One of the hard things about writing, is well writing. You need purpose in your words and motivation to display that purpose. Often my ideas of writing come, but then I wavier, I figure, everyone I am writing to already knows what I know, about what I’m writing about, and that very well may be the case. So my writing loses it’s purpose. How? I destroy it. I destroy my own purpose of why I had the urge to write to begin with. Perhaps I don’t feel like writing my thoughts out in words. It is a whole lot easier to just think it, but writing it out on words, well that can be challenging. Or not necessarily challenging, but I just get lazy. I want to do other things. Perhaps tweet, in 140 characters. Yes, you can get a pretty big point across in 140 characters, but there is something redeeming about writing a blog.
Nonetheless, I almost passed up my train of thought, go back a few sentences, to when I wrote “It is a whole lot easier to just think about it”. Think about that. Ponder your thoughts and ideas, meditate them, because we often think that we think in terms of our language, but that is not the case. If that was the case, whenever we get a grand idea, it should be simple enough to go ahead and write it down. Well it’s much more complicated than that, you see. We don’t really think entirely in English. I say, we think mostly not in English. Thoughts come to us due to our entire frame of reference, our mind, our processes, our experience, our knowledge or what we think we know, all comes to us so suddenly at times. Yet writing them out, requires a sort of discipline, an ability to recall this idea, this purpose, and portray it out in words. With that, English is imperative for communication, its imperative to achieving more knowledge and understanding, and it does help you think out your own thoughts, to sort them out into nice little neat compartments called words. The mind is hard to understand entirely, but writing helps organize it all and achieve a more cogent understanding.
The one great thing I love about writing is, when done properly, it can provide insight and understanding that otherwise may get lost via talking to each other. Writing is there to be reread if needed, to contemplate. Talking to each other is often filled with sensationalism, bravado, emphasis to get your attention among many other speaking devices that we all use, whether we recognize them or not. But if you just write down some words, you can bypass all that malarky and excess nonsense and get to the real meat and potatoes of an idea, or a story, or most importantly, the truth. Charmers thrive based on speech communication. You will see most charmers aren’t going to excel at writing and vice versa. I admire the writers. They tend to know more. They aren’t shysters, because you can re read what they say, rather than listen to them ramble off a bunch of hocus pocus and have you eating off the palm of their hands. I think the writers and readers here can see beyond all that very easily. For some charmers, it takes a keen eye to identify the nonsense they spew. Others not so easily. Writers, though, ah yes, WE have the tendency to be able to see this, and when we do, we just cringe. Writing is a true, more pure form of communication, not a bespectacled aesthetically pleasing to the eye and ear three ring circus. Beware the charmers and talkers out there…
“Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss,the abyss gazes also into you.” -Nietzsche
I have had my engagement with the abyss and the monsters of this world. Growing up I often ran into encounters in which I was seen as inferior by people. I was a good kid, but the world would have none of that when it came to me. I was the shy type, maybe too timid. I sat and listened when others babbled on with their version of how it is, what is good, what is
not. I wasn’t outspoken, as such nobody ever knew what I thought. It didn’t matter to them though, after all, I was just a child. My classmates were more opinionated that me.
Eventually as I gained pubescence, I began to feel the pressures of the outside world crash down upon my head and I had enough of it. Enter, my rebellious era. But something more kicked in before that was ever settled, something that has deeply affected the core of my self forever. It has interrupted my path and sent me upon a new one. Today I write these words a new man, on
this same path. Having hopefully conquered or at least quelled a searing madness that ripped through my bone and flesh at a very critical time in any young man’s life, the early 20’s. All of this has made me a better person and due to this I am a subscriber to the old saying “what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger”. I have come away from this story wondering how I didn’t get
myself killed or kill someone during this phenomenal fervor, an out of control imagination. An imagination that ran amok overcame me and I created a world as entirely different as it
could possibly be, yet still somehow managed to walk around this planet and interacting with daily life not realizing I was living out my own dark subconscious fantasy, or perhaps, nightmare at times. I have learned many lessons from this and hope those families who may experience this in loved ones, as it is all too common a theme, can find insight into what their own are
experiencing and possibly be able to cope themselves. For those experiencing it now, I find no reason they would stumble on this book, unless it may be during a brief moment of clarity; but
those who experienced what I have, do not of course have reason to peruse this first-hand account of mental illness, because they would be have already experienced a similar state
of mind. That is if they are cognizant enough to remember, which luckily I am. In writing this I have confronted my manic thoughts head on instead of burying them in some dark recess of
my mind that may only wreak havoc later. I would ask that those who experience the similar states of mind that I bring before you in these memoirs, that you too confront your past
demons as well, in whatever way you are apt to. Contemplation and writing have brought me to conquer the maniacal memories that could very much have rooted me in a lasting insecurity of
social instability and awkwardness.
The difference between truly believing and knowing isn’t much different to many. When this occurs with mental illness, there is no difference. When I was God there was
nothing better; no better feeling before it nothing will ever compare to the glory of my life that I had envisioned in my own mind. My sense of superiority was to the nth degree and could
go no further. My emotions were euphoric and blissful, there was nothing I can’t do on this planet, no goals couldn’t be met (becoming the world leader, becoming the wealthiest person in
the world, or anything similar to that), could compare to what I was experiencing. We do this reality trick with kids a bit with Santa Clause, he doesn’t exist, but they believe he does, and it’s
very, very, fun for kids. If only the experience could be sustained; I would still like to experience this feeling I had without any ill effect. If it could be sustained through the rest of
my life, actually believing I was God and constantly hallucinating the effects of my own reality that I created, it would be tempting to choose the “blue pill”. If I was single and had nobody to care
for who know me as the sane individual I do now, I might be willing to make that trade of reality for total disillusionment. Would I be happier? Possibly, I might even be in ecstasy. But
there are also the periods of utterly abysmal and deep despair and hopelessness that I experienced. Knowing what I know now, I would never choose to go back. I couldn’t. Since my episode, which lasted a few years in its peak stages, I have pursued real
world knowledge in the form of logic, science, and philosophy. My goal to seek truth and knowledge in all areas was a means to overcome the disillusioned reality I had already lived out. I was sick and tired of fantasy as I had lived it and I knew I had to get
my head on straight. Would that be the sole result of my reaction to my illness, or was it what I was to scratch an itch of intellectual curiosity regardless? Of course I would never know
that, but it doesn’t matter now anyways. Now hopefully I can help by providing my story to the world and possibly just as important, hopefully I can also eliminate some stigma.
Outside on my back porch I watched the grass slowly wave in the gentle breeze. It was a typical hot, sunny day. The motion of the grass was particularly hypnotizing for some reason.
The wind caressed the blades in a rhythmic wave that provided an image of a flowing sea of green. This rhythm of nature seemed to be some sort of communication possibly. I needed to
find something to help me figure out my current situation, which was inexplicably doomed. I was certainly in a precarious situation, one in which I was absolutely positive I would be
spending all of eternity in eternal damnation and fire. How I got here I wasn’t too sure, but I was sure that it seemed to be my destiny. I heard the demons roaring outside now, they have
possessed my neighbors. It’s a shame because they were quite amicable. It seems the entire world is going to hell, as other random people outside start growling demonically that walk by
my houses sidewalk. Someone passes by in their car and I heard a demon that sounded as if it were born of fire, utter out a guttural yell that should make everyone in the neighborhood
begin packing their bags. For me, however, I was in a rather catatonic state of mind listening to all of this. I figured they may terrify the remaining un-possessed souls of the neighborhood,
but I already knew I was doomed and had a clue to decipher. I reaffixed my attention on the rhythm of the grass and listened intently at the wind for their instructions. Nature was seemingly quite knowledgeable on my predicament. The rhythmic sign language of the grass and the whispers of the wind were always very agreeable to me. Yet they seem to only be agreeing with
me because nature itself is afraid of me. Meanwhile these demonic outburst coming from the neighborhood was rather unsettling and yet very interesting, as long as they left me alone
and only taunted me verbally that is. I was completely calm hearing these loud, disturbing voices from my poor neighbors. I guess they weren’t so good after all I thought. I had already
been through quite the ride of hell at this point, so dealing with demonic possessions of half the town wasn’t very worrisome considering what I’ve been through. One thing is for certain, I
need to get use to hell. I took my socks off and let them roast on the sidewalk that was heated by that inferno of a sun. If only I could start getting used to the inevitable hellfire awaiting me,
maybe it would make it easier. I then thought, it’s probably useless, God would probably turn up the heat as soon as I got comfortable anyways, exponentially. Such is life. I went back
inside my parent’s house, where I could then commence my communication with the outside world through telepathy and television, because I was the antichrist and had some pretty nice
powers. I guess that’s the perk of being guaranteed the darkest fate of all time.