reading something fully. All. And it drove my mother nuts.
I don't know if it was because I didn't listen right away or because I didn't get the highest grade at school (so many books in the back of the room, free for anyone to read once your work was done) or because she hated me having all those special worlds that weren't real. I really have no clue, except the freedom to read got limited rapidly.
By the time I was 8 (ya where my memories really start), I was allowed to walk to the library every day and then read the four books in the living room. Which I did. Outside that living room I was not allowed to read, except for schoolbooks. I couldn't obey.
At what point did that start into a personal crusade to make me stop reading. To control that one thing that I couldn't let go of. Kiddo draws. She cannot not draw. Teachers gave up on trying to stop her from drawing during classes. Which is good. The moment where you realize that nothing will stop someone from doing something (well, something semi harmless at least) is the moment where you have to stop trying that. And that is the line you should never cross as a parent.
I think both my parents got raised in a time where it was still considered normal to correct unwanted behavior with physical punishments, rather than showing children where they went wrong and please don't do it again because it makes daddy sad. And where the authority of adults towards minors was unquestioned. And since most people repeat the mistakes of their parents there is nothing wrong there really (except for it being bad!). But I can't blame people for not knowing better. I dislike it, but I can't blame them.
But! There's only two reasons to punish someone, actually there is only one. You want someone to pay for their sins. The reason that gets used is a lie, a filthy one even. We punish you so you won't do x again or start doing y.
I think most parents want their children to be happy (well one can hope no?), but most parents seem to forget that happiness is personal. And you have to balance your own personality versus their personality. Your dreams aren't their dreams. It's very hard to stop forcing your opinions on someone that basically needed that at first.
From crossing a line and getting called back to asking why the line can't be crossed to crossing it again because that line is not your line. Somewhere in that whole process of testing boundaries and figuring out personal preferences a parent has to stop interfering or punishing. Since children are stupid and they will continue to try pleasing parents even if that means destroying themselves. Even those rare moments they realize they are killing themselves, they will. Since nature is a bitch.
I read. I can't actually say I like reading. I just do.
I learned to read when I was 2 or 3 (or so they claim), I know for sure I could read in kindergarten, the first book there I remember is from Margaret Mahy - The Boy Who Was Followed Home. Pure genius.
From the moment I could read whole sentences I have read. Everything. I cannot not read. I tried, oh dear, I so tried. Since I wasn't allowed to read all the time. The claim was I didn't listen when I was reading, which is true. That urge to finish a chapter first or the whole book was so strong. I honestly tried for real. To only read when allowed. But there's so much to read, everywhere. Signs, packaging, pieces of paper, magazines, books! It was impossible to not read something. And it kept distracting me. I was too young to have the sense of stopping, I had to finish reading something fully. All. And it drove my mother nuts.
I don't know if it was because I didn't listen right away or because I didn't get the highest grade at school (so many books in the back of the room, free for anyone to read once your work was done) or because she hated me having all those special worlds that weren't real. I really have no clue, except the freedom to read got limited rapidly.
By the time I was 8 (ya where my memories really start), I was allowed to walk to the library every day and then read the four books in the living room. Which I did. Outside that living room I was not allowed to read, except for schoolbooks. I couldn't obey.
At what point did that start into a personal crusade to make me stop reading. To control that one thing that I couldn't let go of. Kiddo draws. She cannot not draw. Teachers gave up on trying to stop her from drawing during classes. Which is good. The moment where you realize that nothing will stop someone from doing something (well, something semi harmless at least) is the moment where you have to stop trying that. And that is the line you should never cross as a parent.
The jury is still out.
I guess.
To be able to change my idea of what I am I have to change my view of other people. I can't claim being sorta an okay person, made, molded, formed and very much forced into certain roles, if I excuse the roles other people had in that process.
But that might raise more questions I can't answer. Guilt. Responsibility.
At what point is a child responsible for the actions of his parents? You make me punish you. You do this to me. You drive me to my death. You force me to hit you till you stop crying.
At what age? I was made to believe that it was me. And I have to call it belief since there is no valid, reasonable arguments to proof that it was me. Yet belief is always more strong than facts. I know when my mother hit me, nobody forced her to do that, certainly not me, since well, I don't really enjoy getting smacked.
Hit me baby one more time. I know, but still I can't believe it.
Back to being depressed or not. Did I want to die when I was 12? I don't think so. I can remember the panic after I failed to die. Oh god, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease, let me be able to destroy all evidence I tried this, she will kill me if she finds out. Which is hilarious in a very disturbing way.
Did I want to die when I tried it again when I was 16? I'm not sure there. I was mad when I woke up and noticed I was still alive. Because I should have died. I was so sure I would make it. My last two coherent thoughts before the overdose of meds took over were: It's silly to spend my last moment alive reading this stupid trashcomic. I should climb on the roof so they will never get me down in time. Hum, is wanting to end something so badly you want to die the same as wanting to die? I'm not sure.
When I was 12 there was no visible other way out for me. I cared enough to want it to end. It was the thought that the future would not get better. It would probably go worse, it could only go worse. Realizing you have no control, that there is nothing you can do to change anything for the better is the key here. I was not depressed at that point. I think noticing that there really was no way out, since death wasn't for me either, could be called depressed. The point where I stopped caring about what happened to me. I can't fight this, I can't change this, I can't end this, why bother.
And I guess I have that ever since. Looking ahead in futures that will not be better and no matter how hard I try I can't make it right. Be it because I'm a failure and no good, be it because I'm insane in a confusing world, be it that everything will always be the same, in the end it doesn't matter. Since that's how it is.
Taking these meds actually keep me going on in a sorta vague depressed state, since I can't be bothered really to change something. Wanting to end life as it is, is that last spasm of a fighting organism. And anything alive and kicking is not depressed.
To be able to change my idea of what I am I have to change my view of other people. I can't claim being sorta an okay person, made, molded, formed and very much forced into certain roles, if I excuse the roles other people had in that process.
But that might raise more questions I can't answer. Guilt. Responsibility.
At what point is a child responsible for the actions of his parents? You make me punish you. You do this to me. You drive me to my death. You force me to hit you till you stop crying.
At what age? I was made to believe that it was me. And I have to call it belief since there is no valid, reasonable arguments to proof that it was me. Yet belief is always more strong than facts. I know when my mother hit me, nobody forced her to do that, certainly not me, since well, I don't really enjoy getting smacked.
Hit me baby one more time. I know, but still I can't believe it.
Back to being depressed or not. Did I want to die when I was 12? I don't think so. I can remember the panic after I failed to die. Oh god, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease, let me be able to destroy all evidence I tried this, she will kill me if she finds out. Which is hilarious in a very disturbing way.
Did I want to die when I tried it again when I was 16? I'm not sure there. I was mad when I woke up and noticed I was still alive. Because I should have died. I was so sure I would make it. My last two coherent thoughts before the overdose of meds took over were: It's silly to spend my last moment alive reading this stupid trashcomic. I should climb on the roof so they will never get me down in time. Hum, is wanting to end something so badly you want to die the same as wanting to die? I'm not sure.
When I was 12 there was no visible other way out for me. I cared enough to want it to end. It was the thought that the future would not get better. It would probably go worse, it could only go worse. Realizing you have no control, that there is nothing you can do to change anything for the better is the key here. I was not depressed at that point. I think noticing that there really was no way out, since death wasn't for me either, could be called depressed. The point where I stopped caring about what happened to me. I can't fight this, I can't change this, I can't end this, why bother.
And I guess I have that ever since. Looking ahead in futures that will not be better and no matter how hard I try I can't make it right. Be it because I'm a failure and no good, be it because I'm insane in a confusing world, be it that everything will always be the same, in the end it doesn't matter. Since that's how it is.
Taking these meds actually keep me going on in a sorta vague depressed state, since I can't be bothered really to change something. Wanting to end life as it is, is that last spasm of a fighting organism. And anything alive and kicking is not depressed.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Does this mean I have to change my view of the world?
Again?
And the way I look at myself?
Again?
The world went from a scary place to a confusing place to a saddening mistake-repeating place. Which might not be really weird steps or end conclusion.
No, I have to get back. I started (or well, for what my memory is worth) trying to be good, to do things that would make my parents happy (I guess) and kept failing. I ended that whole episode knowing I was no good. Also not caring anymore, since apparently that's what I was.
And while I didn't care anymore I slightly changed to knowing I was insane, nuts, mental. Since it was me in a psychiatric hospital and not the others I thought who were a bit not sane. So I could actually fill in the weird missing pieces of the puzzle. Of always talking to fast, remembering insignificant details nobody knew anymore, different lines of conversations I kept track of and people kinda looking odd at me since they lost those tracks ages ago. All the things that somehow other people didn't have (excluding course me being bad and everyone else being good). I was insane! Joy to the world. And to me, since clearly insanity was something I couldn't help being. Also being no good perfectly fit in, since well, they can.
I really wasn't unhappy with being insane. It certainly made life more easy.
And then the stupid one time relation therapy session. Hum, I was 24 I think? And the therapist (which I knew from the hospital before) dropped the odd remark about my iq (which I think is a totally odd thing to label people with). And feck it. So I went through all literature I could find about iq, tests, scales and whatsnot (why I can still claim it's an odd label).
So, no good and insane wasn't covering it all any more. I had to add in being well a bit too smart (on some scales at least). And that was troubling enough. Some of the weird things did fit better now, but I had nobody who I could discuss this with. I tried, but usually ended up with them calling me arrogant or something similar. Apparently it's a bad thing to compare talking to 'normally' smart people with how 'normally' smart people relate/talk to a bit retarded people. While I still think it's like sorta how I view most other people. I certainly don't think I'm better, just most people confuse me very much, by not following my logic or not understanding things that to me look very clear.
But I managed to add it in. And sorta function and keep up with the world. Also it helps being less smart! Booze and the natural decay are good factors.
But. Always that but. Through the years I did manage to form a sorta neutral stance about the role of my parents. Varying from well they did with best intentions, they didn't know how to change the bad spiral down, they overworked, tired, I wasn't easy and any other excuse I could conjure for them. And so far most the people around me kinda strengthened that idea of well, it wasn't all nice for you, but look it wasn't easy for them either. And you managed quite well, so it's all good. Shouldn't live in the past. It happened so long ago.
Which kept me knowing still that I am no good, insane and a bit too smart for the world.
We're back to either accepting we're depressed or not. And I might have to accept that according to the med testing I have done so far. Yes my mood or stance or whatever changes dramatically whenever I haven't taken meds for about 3 days. Not that I have personal objections to just cocooning my time away with souvlaki or bejeweled, but things still have to be done and it's just not going to happen when I'm without meds.
Sooooo, if I have to accept I am depressed, I might have to accept I'm depressed since, err well as long as I can remember, having tried to commit suicide when I was 12 or so. And accepting that I am all that I should maybe change my neutral stance towards my parents.
I managed to drag out of shrink yesterday that I maybe need anti depressants the rest of my life. Which I wasn't ready for! And also, shrink wasn't very neutral or nuanced when I mentioned a bit of the role of my parents. Which kinda struck me bad, since somehow my whole stance on that is totally excused out. And he didn't follow those rules I had secretly set. So mentioning child abuse, physically and mentally, struck a bad nerve and I been waawaa ever since.
Being not good in whatever way is so engraved in my being that I don't know how to get out of it. Since it IS more easy to accept that you are no good than that your parents are no good.
And the way I look at myself?
Again?
The world went from a scary place to a confusing place to a saddening mistake-repeating place. Which might not be really weird steps or end conclusion.
No, I have to get back. I started (or well, for what my memory is worth) trying to be good, to do things that would make my parents happy (I guess) and kept failing. I ended that whole episode knowing I was no good. Also not caring anymore, since apparently that's what I was.
And while I didn't care anymore I slightly changed to knowing I was insane, nuts, mental. Since it was me in a psychiatric hospital and not the others I thought who were a bit not sane. So I could actually fill in the weird missing pieces of the puzzle. Of always talking to fast, remembering insignificant details nobody knew anymore, different lines of conversations I kept track of and people kinda looking odd at me since they lost those tracks ages ago. All the things that somehow other people didn't have (excluding course me being bad and everyone else being good). I was insane! Joy to the world. And to me, since clearly insanity was something I couldn't help being. Also being no good perfectly fit in, since well, they can.
I really wasn't unhappy with being insane. It certainly made life more easy.
And then the stupid one time relation therapy session. Hum, I was 24 I think? And the therapist (which I knew from the hospital before) dropped the odd remark about my iq (which I think is a totally odd thing to label people with). And feck it. So I went through all literature I could find about iq, tests, scales and whatsnot (why I can still claim it's an odd label).
So, no good and insane wasn't covering it all any more. I had to add in being well a bit too smart (on some scales at least). And that was troubling enough. Some of the weird things did fit better now, but I had nobody who I could discuss this with. I tried, but usually ended up with them calling me arrogant or something similar. Apparently it's a bad thing to compare talking to 'normally' smart people with how 'normally' smart people relate/talk to a bit retarded people. While I still think it's like sorta how I view most other people. I certainly don't think I'm better, just most people confuse me very much, by not following my logic or not understanding things that to me look very clear.
But I managed to add it in. And sorta function and keep up with the world. Also it helps being less smart! Booze and the natural decay are good factors.
But. Always that but. Through the years I did manage to form a sorta neutral stance about the role of my parents. Varying from well they did with best intentions, they didn't know how to change the bad spiral down, they overworked, tired, I wasn't easy and any other excuse I could conjure for them. And so far most the people around me kinda strengthened that idea of well, it wasn't all nice for you, but look it wasn't easy for them either. And you managed quite well, so it's all good. Shouldn't live in the past. It happened so long ago.
Which kept me knowing still that I am no good, insane and a bit too smart for the world.
We're back to either accepting we're depressed or not. And I might have to accept that according to the med testing I have done so far. Yes my mood or stance or whatever changes dramatically whenever I haven't taken meds for about 3 days. Not that I have personal objections to just cocooning my time away with souvlaki or bejeweled, but things still have to be done and it's just not going to happen when I'm without meds.
Sooooo, if I have to accept I am depressed, I might have to accept I'm depressed since, err well as long as I can remember, having tried to commit suicide when I was 12 or so. And accepting that I am all that I should maybe change my neutral stance towards my parents.
I managed to drag out of shrink yesterday that I maybe need anti depressants the rest of my life. Which I wasn't ready for! And also, shrink wasn't very neutral or nuanced when I mentioned a bit of the role of my parents. Which kinda struck me bad, since somehow my whole stance on that is totally excused out. And he didn't follow those rules I had secretly set. So mentioning child abuse, physically and mentally, struck a bad nerve and I been waawaa ever since.
Being not good in whatever way is so engraved in my being that I don't know how to get out of it. Since it IS more easy to accept that you are no good than that your parents are no good.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
No clue
Really no clue.
I sleep (badly).
I get up, drag myself to the comp and sit. And sit some more. Playing silly games. Feeling crap mostly.
The more I feel I have to do the less inclined I am to start anything.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Back to the problem with suicide.
What is the problem really. Where and how is it morally wrong to end your own life. And why. And again, what's the problem really. Is life so sacred. So precious. I can't see it like that. Maybe because I'm swinging back and forth again last days. Tired to no end again.
(Hum and why didn't I post this? Probably since I'm only repeating myself.)
(Hum and why didn't I post this? Probably since I'm only repeating myself.)
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Happiness is me.
Or not.
How valid is the statement that if you are generally happy you have no thoughts about death and/or suicide.
If we break down the reasoning for current meds into three parts; depression, anxiety and avoiding social contact, I think I covered the latter two a bit already, but happiness...
It's not something I normally think about. I consider happiness to be within moments, events, limited time and space. Not something that's generally there.
The whole concept of being happy in a constant way is not known to me. Or maybe it is, but I don't recognize it. For as long as I can remember I have thoughts about death (my grandfather dying as most close to the family at age eleven as mark). I don't consider death as something unnatural. It's there, it's inevitable, it's well in way something you can rely on, but it's also very unpredictable. Unless, you consider killing yourself. Which in my eyes is a valid option and just part of taking matters in own hands, controlling the randomness.
Maybe I think more people should just think about their existence and the value of it. Or maybe we just aren't born as clean slates and carry within our blood the blood of our ancestors. Again, normality is all within an age and culture.
How valid is the statement that if you are generally happy you have no thoughts about death and/or suicide.
If we break down the reasoning for current meds into three parts; depression, anxiety and avoiding social contact, I think I covered the latter two a bit already, but happiness...
It's not something I normally think about. I consider happiness to be within moments, events, limited time and space. Not something that's generally there.
The whole concept of being happy in a constant way is not known to me. Or maybe it is, but I don't recognize it. For as long as I can remember I have thoughts about death (my grandfather dying as most close to the family at age eleven as mark). I don't consider death as something unnatural. It's there, it's inevitable, it's well in way something you can rely on, but it's also very unpredictable. Unless, you consider killing yourself. Which in my eyes is a valid option and just part of taking matters in own hands, controlling the randomness.
Maybe I think more people should just think about their existence and the value of it. Or maybe we just aren't born as clean slates and carry within our blood the blood of our ancestors. Again, normality is all within an age and culture.
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