Melodrama of the mind

Recently, it has been brought to my attention (by my therapist), that my reactions and emotions may be overly dramatic. That my perceptions of things may tend toward the negative sides of things. Nothing new, but presented in a much more confronting manner. Also, she’s right.

Since childhood, I have been creating melodramatic stories in my mind, filled with intense emotions and grand gestures. It would take me hours to fall asleep, dealing with grief, love stories, heartbreak and a lot of existential dread.

To this day, most of my life drama plays out in my head. My mind creates problems. Induce intense emotions. Hopes for the life changing gestures and the signs that may lead to it. The Quest. The Journey. The Romance.

As an adult, apart from the lack of sleep, it does create challenges. Inability to make decisions. Unrealistic expectations toward my life and the future. Disappointements of daily living that can’t keep up with the intensity this mind seeks so badly.

It leads to endless questions, discomfort, boredom. This mind chaos, rooted in anxiety and confusion, stalled by a feeling, a life that does not exist.

So, where do we go from all this internalize melodrama?

1} Do Nothing

This one seems obvious. I could continue like I have always did, pretend like everything is fine. Wish to feel numb. Overwhelmed by all these emotions I do not understand. Overanalyze everything. Wish for a different life.

Not able to put this melodrama on paper, in writing, from fear; from high expectations. Of never amounting to anything other than a nobody.

2} Live the melodrama

Follow all the ideas in my mind chaos. Live fully through all this intensity, pain, and possibly a lot of suffering. Go down this cycle of autodestructive behaviors and bring down other people with it.

Seems unlikely. As much as I can deal with self-inflected pain, I can’t bear the thought of hurting others.

3} Practice Mindfulness.

So my therapist suggested I practice mindfulness. The conscious act of observing one’s own emotions and thoughts without judging or acting on them. To reduce the stress induced by them, reduce the urge to act on them and the powerlessness it brings.

So basically,

mindfulness = chill the fuck down.

At this point, it may be worth a try.

I guess there is a bunch of others options available but at the moment, those seems the most likely. I am open to other suggestions if any.

Fueling these self created melodramas and living a life filled with mind chaos created problems is exhausting. It feels lonesome.

So far, the previous method hasn’t been successful. I have been standing still for a long time in the middle of this mind storm, unable to move by fear of failing, hurting others, disappointing some. In the end, I am the one suffering.

It might be time to face the music and its lack of intensity. Highs are fun, but crashes hurt too much. It fuels the mind chaos. It strives on it.

I appear to have it all. I have everything I need. But such are the mysterious ways of invisible illness.

Apparently, we have everything we need within us. Feeling of loneliness, self hatred, lack of confidence can only be healed from within. It’s time to break up with these old companions. I deserve better friends. I deserve better.

Uncooperating mind chaos

 

Some people say they write to shut the voices in their heads. Mine tend to do the opposite. As soon as I get in front of the computer, I am overwhelmed by a waves of excuses and exhaustion. My eyes burn. My mind goes blank. Just to spite me. To keep me in this mind prison. Focus left a long time ago, I guess he couldn’t keep up with this non-sense. With the chronic pains of this debilitating mind.

Since I joined Twitter, I have met a lot of writers, made a few friends. Some accomplished authors, others in progress. Some mindblows me with their focus and discipline. Most of them share this terrifying problems; self-doubts and lack of confidence. This seems pretty common among artists of the words. I am not immune.

So what do you do when you project yourself into writing, have a decent amount of good ideas, but stand still for fear of failing into the void. Overwhelmed by the sea of writers. Waves of ideas going around. An impressive amount of people wording your thoughts in a much better way. An uncooperating mind that will not be willed into putting the words down.

The mind chaos controlling your every thoughts. This chaos that render you exhausted as you have yet to exit the bed. The constant comparison. The doubts. The loneliness of this mind prison.

I know the door is unlocked. Comparisons are harmful. The only things that matter is to put the words down and make sense of them later.

But nothing makes sense anymore. I can’t recognize my own voice in the spining chaos. Maybe I never did.

Operate with caution

October was a challenging month. My depression flared up, I felt sad most of the time. My emotions were out of control. My sleep was filled with nightmares and vivid dreams.

It extended until November, which is also synonymous with my birthday. Every year, I welcome this day with bittersweet emotions. The priviledge of aging, of being surrounded and loved. But also noticing the lost ones, the changes, unfulfilled expectations. The dreadful feeling of time passing and standing still. Time going so fast, you can’t catch a breath.

Last week, my doctor increased my sleeping medications both at night and, a first, in the morning. Unsurprisingly, I have been fighting constant drowsyness for a week now. While I sleep better, I can’t help but feeling bad for my unproductivity, my brain fog, my lack of focus. I feel bad about myself and fear of dumping this incredibly heavy emotional labour on others. I can’t practice the compassion I preach to others on myself.

I am surrounded with brilliant writers, piling words like it’s nobody business and I can’t hardly focus to write a blog post. I sit in front of the screen and my mind usually spilling decides to go blank. The words feels wrong, the story doesn’t make sense. What do I have new to bring to this world?

I hate myself. I hate myself for feeling so much. I hate the brain fog ever so present. I hate the lack of focus. I hate pressuring myself so much I fell into inertia.

I hate that I can’t be my own best friend. Something that comes so easily with others. To care for others, to love them, to listen to their mind chaos.

I have no mercy toward my own chaos. Mercenary. Expecting productivity. Control. I have no patience for this shit. I want have everything. I am to do it all. Now. No compromise.

But at the end of the day, I am sad, restless and drowsy. I never expected this adult life to look like this. Years passes, and I have yet to find my way. Perhaps, there is none. Perhaps, this is the way.

Chronic pains of the mind

Drowning in my thoughts,
Slipping into this mind chaos.

The silence is so loud,
My mind is splitting up.

You may be trapped in your body,
But this mind is my prison,
Everlasting executioner.

Alone in this darkness,
I spin, restless.

I slap, I cut, I scream,
Physical marks of a ghost,
Of a madness that can’t be named.

However deep are the wounds,
It can’t rival the agony of the mind,
the feasting of the ghoul.

I cry in the day,
Scream in my sleep,
For no rest I am granted.

Shadows always by my side,
Ever present, I can hardly breathe,
I have nowhere to hide.

Unaware of it all,
You don’t know the depth of it,
Safe behind your self-righteous walls.

But I tired of this mask,
Exhausted from this charade,
If you could only ask,
Maybe I wouldn’t be so afraid.

I wished you cared enough to hear my voice
I wish I could bare you my soul,
By cracking this skull open for you to see,
How all the shadows have taken control of me.

Black hole

My mind is a black hole

Ferociously devouring the life

Away from me

I have never felt whole

But this mess is causing a strife

And nowhere seems safe in me

I look in my reflection

I see nothing but an empty heart

And A mind full of dreams

Of you, of us, of something

That will never be

Of a life that will never exist

Of children that will never breathe

Of you, of me

This beautiful mess we could have been

Because nothing is left

But these hopeless dreams

And a mind full of could-haves and darkness

I keep waiting for you to shed a light as I have lost the matches

At the end, I am left alone to sulk

At the end, I hide behind the mask

 

Hemingway Soliloquy

He calls me his little Hemingway. I like to remind him that he shot himself and had several wives. He also struggled with mental illness. Sometimes he talks about Virginia Woolf, and well, we all know how that ended.

I wouldn’t say this constitute a healthy role models.

However, as I become more familiar with the twittosphere, I am starting to see this writer hierarchy.

I will never be one of these Balzac type of mass production writing. I can barely go back to a project, let alone finish one.

I rarely see myself as a writer. I whisper it to others, almost embarassed.

Most days, I don’t write. I trip over all the obstacles my brain puts in the way of my writing.

Focusing is a very hard thing to do for me. I am easily distracted by others. Trying to get their approval, seeking the love I can’t give myself.

Feeling sad for myself.

Then I overthink everything.

Why would my writing be worth reading?

What do I have new to bring to this world?

What if it’s not good? What if it is?

I fear everything, including myself. The roadblocks are overwhelming most days. I see a lot of people talking openly about their struggles with anxiety and depression while being very productive. I am not one of these people. I feel too much. I feel too intensely. I obsess over things that are missing from my life, while having everything. I forgot happiness. I am my most unforgiving critic.

Most times, I think of myself as a disabled person, yet it doesn’t feel right to say it. Who am I to appropriate myself with this label? What does it means to be disabled? Would it really change something? That, I doubt.

So at the end of the day, I am lonely, riddled with anxiety and fears, exhausted from this brain chaos while looking at the obscene numbers of words written by fellow writers on my twitter timeline. I feel guilty and inadequate. It feels fraudulous to even pretend.

When I was a young adult, I imagined myself as a playwright, smoking a cigarette while drinking scotch because it looked so cool. I wish smoking was still cool, alas I fear much more. During my second depression, I convinced myself being a professional writer wasn’t a viable option and mental illness won. 8 years later, I obviously see a thriving community, yet can’t help but wonder how many of them may be full of shit. I judge harshly the self promotions and wouldn’t read most book going around. Maybe people have settled for mediocrity. Or maybe, you need bad writers so the good ones can rise above. They don’t seem to overthink everything and seem fairly happy with their second-class literature.

Maybe that is the way to peace. I won’t pretend to know the answers. I don’t know much.

So I may be a little Hemingway, but that would be pretentious to say. I am just the darker side of life. I am just drowning in my mind chaos and feeling sorry for myself. I am not looking for reassurance or pity, just needed to write something, so I could at least pretend for a few moments, that I can write.

I doubt this will be read. The plebs prefer positive psychology, they like to pretend that you can choose to be happy instead. The fools.