Saturday, October 18, 2014

Underwater Basket Weaving

It's 7am as I type this out. I've woken before dawn. For several years, taking meds, I woke regularly at 7am. Lately I've been alternating between waking at this time and 11am. I think it's out of depression.  My living situation is depressing. I've been sleeping more.

I feel jilted by my psychiatrist, and the mental health system in general.  Mental illness must equal idiocy or it doesn't make sense to the high-level providers, the psychiatrists and clinical psychologists who do extremely well in the system, even at a low level, taking care of poor people on Medicaid.  I don't even know how many times I've been thwarted from talking about my problems because the clinician cannot see me as intelligent and capable of self-awareness.  Thus I've become confrontational.  Again, it's difficult to see whether they don't feed on this too.

I've only been in to see a clinical psychologist once (in the context of talk therapy) and he actually rolled his eyes when I started to talk about the roots of some of my problems.  Apparently, my role was to express approval of his photographic talent, which was clearly not as developed as my own.  What can you say?  Nothing.  You have to sit there and take it.  Like watching pro wrestling with someone who takes it seriously.  If you laugh or scoff, you lose a friend.  Lawyers and doctors (contextualized as agents of the legal and medical establishments, respectively, anyhow) behave in the same way.  These two establishments are patently expert at making you lose friends, and thereby keeping you in their clutches, and maintaining the capitalist foundation of the system, where the ultimate goal isn't Justice or Health, but lifelong consumerism, the buying of ever more and better hotdogs.

Your role, as a non-rich person, is idiot.  Your intelligence does not compute.

Your intelligence is an oil executive's unread copy of Walden.

Your intelligence actually is Walden Pond, but the oil executive owns the mineral rights.

And what does he do with ownership rights to another five or ten million dollars?

The whole system is built around this role, that you know nothing, and have no rights to your own way of being, that is, your own intelligence, and moreover, that their knowledge is completely beyond your ability to know, that plugging 50 or 100 hours of psycho/philosophico/literario theory into your headphones is unthinkable to anyone.  Try being on Medicaid while reading Jung and Freud.  You are discouraged from achieving insight, while simultaneously and sternly informed that your goal is to accept your situation with insight.  Well, there's no money in that, no financial growth, so when it really happens, the system or the public, or some collusion of the two, they work to increase your so-called insanity on a larger scale, so there is no end of your personal failures, until you're better off skipping the doctor's appointment and reading your Kafka.

The glue that holds the system together, the good people, are the social workers.  They tend to be caring, genuine people who want to see you healthy.  They may or may not know the underlying psychology and economics, but they tend to be nice folks either way, not "numbers-driven" authorities who check on their financial portfolios every day, those with "doctor" in their titles.

For many years, I saw the same psychiatrist.  He never expressed any interest in my creative writing, or the skill I had built up as a computer programmer.  Finally, he made a bad joke that betrayed this failure of decency. I won't retell it right now.  Building a website is no joke.  The technology can change daily, unlike medicine and law, which may not change even yearly, and they are both reactive systems.  Anyway, after taking a few hard hits from the wigs, I lost my fragile will to make websites, which only perpetuates my status as helpless idiotic mental health consumer.  Big win for subconsciousness and illness everywhere. More money for Pfizer.

Watching reactive systems perpetuate themselves is disgusting.  More than half of it is wig making, as in the old joke about majoring in underwater basket weaving.  Now you know what that means, and why they mean it. So, go on and make yourself an incomprehensible but indestructible wig. And try not to breathe, as the air is too gross to mention.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

I started this blog because Blogger has a real comment system, and I'm praying for comments

I wrothe (wrote) the following entry over at You Won, my Tumblr. I'm reposting it here because Tumblr, like Twitter, is bad for loneliness.  The comedown from a good writing interval can crush me. So here's what I wrote over there.

Creative Writing for Yourself
I’m back in the blogging universe to wail about creative writing, my longest-lived dream in this life.  Many would say my ruined life.  I don’t know anyone who could look at my life after age 15 and find a whole lot to hope for.  Why not write for myself?  It turns out to be incredibly difficult.  
There is no choice to write for money, it just isn’t an option. I dropped out of college and I don’t really know anything that a trained psychic couldn’t inform her parrot to greet her clients with.  Yes.  I am an abject failure by any standard metric of living in this world.  
Anyway, Twitter just doesn’t pass muster for the lonely. So I’m back to blogging.  I wrote a short (as in microscopic) novel, about three years ago. Notice I’m not linking to it. Please notice carefully.
Writing for yourself is lonely, so I need your help.  Please read this and comment.  You can be helpful or hurtful. I may deserve it.
I’m sorry that I’m not paying attention to rules of paragraph and grammar etiquette herein, I’m just hopeful to pick up a listener who cares. You will notice that quite most of my statements bend back and break upon themselves like ugly waves of waterlogged lumber.  I’ve spent far too much time alone to get along with raconteurs and rulers of the world.
I entertain all manner of stupid and foolish notions, mainly my own, because I’m exceedingly vain.  I can only say that I apologize.  I am terrified.  I will try to appreciate any consolation.  Thank you.

First Post

Hello everyone, hello world. I think I'll keep a blog, and think of it as a robotic bear with a soul, and talk to it like it knows me.  In time, I could probably think of a good name for him, her, it.

I would like to join a community of others, but I've always failed at this. Not that I've found any success on my own -- quite the opposite.

Now I'm going to put up some bling, some apparatus to identify as a creative writer.  I welcome any and all comments. Hopefully, you will show mercy.  I need it.  Thank you.