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Aug. 28th, 2011 11:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
elizabethSurvived the latest downswing. Now I have to repair all the damage I did by not doing anything, by being unable to talk to people, unable to ask for help, unable to tell them I couldn't talk to them.
It never stops. It never fucking stops. No matter how well my life is going, something can always tip me over the edge into crazy, and I was just lucky that it didn't stick around for more than three weeks this time, just lucky it didn't ruin more than it did. I couldn't control it, couldn't say "enough, this is enough," couldn't get out from under.
In theory I suppose it's a good thing that I can no longer anesthetize myself with words as I used to be able to. (These past weeks, it didn't matter how much I read, what I read — books have always been my safe place, but the misery bubbled up between the letters this time. When neither Foucault nor Hammett nor Heyer, all of whom I tried, can ease the pain....) But right now, being unable to escape my own pain is just about the worst thing I can imagine. It probably says a lot about me that my reaction to the realization that my old mechanisms were not longer working was to go re-read Clay Shirky, and hope that his remark about journalism and the internet ("That is what real revolutions are like. The old stuff gets broken faster than the new stuff is put in its place.") holds true for emotions and mental health as much as it does for print culture.
I want a revolution. I want to be better. I just don't know how. And the process of getting there is a hard and a horrible one.
This is what real revolutions are like. The old stuff gets broken faster than the new stuff is put in its place.
My old stuff is broken. My old self was broken. I knew that, that was why I went to therapy. And I have new stuff, I have new mechanisms and vocabulary and knowledge, but it isn't enough, not yet. It isn't in place yet. There aren't systems to support it. It isn't universal yet.
It never stops. It never fucking stops. No matter how well my life is going, something can always tip me over the edge into crazy, and I was just lucky that it didn't stick around for more than three weeks this time, just lucky it didn't ruin more than it did. I couldn't control it, couldn't say "enough, this is enough," couldn't get out from under.
In theory I suppose it's a good thing that I can no longer anesthetize myself with words as I used to be able to. (These past weeks, it didn't matter how much I read, what I read — books have always been my safe place, but the misery bubbled up between the letters this time. When neither Foucault nor Hammett nor Heyer, all of whom I tried, can ease the pain....) But right now, being unable to escape my own pain is just about the worst thing I can imagine. It probably says a lot about me that my reaction to the realization that my old mechanisms were not longer working was to go re-read Clay Shirky, and hope that his remark about journalism and the internet ("That is what real revolutions are like. The old stuff gets broken faster than the new stuff is put in its place.") holds true for emotions and mental health as much as it does for print culture.
I want a revolution. I want to be better. I just don't know how. And the process of getting there is a hard and a horrible one.
This is what real revolutions are like. The old stuff gets broken faster than the new stuff is put in its place.
My old stuff is broken. My old self was broken. I knew that, that was why I went to therapy. And I have new stuff, I have new mechanisms and vocabulary and knowledge, but it isn't enough, not yet. It isn't in place yet. There aren't systems to support it. It isn't universal yet.
no subject
Date: 2011-08-28 04:40 pm (UTC)