I am today haunted by a song. Not even a song I have heard for a long while. The Snark has his theories, but The Snark always has his theories. I leave him to them.
Having been entirely surrounded by people for a couple of days, I have been good. That is, yes, there has been moonlight and mayhem and mock-murder - but no intentional self-destruction in the Trichotillomaniac sense. This pleases me, it need hardly be said. I say that in the present-tense becuase obviously at the time I was too busy with moonlight and mayhem and mock-murder to think about that.
Then I returned home. To my mother. *cue PSYCHO music* And stayed up all night becuase I was too - too what? - too furious and generally unhappy to throw the things on my bed off my bed and go to bed - and becuase the sitting-room seemed so much further away from her than my bedroom. The next day, after more dread-full-ness, I was... Hardly good. But the night was worst as the night always is.
Reading with great and for me very relevant interest 'The Politics of Experience and The Bird of Paradise' by R.D. Laing I can only agree all too heartily that IT'S ALL MY FAMILY'S FAULT. I do not tell them this, remembering with horror the moment when, when I was circa five, my mother, apropos some (not-to-be-publically-shouted-from-the-rooftops) issue (shall we say) of hers, said 'It's your fault I [insert issue here]. I always thought that rather absurd. So. I have put my red slipper-shoe down. GRANDMOTHER: You have upset your mother. ME: She deserved it. Not very nice, no, but neccesary if I am not always to suffer for the sins of my ancestors. I may have, for finaincal reasons, to step down in some utterly insincere manner. When my grandmother says 'see ow you'll get on without us' (or words to that effect) she is, to some rather down-heart-en-ing extent, correct (if not right). But for now I AM VICTORIOUS. & I rather like it.This is all relevant to the Trichotillomania question becuase, I don't know about anyone else, but my Trichotillomaniac tendancies tend to fluctuate in direct correlation with the impositions of the world around me. If I am overtaxed I press the self-destruct button and hope for the best. Salvation or oblivion. Which is a little extreme, I know, and never works out quite that way, I know - but what else is there for it but direct confrontation? And direct confrontation is (as I found to some extent when I did it last night, backed against my mother's sitting room wall, vision blurred with absolute terror, screaming 'leave me alone' repeatedly and loudly to a pointing, grinning, accusatory gargoyle with some dried white substance encrusted on her chin ... nightmarish).
This evening, though, having slept to my heart's content at the house of a compassionate friend (with whom I did not fail to have an intermittant and easily sorted exchange of shouts of the 'leave-me-alone-I-really-am-dreadfully-tired' variety, me, and hand-gestures-of-an-excessively-expressive-nature, them), I feel... better. And am being good. Becuase I am so tired of being bad. And the confrontations of the last few days have tired me in a somewhat enjoyable manner. I am past the point of being emotionally involved with people who behave so absurdly. This is not flounce-ing expostulation. This is simply how things stand. It is... like lying on a poavement having been run over. There is nothing more one can do, nothing more that can possibly be asked of one (even though it always is of course - but that is merely sound a fury from some far-off incomprehesible or at least uncomprehended land) - so there is no need for the self-destruct button. No need for the numbness of the post-pull. No need for escape becuase this is the calm after the storm.
Then I returned home. To my mother. *cue PSYCHO music* And stayed up all night becuase I was too - too what? - too furious and generally unhappy to throw the things on my bed off my bed and go to bed - and becuase the sitting-room seemed so much further away from her than my bedroom. The next day, after more dread-full-ness, I was... Hardly good. But the night was worst as the night always is.
Reading with great and for me very relevant interest 'The Politics of Experience and The Bird of Paradise' by R.D. Laing I can only agree all too heartily that IT'S ALL MY FAMILY'S FAULT. I do not tell them this, remembering with horror the moment when, when I was circa five, my mother, apropos some (not-to-be-publically-shouted-from-the-rooftops) issue (shall we say) of hers, said 'It's your fault I [insert issue here]. I always thought that rather absurd. So. I have put my red slipper-shoe down. GRANDMOTHER: You have upset your mother. ME: She deserved it. Not very nice, no, but neccesary if I am not always to suffer for the sins of my ancestors. I may have, for finaincal reasons, to step down in some utterly insincere manner. When my grandmother says 'see ow you'll get on without us' (or words to that effect) she is, to some rather down-heart-en-ing extent, correct (if not right). But for now I AM VICTORIOUS. & I rather like it.This is all relevant to the Trichotillomania question becuase, I don't know about anyone else, but my Trichotillomaniac tendancies tend to fluctuate in direct correlation with the impositions of the world around me. If I am overtaxed I press the self-destruct button and hope for the best. Salvation or oblivion. Which is a little extreme, I know, and never works out quite that way, I know - but what else is there for it but direct confrontation? And direct confrontation is (as I found to some extent when I did it last night, backed against my mother's sitting room wall, vision blurred with absolute terror, screaming 'leave me alone' repeatedly and loudly to a pointing, grinning, accusatory gargoyle with some dried white substance encrusted on her chin ... nightmarish).
This evening, though, having slept to my heart's content at the house of a compassionate friend (with whom I did not fail to have an intermittant and easily sorted exchange of shouts of the 'leave-me-alone-I-really-am-dreadfully-tired' variety, me, and hand-gestures-of-an-excessively-expressive-nature, them), I feel... better. And am being good. Becuase I am so tired of being bad. And the confrontations of the last few days have tired me in a somewhat enjoyable manner. I am past the point of being emotionally involved with people who behave so absurdly. This is not flounce-ing expostulation. This is simply how things stand. It is... like lying on a poavement having been run over. There is nothing more one can do, nothing more that can possibly be asked of one (even though it always is of course - but that is merely sound a fury from some far-off incomprehesible or at least uncomprehended land) - so there is no need for the self-destruct button. No need for the numbness of the post-pull. No need for escape becuase this is the calm after the storm.
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