I have not been good – again and again I write that I have not been good. I have not been good is becoming tedious. I have not been good is becoming what I don’t want to be. What a lot of energy I put into becoming what I don’t want to be. And writing about becoming what I don’t want to be. It is paradoxically heroic.
The fact is – my life is not being conducive to recovery. (Excuses excuses…) I find myself surrounded by hysterical people – and their hysteria wraps its tentacles around me. And I am dragged underneath the gently lapping waves of… Giving in. To what? To being what I do not want to be. Which is absurd.
So what do I do? Acquire some way of dealing with the hysterical people? Somehow get rid of the hysterical people? (I almost wrote ‘the disposable people…’) Run away very very very far away?
My writing is horrible today. But everything (except the ylang ylang candle) is horrible today. My shoulders tensed, I feel that everything I go near will somehow take on my malaise, this tense-ness of shoulders, this implosion.
I seem to somehow have become surrounded by the people who like me least. It is… inopportune. I despise it. And I am drawn towards silly grand gestures and silly melodramatic words because it seems as though the grander the gestures and the more melodramatic the words the more likely it is that it will be cast out into some wonderful desert where I can recover from the people. I. Need. Solitude. Or at least to be away from the people who don’t like me.
I have taken to wearing dark glasses at night. This amuses me. It also keeps me hidden. It keeps my face hidden. My expressions hidden. From – The Other People. I have had rather too much of Other People for… at least a while. Though of course I cannot do without conversation. I simply cannot. The imbalance is horrible.
And in the middle of that last paragraph – the throbbing terribly painfully of an over-tax-ed heart. The way that pain radiates is appalling. Everything is appalling. And my keyboard is covered with my hair. How’s my hair? On my keyboard. How’s my keyboard? One of the keys fell off earlier. Where’s the key? I gave it to my mother. Who has probably now ground it into a million pieces beneath the heels of her Hush Puppies.
The pain, however, of Trichotillamania is so… comforting. Much better than the dull ache in my shoulders, the throbbing of my heart. Much more cold and sharp and sterile. Something removed from the soft mass of falling into the well of other people.
But I have been alone today. And I have been happy. Terribly terribly happy. There is something about hating to be around people which makes snatched moments of solitude absolutely blissful. A books and some cushions and some sunlight and and and nothing more is even considerable. Nothing. Until of course someone breaks in and is repelled with a sullen look and the waving of arms – the do please get out before I am less happy than I was waving of arms. Out!
To some extent I am enjoying this melancholy. Melancholy suggests that one is capable of… better things. Higher things. Transcending the transitory. I am. I have to be. But it would be so much easier to make my escape if I had conquered Trichotillamania. & so much easier to conquer Trichotillamania had I made my escape.
The fact is – my life is not being conducive to recovery. (Excuses excuses…) I find myself surrounded by hysterical people – and their hysteria wraps its tentacles around me. And I am dragged underneath the gently lapping waves of… Giving in. To what? To being what I do not want to be. Which is absurd.
So what do I do? Acquire some way of dealing with the hysterical people? Somehow get rid of the hysterical people? (I almost wrote ‘the disposable people…’) Run away very very very far away?
My writing is horrible today. But everything (except the ylang ylang candle) is horrible today. My shoulders tensed, I feel that everything I go near will somehow take on my malaise, this tense-ness of shoulders, this implosion.
I seem to somehow have become surrounded by the people who like me least. It is… inopportune. I despise it. And I am drawn towards silly grand gestures and silly melodramatic words because it seems as though the grander the gestures and the more melodramatic the words the more likely it is that it will be cast out into some wonderful desert where I can recover from the people. I. Need. Solitude. Or at least to be away from the people who don’t like me.
I have taken to wearing dark glasses at night. This amuses me. It also keeps me hidden. It keeps my face hidden. My expressions hidden. From – The Other People. I have had rather too much of Other People for… at least a while. Though of course I cannot do without conversation. I simply cannot. The imbalance is horrible.
And in the middle of that last paragraph – the throbbing terribly painfully of an over-tax-ed heart. The way that pain radiates is appalling. Everything is appalling. And my keyboard is covered with my hair. How’s my hair? On my keyboard. How’s my keyboard? One of the keys fell off earlier. Where’s the key? I gave it to my mother. Who has probably now ground it into a million pieces beneath the heels of her Hush Puppies.
The pain, however, of Trichotillamania is so… comforting. Much better than the dull ache in my shoulders, the throbbing of my heart. Much more cold and sharp and sterile. Something removed from the soft mass of falling into the well of other people.
But I have been alone today. And I have been happy. Terribly terribly happy. There is something about hating to be around people which makes snatched moments of solitude absolutely blissful. A books and some cushions and some sunlight and and and nothing more is even considerable. Nothing. Until of course someone breaks in and is repelled with a sullen look and the waving of arms – the do please get out before I am less happy than I was waving of arms. Out!
To some extent I am enjoying this melancholy. Melancholy suggests that one is capable of… better things. Higher things. Transcending the transitory. I am. I have to be. But it would be so much easier to make my escape if I had conquered Trichotillamania. & so much easier to conquer Trichotillamania had I made my escape.
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