I've written countless pages on the subject of my past, my depression, and the physical torments endured. They are, apparently, favorite subjects of contemplation. I tell myself that scribbling my thoughts on paper helps me work out these issues, but chances are it only helps me dwell on the problems. Still. I can't seem to stop myself. Hah... Darkly Dwelling Dayton. I recently had a conversation on the nature of pain in humanity. I know, an impossible topic, but it sparked a need to muse on the subject of my personal experience.
I know a woman who's had similar, and probably worse, stomach issues than I. Sometimes, we get stuck in these harsh dialogues. You see, we have diametric viewpoints when it comes to suffering. Her viewpoint is that of "someone else has it worse", which I always saw a trivialization of personal pain. Whenever someone fed me that line, I always felt intensely insulted. I can understand the origin of her view, though. It helps her move on through pain and to survive. I've not taken that path, and am no doubt worse off. I've probably mentioned my coping mechanism in the past. It's best summed up in a single phrase: Strength Through Fire. In fact, in my mind the saying has a scenario. A strong, pounding thump for every word; the stamping of polearms on harsh rock below a brigade of armored soldiers. Each soldier shouts the motto, their battle cry, every time the saying crosses my mind. I know. It's silly. Yet, the imagery remains firmly rooted.
All of the imagery is fine and dandy, but what exactly does the phrase mean to me? Strength Through Fire. Well. My fire is anger. A rage beyond measure, and words, and my own imagination. This fury is inwardly pointed, and thus self destructive. However, I've managed to use it as a fuel source. I use that same anger to power me through each day. Every day is a fight, to be certain. I've needed motivation to continue combat. For a long time, anger was that motivation. There is a systemic flaw to that strategy: it's temporary. Similar to fire, fury can fuel a furnace, but that fire is only momentarily tamed. One day, that flame will burn you. Long ago I began to get singed, and have been burned to a smolder numerous times since. My fuel source has soured, and left me handicapped.
When my rage stopped firing my furnace, I could feel the fight beginning to leave my bones. A man hollowed out by his own survival mechanism. I would lie in bed in the mornings and nights staring at the ceiling, and wish I was capable of crying. Or screaming. Most dreams had me dying in some fashion. Getting out of bed was only possible because of intrinsic routine. The torment was bad enough for my emotions to flee entirely, and I entered a kind of automated state. Months passed like this. People around me knew something was off, but I've become a fantastic actor, or more accurately a faker. So, in my singularity I suffered. Everyone has limits though, and somewhere along those lines I hit mine.
So what does a darkly dwelling dementoid do when devastation digs it's claws too deeply? A tough question, and one that has no clear answer. I knew I needed to change. I'd been lifting weights, so I increased that. Got tattoos, started pushing myself to be more outward and forward with women. I've essentially become a new person built from the wastes of furious flame. I've changed myself so much that I barely recognize the man I was just last year. Still... The core of me is the same.
All the personal modifications allow me to create meaningful connections, but I still feel that depressive center. To what purpose are these connections if I must hide who I am? This topic is a source of constant struggle, but I think I understand the reason. I hide my essence as to not overload anyone new. So. I hide it. After a while, I slowly reveal pieces of myself. Sometimes people are warded off, but not all of them. On good days, when all elements are just right, I find people I can relate to, and who can return the favor. Those days are few and far between, but they're there.
For me, that's new.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
My Writing Relationship
In the morning, I always do the same things in the same sequence. One of the steps is a nice warm shower. During the shower, for no reason, I had an idea for a Christmas present for my father. At first the thought was coarse and unrefined. Write my father a letter. At the time, writing was just something I did to communicate online. I never thought about it as anything else. When struck with this gift idea, though, I knew immediately it was a great idea. But what to write about...
I mulled the idea over for several days. Christmas was about a month away, so I had plenty of time to ponder. Finally I settled upon a letter of gratification. I should thank my dad for raising me. Another great idea, but still not refined enough to really mean much. This letter had to be specific. For weeks I fell asleep while mentally writing drafts. The letter was going to be short and powerful. That much I knew.
After mentally drafting for some time, I decided to try my hand at creating it. Again I drew up draft after draft. It had to be perfect. I realized by then exactly what I was going to write about. I just needed the words.
Then, there they were. I had the letter. I knew with absolute certainty this was going to be the best gift I have ever given. This letter was going to create tears, but in a good way. I was right. Christmas came, and my father opened the envelope. He had no idea what the gift was. At first his face showed surprise and confusion, then he started reading. He concentrated a moment, and then his face pinched somewhat. Then you could see the color drain from my father's cheeks. After a moment of shock, he beckoned my mother over to him and buried his face in her puffy bath robe. He began to sob. My brother turned and looked at me, giving me a very worried look. My father handed the letter to my mother. She read the letter, and in a similar progression she began to cry. They held each other, weeping. I saw my father motion me over to him, and then he grabbed onto me powerfully. He chocked out "Thank you," a few times. To this day the letter is displayed within eye shot of his bed.
I don't recall exactly what was written, and it was several hard drives ago so I cannot retrieve it. To understand what was written, you must first understand my father's job. He worked at the post office while I grew up, and he despised it. He worked nights, and his life was a nightmare. It ruined his life for decades, and almost ripped the family apart. In summary, the letter said:
I mulled the idea over for several days. Christmas was about a month away, so I had plenty of time to ponder. Finally I settled upon a letter of gratification. I should thank my dad for raising me. Another great idea, but still not refined enough to really mean much. This letter had to be specific. For weeks I fell asleep while mentally writing drafts. The letter was going to be short and powerful. That much I knew.
After mentally drafting for some time, I decided to try my hand at creating it. Again I drew up draft after draft. It had to be perfect. I realized by then exactly what I was going to write about. I just needed the words.
Then, there they were. I had the letter. I knew with absolute certainty this was going to be the best gift I have ever given. This letter was going to create tears, but in a good way. I was right. Christmas came, and my father opened the envelope. He had no idea what the gift was. At first his face showed surprise and confusion, then he started reading. He concentrated a moment, and then his face pinched somewhat. Then you could see the color drain from my father's cheeks. After a moment of shock, he beckoned my mother over to him and buried his face in her puffy bath robe. He began to sob. My brother turned and looked at me, giving me a very worried look. My father handed the letter to my mother. She read the letter, and in a similar progression she began to cry. They held each other, weeping. I saw my father motion me over to him, and then he grabbed onto me powerfully. He chocked out "Thank you," a few times. To this day the letter is displayed within eye shot of his bed.
I don't recall exactly what was written, and it was several hard drives ago so I cannot retrieve it. To understand what was written, you must first understand my father's job. He worked at the post office while I grew up, and he despised it. He worked nights, and his life was a nightmare. It ruined his life for decades, and almost ripped the family apart. In summary, the letter said:
Dear Dad,
I may not be the most open person emotionally, and rarely hug or kiss you. I want you to understand that does not mean I don't care for you. I do. I just have problems showing it.
I wanted to say that I understand how much you sacrificed to raise me. I know how much it hurt you to put a roof over the families head and food on the table. I am so grateful for your sacrifice, Dad. Thank you. I love you. And I will never forget what you have done for me.
Your Son,
Dayton
Self Loathing
Like everyone, there are things about myself I hate. In this case, hate is not too strong a word. There are pieces of my personality that torture me daily and leave me angry. Tonight, the part that bothers me the most is memory.
Why, you may ask, would memory be the part I dislike? Well. Depression has done a number on my recollections. Most of my memories are tainted by a dark cloud of sadness, even the happy memories. So, when I think to the past, it is always a painful experience. Depression spreads through my retrospections like a virus, slowly changing their original feeling until there is nothing real left.
I have tried, in the past, to enact a protocol to protect my most cherished memories. I call it the Do Not Corrupt (DNC) Protocol. Essentially, any time I recall the DNC memory in any negative light I flash DNC upon the memory and immediately close it. It actually works to an extent. I have a few DNC memories that still have some of the original positive feelings attached. But I must be careful and vigilant with enforcement of DNC recollections. Too many attached to this protocol weakens the defense, and too much recall of the memory increases the chances of corruption.
The protocol was initially created because of one specifically beautiful memory. I wrote about it before; the girl from statistics dancing gorgeously during her presentation. To this day, it's probably one of the more amazing things I have witnessed. That memory was the creator and first adopter of the DNCP. And, so far so good. I still feel the good, yet bittersweet feelings when thinking about that moment.
Tonight I am recalling something that occurred only a few weeks ago. Another amazing moment with a woman. This one too private to speak about, but still entirely spectacular. I think about that moment, and enjoy the memory. Yet, I can feel my depression gnawing away at the edges. I can feel my mind mincing it into pieces.
I don't want to lose this memory. Oh, how I wish to keep it beautiful...
Why, you may ask, would memory be the part I dislike? Well. Depression has done a number on my recollections. Most of my memories are tainted by a dark cloud of sadness, even the happy memories. So, when I think to the past, it is always a painful experience. Depression spreads through my retrospections like a virus, slowly changing their original feeling until there is nothing real left.
I have tried, in the past, to enact a protocol to protect my most cherished memories. I call it the Do Not Corrupt (DNC) Protocol. Essentially, any time I recall the DNC memory in any negative light I flash DNC upon the memory and immediately close it. It actually works to an extent. I have a few DNC memories that still have some of the original positive feelings attached. But I must be careful and vigilant with enforcement of DNC recollections. Too many attached to this protocol weakens the defense, and too much recall of the memory increases the chances of corruption.
The protocol was initially created because of one specifically beautiful memory. I wrote about it before; the girl from statistics dancing gorgeously during her presentation. To this day, it's probably one of the more amazing things I have witnessed. That memory was the creator and first adopter of the DNCP. And, so far so good. I still feel the good, yet bittersweet feelings when thinking about that moment.
Tonight I am recalling something that occurred only a few weeks ago. Another amazing moment with a woman. This one too private to speak about, but still entirely spectacular. I think about that moment, and enjoy the memory. Yet, I can feel my depression gnawing away at the edges. I can feel my mind mincing it into pieces.
I don't want to lose this memory. Oh, how I wish to keep it beautiful...
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Recreational Writing
There is a man on the corner of South and 3rd. He is there 12 hours a day, every day. He smells like a mixture of urine, trash, and vomit and has a long, dirty beard. He looks much thicker than he really is, the many layers of clothing obscuring his jutting ribs and emaciated stomach. He holds a weathered cardboard sign reading "Please Help." He long since stopped trying to write witticisms or jokes. On a good day this man can purchase a can of food or find a shelter that will give him a meal. On a good day, someone throws him a quarter and smiles at him. Most people simply pass him by, ignoring his existence entirely. A few tell him to get a job.
You may ask yourself, "what's wrong with him?" Well. Inversely to some people's assumptions, he is not crazy, or a drunk, or a drug addict. He once had a lucrative career, a family, a daughter, and a dog. His house was enormous, as was his bank account. This man had a life, and was truly happy. He woke up in the morning smelling a freshly cooked breakfast by a woman who loved him. He fell asleep with his arm wrapped around her waist and smelling her faint smells. They were his world. But, as everything does, it ended. In his case, with a car accident. Decades ago, this man and his family were on a vacation. They laughed, and played, and swam in the ocean. He watched with a smile as his wife laid on the sand, tanning and enjoying the sun. He helped his little daughter build her first ocean side sand castle. They all watched the castle wash away. They loved each other so much. On the journey back home the man fell asleep at the wheel, and drifted into oncoming traffic. The wife was killed on impact. The daughter was not so lucky. For days she lay dying in the hospital. The man was... lucky... enough to only have most of his major bones broken. He was not able to be by his daughters side as she slowly succumbed to internal bleeding. As you can imagine, he blames himself for their deaths. Blames himself for not being there for his daughter's last moments.
There is a man on the corner of South and 3rd. He is there 12 hours a day, every day, and he torments himself. He sits motionless and imagines the faces of the people he lost and wishes he was still capable of crying. He wishes he could kill himself. He wishes he could scream.
You may ask yourself, "what's wrong with him?" Well. Inversely to some people's assumptions, he is not crazy, or a drunk, or a drug addict. He once had a lucrative career, a family, a daughter, and a dog. His house was enormous, as was his bank account. This man had a life, and was truly happy. He woke up in the morning smelling a freshly cooked breakfast by a woman who loved him. He fell asleep with his arm wrapped around her waist and smelling her faint smells. They were his world. But, as everything does, it ended. In his case, with a car accident. Decades ago, this man and his family were on a vacation. They laughed, and played, and swam in the ocean. He watched with a smile as his wife laid on the sand, tanning and enjoying the sun. He helped his little daughter build her first ocean side sand castle. They all watched the castle wash away. They loved each other so much. On the journey back home the man fell asleep at the wheel, and drifted into oncoming traffic. The wife was killed on impact. The daughter was not so lucky. For days she lay dying in the hospital. The man was... lucky... enough to only have most of his major bones broken. He was not able to be by his daughters side as she slowly succumbed to internal bleeding. As you can imagine, he blames himself for their deaths. Blames himself for not being there for his daughter's last moments.
There is a man on the corner of South and 3rd. He is there 12 hours a day, every day, and he torments himself. He sits motionless and imagines the faces of the people he lost and wishes he was still capable of crying. He wishes he could kill himself. He wishes he could scream.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Ninth Grade
A memory.
During the year I attended 9th grade, I was in unstoppable agony. And every day it got worse. As a present for graduating 8th grade, I received food poisoning during a graduation outing. The gift shredded my digestive system and left it irrevocably damaged. At first I was only a little sick, but as time drew on the pain intensified. By the end of my 9th grade year, I was in so much pain that I had to maintain consciousness through sheer will power. I went to so many doctors for so many years...
The tests I endured ranged from uncomfortable, to disgusting, to torturous. During one particularly bad test, I came closer to passing out than I can describe. The pain was exquisite. My entire body went numb and stars filled my vision. I was forced to stand up, making wakefulness nearly impossible. The entire test I am essentially naked, and my father is nearly crying as he is forced to watch me writhe and moan in torment. I have no idea how long the test actually lasted, but I do know the pain did not end with the conclusion of the test. For at least an hour afterward my insides were on fire. Even so, I put on my clothes and slowly walked out of the hospital and to the family car.
The results of the test came back negative. Knowing that I endured the terribleness of the test for no diagnosis made the situation that much worse. In science you are taught that a false result is still useful data. I understood that even back then. Still... the pain endured continues to haunt me to this day. I cannot bring myself to say it helped.
Ninth grade... Most teenagers in that grade are trying to shape their personality and become their own people. Most teenagers are trying to fit in, have fun, and get through their studies. I was trying to survive being tortured.
Sadly, things just got worse as the years past.
During the year I attended 9th grade, I was in unstoppable agony. And every day it got worse. As a present for graduating 8th grade, I received food poisoning during a graduation outing. The gift shredded my digestive system and left it irrevocably damaged. At first I was only a little sick, but as time drew on the pain intensified. By the end of my 9th grade year, I was in so much pain that I had to maintain consciousness through sheer will power. I went to so many doctors for so many years...
The tests I endured ranged from uncomfortable, to disgusting, to torturous. During one particularly bad test, I came closer to passing out than I can describe. The pain was exquisite. My entire body went numb and stars filled my vision. I was forced to stand up, making wakefulness nearly impossible. The entire test I am essentially naked, and my father is nearly crying as he is forced to watch me writhe and moan in torment. I have no idea how long the test actually lasted, but I do know the pain did not end with the conclusion of the test. For at least an hour afterward my insides were on fire. Even so, I put on my clothes and slowly walked out of the hospital and to the family car.
The results of the test came back negative. Knowing that I endured the terribleness of the test for no diagnosis made the situation that much worse. In science you are taught that a false result is still useful data. I understood that even back then. Still... the pain endured continues to haunt me to this day. I cannot bring myself to say it helped.
Ninth grade... Most teenagers in that grade are trying to shape their personality and become their own people. Most teenagers are trying to fit in, have fun, and get through their studies. I was trying to survive being tortured.
Sadly, things just got worse as the years past.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Loneliness in Numbers
People in the past have told me that they feel more connected while being out and about. They enjoyed going to coffee shops, or walking around town. They felt a part of the human race. That's something I have never understood. Whenever I am a face in a crowd, I feel more alone than sitting here in my little place and writing to nobody.
Maybe those crowd-connectors can relate more easily with others. A simple gesture exchange and they feel like they passed some type of social quanta between them. Hm. Sounds like data packet passing, or electron exchange. Humans: The macro-atoms. That would mean that these people can more easily pass along social data, and enjoy the process. These people are more conductive than me. Maybe that's my problem. I'm not conductive enough!
I could sheath myself in some type of fake conductive layer. A social Faraday cage, if you will. The social interactive quanta would flow around me without my help. Nobody would know the difference. Emulation of normal social interaction may suffice. Or possibly some type of medication can accomplish that task. Many possibilities.
But, all of this would do nothing to change me. I would be the same old me, just hidden under yet another layer of fakery. The thought makes me cringe. No. I don't think I will do any of this.
I will just be my same old insulating self; I am stuck being the most alone when surrounded by others.
Maybe those crowd-connectors can relate more easily with others. A simple gesture exchange and they feel like they passed some type of social quanta between them. Hm. Sounds like data packet passing, or electron exchange. Humans: The macro-atoms. That would mean that these people can more easily pass along social data, and enjoy the process. These people are more conductive than me. Maybe that's my problem. I'm not conductive enough!
I could sheath myself in some type of fake conductive layer. A social Faraday cage, if you will. The social interactive quanta would flow around me without my help. Nobody would know the difference. Emulation of normal social interaction may suffice. Or possibly some type of medication can accomplish that task. Many possibilities.
But, all of this would do nothing to change me. I would be the same old me, just hidden under yet another layer of fakery. The thought makes me cringe. No. I don't think I will do any of this.
I will just be my same old insulating self; I am stuck being the most alone when surrounded by others.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Damaged Circuitry
It may or may not be apparent that I describe much of myself in technological terms. Growing up around computers and electronics made it easier to identify with machines over humanity. I think, tonight, I will continue the pattern.
To visualize my emotional construct, first imagine a circuit board. Now imagine taking that circuit board and firing a few bullets though it. Then douse the board in an acidic solution. The end result will be cracked, broken, full of holes, and warped. That is an accurate description of my emotions. Somehow they still function, but the connections are random and nonsensical. I suppose a few examples are in order.
I just completed an episode of a random, stupid television show. The plot was dumb and the acting pathetic. However, during the episode I saw a woman smile. The way the little wrinkles formed around her mouth reminded me of someone. Immediately I wished I could cry. Sadly, that section of my emotional circuit board was hit by a bullet. It has been a long time since I could cry.
Other times electrical jolts fire through me. Some people think I am simply itching, or trying to pop a vertebrae. Unfortunately, the cause is not skeletal or dermatological. Sometimes I get a... feeling or thought that is so bloody intense that I twitch from the pain. It's like being hit by lightning, only it happens several times a day. A short in my circuits throwing amps into incorrect places.
Any positive emotion has been obliterated. Maybe obliteration is not the correct term. Through the years they have atrophied to the point of uselessness. So now I must suffer through my days and nights without feeling anything but negative and painful emotions. But... it is to be expected given the damaged nature of my emotions.
I suppose this post has no point. I'm just venting because it is night, and as always I am alone and depressed.
To visualize my emotional construct, first imagine a circuit board. Now imagine taking that circuit board and firing a few bullets though it. Then douse the board in an acidic solution. The end result will be cracked, broken, full of holes, and warped. That is an accurate description of my emotions. Somehow they still function, but the connections are random and nonsensical. I suppose a few examples are in order.
I just completed an episode of a random, stupid television show. The plot was dumb and the acting pathetic. However, during the episode I saw a woman smile. The way the little wrinkles formed around her mouth reminded me of someone. Immediately I wished I could cry. Sadly, that section of my emotional circuit board was hit by a bullet. It has been a long time since I could cry.
Other times electrical jolts fire through me. Some people think I am simply itching, or trying to pop a vertebrae. Unfortunately, the cause is not skeletal or dermatological. Sometimes I get a... feeling or thought that is so bloody intense that I twitch from the pain. It's like being hit by lightning, only it happens several times a day. A short in my circuits throwing amps into incorrect places.
Any positive emotion has been obliterated. Maybe obliteration is not the correct term. Through the years they have atrophied to the point of uselessness. So now I must suffer through my days and nights without feeling anything but negative and painful emotions. But... it is to be expected given the damaged nature of my emotions.
I suppose this post has no point. I'm just venting because it is night, and as always I am alone and depressed.
Monday, August 2, 2010
The Chains That Bind Me
Well. Yesterday I got the chain tattoos on my wrists. I'm still somewhat amazed that I did it, but very glad that I did.
Not the highest quality picture and the color is tweaked beyond reality, but you get the point.
So why did I decide to get them? Well. The answer isn't straight forward. I didn't get them for looks, or for attention, or even because I like tattoos. The main reasons I got them: they are a symbol, and they mark a need for change.
Symbols are powerful. They can convey incredible amounts of information and evoke very basic emotions. For me, these chains symbolize a great many things. In Bioshock, they convey the chains that bind the character, and player's will. To me, each chain is a single word. "A man chooses. A slave obeys." Although these words are powerful, they are not the primary symbolic meaning. They mark the chains that I work every day to maintain, and simultaneously break. Through sheer willpower I keep myself together. "Strength through fire", another of my mottos. The chains bind me. The chains keep me in one piece. They keep me in check.
At the same time, I wish to change. Desperately. I want to become a man that a woman can call their boyfriend, or lover, or husband. A man that someone can be proud of and feel safe and comfortable when around me. Personally, I think I possess these traits already. Unfortunately others cannot see that. At least not initially. I have been doing various things to change, but it never seems to be enough. Maybe the new ink will be another step in the right direction. One can hope.
The week before going under the needle I was asked by told by multiple people "Make sure you will want the tattoos in 20 years." This is great advice, but impossible in practice. Nobody knows who they will be in 20 years. Or even in 5. Things always change. My reply to these statements, "I can't possibly answer that. What I can tell you is that I need to change, and these tattoos are a step in the right direction." People seem to understand that this is the truth.
Now I have chains on my wrists, and I like them. They are cool, nerdy, simple, and not too obtrusive.
Yesterday I changed my appearance effectively forever. Maybe that means that today I am a slightly different person. Again. One can hope.
So why did I decide to get them? Well. The answer isn't straight forward. I didn't get them for looks, or for attention, or even because I like tattoos. The main reasons I got them: they are a symbol, and they mark a need for change.
Symbols are powerful. They can convey incredible amounts of information and evoke very basic emotions. For me, these chains symbolize a great many things. In Bioshock, they convey the chains that bind the character, and player's will. To me, each chain is a single word. "A man chooses. A slave obeys." Although these words are powerful, they are not the primary symbolic meaning. They mark the chains that I work every day to maintain, and simultaneously break. Through sheer willpower I keep myself together. "Strength through fire", another of my mottos. The chains bind me. The chains keep me in one piece. They keep me in check.
At the same time, I wish to change. Desperately. I want to become a man that a woman can call their boyfriend, or lover, or husband. A man that someone can be proud of and feel safe and comfortable when around me. Personally, I think I possess these traits already. Unfortunately others cannot see that. At least not initially. I have been doing various things to change, but it never seems to be enough. Maybe the new ink will be another step in the right direction. One can hope.
The week before going under the needle I was asked by told by multiple people "Make sure you will want the tattoos in 20 years." This is great advice, but impossible in practice. Nobody knows who they will be in 20 years. Or even in 5. Things always change. My reply to these statements, "I can't possibly answer that. What I can tell you is that I need to change, and these tattoos are a step in the right direction." People seem to understand that this is the truth.
Now I have chains on my wrists, and I like them. They are cool, nerdy, simple, and not too obtrusive.
Yesterday I changed my appearance effectively forever. Maybe that means that today I am a slightly different person. Again. One can hope.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Existance. Now in pill form!
I have been taking antidepressants for about 1.5 years now. "Citalopram", specifically. It does nothing to remove my depression, but it seems to help with anxiety. That's all I really want. Anyway. I spaced taking a pill yesterday. After roughly 30 hours I begin to get withdrawal symptoms while my brain chemistry decides that being stable is no longer fun.
Withdrawal symptoms may include: hazy mind, headache, feeling faint, and feeling like you are dreaming. While in this state I refer to myself as "not existing" simply because everything feels like a fever dream. I move my head too quickly and I drop to 0% brainpower for half a second. Once I stop moving, I am nearly back to normal. The sensation is unpleasant, to say the least.
There is some confusion, though, on the origin of this feeling. The reason I began taking the medication was for precisely the same symptoms that I get during withdrawals. I felt floaty, disconnected, and felt as if I could pass out at any moment. Doctors figured it was an anxiety attack. Honestly, I have no idea what it was. I just wanted it gone. Maybe these meds are holding those problems at bay, and the feelings are not withdrawals.
In either case I have to take my antidepressants every night to exist. If I miss one night, I turn into an astronaut the next day. Luckily the pills are essentially free. My existence costs 15 cents a day. How about yours?
Withdrawal symptoms may include: hazy mind, headache, feeling faint, and feeling like you are dreaming. While in this state I refer to myself as "not existing" simply because everything feels like a fever dream. I move my head too quickly and I drop to 0% brainpower for half a second. Once I stop moving, I am nearly back to normal. The sensation is unpleasant, to say the least.
There is some confusion, though, on the origin of this feeling. The reason I began taking the medication was for precisely the same symptoms that I get during withdrawals. I felt floaty, disconnected, and felt as if I could pass out at any moment. Doctors figured it was an anxiety attack. Honestly, I have no idea what it was. I just wanted it gone. Maybe these meds are holding those problems at bay, and the feelings are not withdrawals.
In either case I have to take my antidepressants every night to exist. If I miss one night, I turn into an astronaut the next day. Luckily the pills are essentially free. My existence costs 15 cents a day. How about yours?
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A Piece of Me
I could describe myself in detail, or even show a picture. However, I do not feel that accurately portrays who I am. No little post can achieve that. I am no cliche, nor meme, nor simple man. The best I can do to convey who I am is to share with you a memory. One that is dear to me. Maybe then you can see just a small corner of the person behind the text.
This is a piece of me.
As a boy growing up in Montana I naturally enjoyed sledding in the winter months. My friends shared this sentiment. We often got together and marched high into the wooded hills of our backyards in search of the perfect slope. Perfect, in our eyes, simply meant no rocks or trees, and maybe if we were lucky some type of jump near the bottom. During one specific winter we almost succeeded in our hunt. Almost.
Two friends and I were about a mile from one of our houses and decided that the hill we found was perfect for a long, fast, sled ride. We hiked up to the peak of the slope, sleds towed behind, and prepared ourselves for the ride. My friends went first, both having a great time descending. My turn.
I jumped on my sled and began to accelerate. Soon I was going faster than I was comfortable with and the sled began to lose control. Thinking quickly I attempted to steer the sled into a slower incline. I failed. The sled tipped over, throwing me out. My body hit the snow, penetrating the small layer of fresh precipitation. My knee struck a stone hidden below and ripped a giant hole in my pants. Luckily by then I was frozen from the long trek to the hill and only felt the impact. I rolled for a time, and then finally stopped.
My friends were laughing playfully as they walked towards me. It was then that I noticed my torn pants and a growing discoloration around the area. I inspected the damage and found a massive gash covering most of my kneecap and blood was flowing steadily from the wound. My friends stopped laughing and decided the best plan of action was to use the sled as a makeshift stretcher for the mile journey to my friend's house. The hill quickly became too bumpy for this to work. So, not yet feeling any pain because of the cold, I grabbed a glove full of snow, jammed it on my destroyed knee, and began walking. I was struck by the humor of being a human strawberry snowcone machine.
About half way to safety the pain began. Even the snow was unable to stop it. Since I had no choice, I kept walking. The bleeding steadily got worse and worse until finally we reached the house. My friend's mother took our her tiny first aid kid and attempted to dress the wound. We tore the leg of my pants off and I could see how drenched my pants, shoes, and socks were. Red everywhere. My family was called, and I was taken to the ER.
This was the first time getting stitches, and it was an odd experience. After only 9 stitches I was released from the hospital with a huge bandage over my leg. I was told that I could not bend my knee for 3 weeks or else I would reopen the wound. I can tell you from experience: knees are important. Walking up stairs with 1 peg leg is rough!
Through all of this, even as a boy, I didn't cry or complain. I just did what I had to do because there was no other option.
This is a piece of me.
As a boy growing up in Montana I naturally enjoyed sledding in the winter months. My friends shared this sentiment. We often got together and marched high into the wooded hills of our backyards in search of the perfect slope. Perfect, in our eyes, simply meant no rocks or trees, and maybe if we were lucky some type of jump near the bottom. During one specific winter we almost succeeded in our hunt. Almost.
Two friends and I were about a mile from one of our houses and decided that the hill we found was perfect for a long, fast, sled ride. We hiked up to the peak of the slope, sleds towed behind, and prepared ourselves for the ride. My friends went first, both having a great time descending. My turn.
I jumped on my sled and began to accelerate. Soon I was going faster than I was comfortable with and the sled began to lose control. Thinking quickly I attempted to steer the sled into a slower incline. I failed. The sled tipped over, throwing me out. My body hit the snow, penetrating the small layer of fresh precipitation. My knee struck a stone hidden below and ripped a giant hole in my pants. Luckily by then I was frozen from the long trek to the hill and only felt the impact. I rolled for a time, and then finally stopped.
My friends were laughing playfully as they walked towards me. It was then that I noticed my torn pants and a growing discoloration around the area. I inspected the damage and found a massive gash covering most of my kneecap and blood was flowing steadily from the wound. My friends stopped laughing and decided the best plan of action was to use the sled as a makeshift stretcher for the mile journey to my friend's house. The hill quickly became too bumpy for this to work. So, not yet feeling any pain because of the cold, I grabbed a glove full of snow, jammed it on my destroyed knee, and began walking. I was struck by the humor of being a human strawberry snowcone machine.
About half way to safety the pain began. Even the snow was unable to stop it. Since I had no choice, I kept walking. The bleeding steadily got worse and worse until finally we reached the house. My friend's mother took our her tiny first aid kid and attempted to dress the wound. We tore the leg of my pants off and I could see how drenched my pants, shoes, and socks were. Red everywhere. My family was called, and I was taken to the ER.
This was the first time getting stitches, and it was an odd experience. After only 9 stitches I was released from the hospital with a huge bandage over my leg. I was told that I could not bend my knee for 3 weeks or else I would reopen the wound. I can tell you from experience: knees are important. Walking up stairs with 1 peg leg is rough!
Through all of this, even as a boy, I didn't cry or complain. I just did what I had to do because there was no other option.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
An Alien's Point of View: The Gym
There is a writing exercise I often ran into growing up. Describe something like you were talking to an alien from outer space. What follows is a slight modification of that practice: a normal situation as described by an outer space alien. Today the alien goes to the gym.
I enter the rudimentary airlocks at the front of the structure. Inside lies a console with bipedal beings at the ready. To enter, you must present some type of identification device. If you have the proper credentials you are allowed passage into a long, tiled hallway. After ascending some steps, you reach a very peculiar room filled with pulleys, shaped metal tubes, and iron plates.
From what I can tell, the bipeds on the mechanisms are being tortured. All of the beings have a strange look on their faces, as if in pain. They also appear to be trying to escape the machines, but failing repeatedly. I fail to see how they possibly manage that considering they have full control over the resistance applied to their awkward bodies. After numerous tries, they do eventually escape their prisons and move on only to be trapped by others. Maybe the structure houses experiments that modify behavior. That would explain the airlocks and security. Their behavior simply cannot be normal.
One behavior I find especially striking. Several bipeds seem to voluntarily place themselves on circular tracks and flee from some unknown force. Even stranger, next to the fleeing bipeds are a type of step simulator. Maybe they are attempting to reach the top of the structure? Hm. They could be generating power. That would explain the repetitive behavior. Yes...
My final hypothesis is that this area is not a torture chamber or an experimental lab, but a generator. A subset of bipeds are chosen to come to this place every day and move around to generate energy. For what reason, I cannot say. Someone should tell them that the energy generated is not enough to make up for the food they must eat to complete the work.
All they are achieving is to waste time, energy, and increase the universes entropy. Silly bipeds.
I enter the rudimentary airlocks at the front of the structure. Inside lies a console with bipedal beings at the ready. To enter, you must present some type of identification device. If you have the proper credentials you are allowed passage into a long, tiled hallway. After ascending some steps, you reach a very peculiar room filled with pulleys, shaped metal tubes, and iron plates.
From what I can tell, the bipeds on the mechanisms are being tortured. All of the beings have a strange look on their faces, as if in pain. They also appear to be trying to escape the machines, but failing repeatedly. I fail to see how they possibly manage that considering they have full control over the resistance applied to their awkward bodies. After numerous tries, they do eventually escape their prisons and move on only to be trapped by others. Maybe the structure houses experiments that modify behavior. That would explain the airlocks and security. Their behavior simply cannot be normal.
One behavior I find especially striking. Several bipeds seem to voluntarily place themselves on circular tracks and flee from some unknown force. Even stranger, next to the fleeing bipeds are a type of step simulator. Maybe they are attempting to reach the top of the structure? Hm. They could be generating power. That would explain the repetitive behavior. Yes...
My final hypothesis is that this area is not a torture chamber or an experimental lab, but a generator. A subset of bipeds are chosen to come to this place every day and move around to generate energy. For what reason, I cannot say. Someone should tell them that the energy generated is not enough to make up for the food they must eat to complete the work.
All they are achieving is to waste time, energy, and increase the universes entropy. Silly bipeds.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Oh, Death.
Let me begin by stating an obvious fact: we all die. We all know this. We learn it at a very young age, and it is profound. For many of us, this knowledge is intensely destructive. I can understand why such understanding can be paralyzing, but I never shared in the terror.
The fear of death is something that is terribly difficult to escape. Imagine. One day you will breath your last breath and fade from this universe. You will be gone. Forever. Nobody will ever see you, hear you, smell you, taste you. This description is horrifying for most. Again, I can understand why. You never have enough time to do all you want to do. On top of that, your death may cause severe harm for your family or friends. So many negative outcomes can be realized upon death. But. We know it is coming. We may not know the day or time, but we know it is inevitable.
Why fear the inevitable? I suffer from this trap. I often fear of the future. What will tomorrow bring? The unknown is what gives me pause. Maybe that is why we fear death. It is not that we will cease to exist, but that we have no information beyond that moment. The unknown of death is beyond all measure and description.
I do not fear death. I had to face death for about a year growing up. I was sick, you see, and the doctors kept asking me questions on whether I had a growth in my brain. The sickness turned out to be non-life threatening, but spending a year thinking you are dying when you are 16 can cause some changes. For a long while I had dreams of dying. Some people say that if you die in your dreams you die in real life. Don't listen to those people. I hit the pavement during many a dream fall. The point is: if you process death and come to terms with it, the fear of death has little hold. I was unfortunate enough to find this out first hand.
I think, though, people do not have to go through such an experience to be free of the destructive nature of the fear. Simply embracing the fact that we die, like so many cultures in the past, helps free us from the paralysis. We cannot lie to ourselves, or hide the truth. We must absolutely understand that one day you will die. No anti-aging cream or plastic surgery will stop it. You will die. If you are lucky, you will get old before hand. That's just another part of life.
Death and Taxes. Of the two, I say fear taxes.
The fear of death is something that is terribly difficult to escape. Imagine. One day you will breath your last breath and fade from this universe. You will be gone. Forever. Nobody will ever see you, hear you, smell you, taste you. This description is horrifying for most. Again, I can understand why. You never have enough time to do all you want to do. On top of that, your death may cause severe harm for your family or friends. So many negative outcomes can be realized upon death. But. We know it is coming. We may not know the day or time, but we know it is inevitable.
Why fear the inevitable? I suffer from this trap. I often fear of the future. What will tomorrow bring? The unknown is what gives me pause. Maybe that is why we fear death. It is not that we will cease to exist, but that we have no information beyond that moment. The unknown of death is beyond all measure and description.
I do not fear death. I had to face death for about a year growing up. I was sick, you see, and the doctors kept asking me questions on whether I had a growth in my brain. The sickness turned out to be non-life threatening, but spending a year thinking you are dying when you are 16 can cause some changes. For a long while I had dreams of dying. Some people say that if you die in your dreams you die in real life. Don't listen to those people. I hit the pavement during many a dream fall. The point is: if you process death and come to terms with it, the fear of death has little hold. I was unfortunate enough to find this out first hand.
I think, though, people do not have to go through such an experience to be free of the destructive nature of the fear. Simply embracing the fact that we die, like so many cultures in the past, helps free us from the paralysis. We cannot lie to ourselves, or hide the truth. We must absolutely understand that one day you will die. No anti-aging cream or plastic surgery will stop it. You will die. If you are lucky, you will get old before hand. That's just another part of life.
Death and Taxes. Of the two, I say fear taxes.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
The Need
I am done living alone. I am done being the quiet man who puts his head down and simply exists. I need a relationship. Need it like food or water or air. The Need is great, and I can no longer stand for it.
Being lonely starts off as a cold, empty feeling. You feel as if you are missing something, but you can't exactly understand what. Through time this feeling grows until you are choking on it. Every night burns the feeling deeper into your mind. You lie awake at night and stare at your ceiling wishing you did not have to suffer being alone for one more second. After a while the loneliness stops growing. For a while this is a great thing. But eventually you realize that you are simply becoming more used the feeling. You grow so used to being alone that you forget about it for a time. Then something happens that brings it all back in force.
The event that awakens the loneliness could be anything. It can be as benign as walking along a street or as profound as falling in love. Make no mistake. If you spend enough time feeling alone this moment will come. There is no way to prepare. You will be crushed. You will suffer.
From there loneliness continues growing, but now it is far worse. The feeling won't stop expanding until nothing is left of you. You thought you were choking before but you realize now... you are drowning. Every attractive person you see adds another gallon to the lake of singularity.
Finally, you explicitly realize that loneliness is no longer an option. You either start looking for someone or you give up and drown in the pain.
I have made my choice. The Need wins. I will find someone. I will fight, tooth and nail, against loneliness and I will be victorious.
Being lonely starts off as a cold, empty feeling. You feel as if you are missing something, but you can't exactly understand what. Through time this feeling grows until you are choking on it. Every night burns the feeling deeper into your mind. You lie awake at night and stare at your ceiling wishing you did not have to suffer being alone for one more second. After a while the loneliness stops growing. For a while this is a great thing. But eventually you realize that you are simply becoming more used the feeling. You grow so used to being alone that you forget about it for a time. Then something happens that brings it all back in force.
The event that awakens the loneliness could be anything. It can be as benign as walking along a street or as profound as falling in love. Make no mistake. If you spend enough time feeling alone this moment will come. There is no way to prepare. You will be crushed. You will suffer.
From there loneliness continues growing, but now it is far worse. The feeling won't stop expanding until nothing is left of you. You thought you were choking before but you realize now... you are drowning. Every attractive person you see adds another gallon to the lake of singularity.
Finally, you explicitly realize that loneliness is no longer an option. You either start looking for someone or you give up and drown in the pain.
I have made my choice. The Need wins. I will find someone. I will fight, tooth and nail, against loneliness and I will be victorious.
Fury
"Rage. Rage against the dying of the light."
Over the physically and emotionally painful years I have lost much of my emotional capacity. Happiness has been mutilated, sadness has been numbed into oblivion, and fear has been ripped to shreds. Anger. Anger has not been reduced in any capacity. In fact, it is more intense now.
The similarity between fury and fire is obvious. They both burn and consume and expand when given any fuel. Both can keep you warm in the cold times or burn you if you let it get out of control. Out of the two, fury is the worst. Anger is terribly difficult to stamp out. The more you try, the more it fights back. Through time the madness seems to spontaneously ignite itself. It becomes uncontrollable and dangerous to anyone around you, including yourself. The emotion can consume you whole. I struggle daily against my final, furious emotion. But instead of trying to extinguish the flames I try to force it into a fuel source.
I use the rage to keep me going. When depression hits me like an avalanche I push back with the full force of my fury. So far the technique has served me well. Every day is treated like a combat scenario and the rage keeps me powering through it all. As you can imagine, this technique is not without its drawbacks.
Like a boiler used to keep a building war, fury requires a constant fuel source. The more you feed it, the harder it becomes to let it subside. Soon you realize that the power you rely upon is eating you alive and leaving nothing but ash. You are a man on fire. A man of fire.
I was this man of flame for a long time. Maybe that has not changed. Lately, though, either the forces around me have become too strong or my furious fuel has been dwindling. And... I think I'm alright with that. Enough of me has been exhausted from the internal blaze.
The light died long ago. Time to stop raging against it and find a new fuel source.
Over the physically and emotionally painful years I have lost much of my emotional capacity. Happiness has been mutilated, sadness has been numbed into oblivion, and fear has been ripped to shreds. Anger. Anger has not been reduced in any capacity. In fact, it is more intense now.
The similarity between fury and fire is obvious. They both burn and consume and expand when given any fuel. Both can keep you warm in the cold times or burn you if you let it get out of control. Out of the two, fury is the worst. Anger is terribly difficult to stamp out. The more you try, the more it fights back. Through time the madness seems to spontaneously ignite itself. It becomes uncontrollable and dangerous to anyone around you, including yourself. The emotion can consume you whole. I struggle daily against my final, furious emotion. But instead of trying to extinguish the flames I try to force it into a fuel source.
I use the rage to keep me going. When depression hits me like an avalanche I push back with the full force of my fury. So far the technique has served me well. Every day is treated like a combat scenario and the rage keeps me powering through it all. As you can imagine, this technique is not without its drawbacks.
Like a boiler used to keep a building war, fury requires a constant fuel source. The more you feed it, the harder it becomes to let it subside. Soon you realize that the power you rely upon is eating you alive and leaving nothing but ash. You are a man on fire. A man of fire.
I was this man of flame for a long time. Maybe that has not changed. Lately, though, either the forces around me have become too strong or my furious fuel has been dwindling. And... I think I'm alright with that. Enough of me has been exhausted from the internal blaze.
The light died long ago. Time to stop raging against it and find a new fuel source.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Statistics
This all occurred during my last semester in college.
In my statistics class I sat behind a woman that I was entirely infatuated with. She was beautiful and smart and nice and sweet. Enough so that all of my defenses started to collapse, and I decided to attempt to ask her out. This may not seem like a difficult thing, but to me it is beyond monumental. I do not know why such a simple and common action can be so exceptionally difficult for me, but it is. I can talk, joke, and even make women laugh without issue, but past that things become rough.
I spent the entire semester sitting one seat behind and one seat to the right of this woman. I studied how she moved, thought, interacted, and learned. She was amazing. Near the end of the semester I overheard she was holding a presentation for her other major, dance, during some national conference held at the campus. I decided to go and try to understand something she loves and then ask her out afterward. After waiting a couple weeks for the day to come I followed through with the first half of my plan. I saw her nervously, but confidently, give her presentation and then give us a several minute long example of the dance type. Even with all of my apathy and callous emotions I still think it to be one of the most beautiful sights I have beheld.
After the presentation I waited outside of the room for her. During this time a few people were talking next to me about random things. Slowly their conversation began to shift to the woman of my affection. They began to talk about how they were friends, and how she was gorgeous. Finally one of them mentioned that she had a boyfriend and then pointed down the hallway as he finally arrived. For a moment I simply stood there and thought. I knew this to be a likely possibility. I figure any woman I am attracted to in that magnitude must be engaged in some relationship. Even with this understanding it came as a shock. I slowly stood up straight, replaced my non-shaded lenses with my shades, straightened them, and walked calmly down the hallway and out of the building. I recall it being a bright, sunny, and hot day. I recall feeling nothing for many days afterward.
These type of situations stick in my mind for months. They dig into me like needles and infect any associated memory with greater darkness. Personal failures never fade easily, if ever. In certain situations, this being one of them, it hurts enough for me to blow an emotional "fuse", and I am incapable of feeling emotions until it mends. After the hole heals there is a little less of me left and a little more scar tissue.
Yet I am still here and still trying to find someone. Scar tissue and all. Often I still feel like I am still standing in the hallway and waiting for that amazing woman to emerge, but I still try. I still fail. All I need is for one attempt to succeed. Just once.
In my statistics class I sat behind a woman that I was entirely infatuated with. She was beautiful and smart and nice and sweet. Enough so that all of my defenses started to collapse, and I decided to attempt to ask her out. This may not seem like a difficult thing, but to me it is beyond monumental. I do not know why such a simple and common action can be so exceptionally difficult for me, but it is. I can talk, joke, and even make women laugh without issue, but past that things become rough.
I spent the entire semester sitting one seat behind and one seat to the right of this woman. I studied how she moved, thought, interacted, and learned. She was amazing. Near the end of the semester I overheard she was holding a presentation for her other major, dance, during some national conference held at the campus. I decided to go and try to understand something she loves and then ask her out afterward. After waiting a couple weeks for the day to come I followed through with the first half of my plan. I saw her nervously, but confidently, give her presentation and then give us a several minute long example of the dance type. Even with all of my apathy and callous emotions I still think it to be one of the most beautiful sights I have beheld.
After the presentation I waited outside of the room for her. During this time a few people were talking next to me about random things. Slowly their conversation began to shift to the woman of my affection. They began to talk about how they were friends, and how she was gorgeous. Finally one of them mentioned that she had a boyfriend and then pointed down the hallway as he finally arrived. For a moment I simply stood there and thought. I knew this to be a likely possibility. I figure any woman I am attracted to in that magnitude must be engaged in some relationship. Even with this understanding it came as a shock. I slowly stood up straight, replaced my non-shaded lenses with my shades, straightened them, and walked calmly down the hallway and out of the building. I recall it being a bright, sunny, and hot day. I recall feeling nothing for many days afterward.
These type of situations stick in my mind for months. They dig into me like needles and infect any associated memory with greater darkness. Personal failures never fade easily, if ever. In certain situations, this being one of them, it hurts enough for me to blow an emotional "fuse", and I am incapable of feeling emotions until it mends. After the hole heals there is a little less of me left and a little more scar tissue.
Yet I am still here and still trying to find someone. Scar tissue and all. Often I still feel like I am still standing in the hallway and waiting for that amazing woman to emerge, but I still try. I still fail. All I need is for one attempt to succeed. Just once.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Casualties of "The Pursuit"
Depression is seen as something to be annihilated. Society teaches us that if we are not happy, then something is terribly wrong. I believe, though, that happiness is not a likely state. In fact, it is an unstable equilibrium. Imagine happiness is being on top of a very tall, very steep mountain. A wrong step and you go tumbling down. Depression, on the other hand is the bottom of a deep valley. It is hard to climb out, but the equilibrium is rock steady.
There is no denying that depression can be a very bad thing. It is painful, lonely, and can be highly physically dangerous. I do wonder, though, if depressions more dangerous side effects are amplified by societies need for happiness. I have long called the need for happiness "The Pursuit" (if it is not obvious this is from the quote "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" in the US Declaration). Not only do depressed people have to deal with the madness that haunts them, but they are forced to feel more like an outsider. Society does not want them. Depression is like being emotionally homeless. People just pass you by.
Another funny trait about being depressed: most of us feel utterly alone in our depression. We feel like nobody else can understand. Obviously this is a ludicrous assumption. Still it remains firmly embedded. My family consists of 4 people. Of those 4 at least 3 of us have depression. Yet, none of us talk about it. We prefer to burn individually. For me, I justify the individuality by saying I am protecting them. They do not need any more burden, and I prefer to keep it from them. Maybe that is how most depressed people feel.
I suppose the whole point of this post is simply to ponder the nature of The Pursuit and its effects on depressed individuals. I have first hand experience in this situation, so the topic interests me. All around me I see people around my age desperately seeking happiness in any of its forms. To me, it seems like an extreme waste of energy. So much time is wasted drinking, playing, and chasing an ephemeral idea that will inevitably flee from your grasp.
The casualties of The Pursuit are two fold: people like me, and the ones still in the race. Nobody wins.
There is no denying that depression can be a very bad thing. It is painful, lonely, and can be highly physically dangerous. I do wonder, though, if depressions more dangerous side effects are amplified by societies need for happiness. I have long called the need for happiness "The Pursuit" (if it is not obvious this is from the quote "Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" in the US Declaration). Not only do depressed people have to deal with the madness that haunts them, but they are forced to feel more like an outsider. Society does not want them. Depression is like being emotionally homeless. People just pass you by.
Another funny trait about being depressed: most of us feel utterly alone in our depression. We feel like nobody else can understand. Obviously this is a ludicrous assumption. Still it remains firmly embedded. My family consists of 4 people. Of those 4 at least 3 of us have depression. Yet, none of us talk about it. We prefer to burn individually. For me, I justify the individuality by saying I am protecting them. They do not need any more burden, and I prefer to keep it from them. Maybe that is how most depressed people feel.
I suppose the whole point of this post is simply to ponder the nature of The Pursuit and its effects on depressed individuals. I have first hand experience in this situation, so the topic interests me. All around me I see people around my age desperately seeking happiness in any of its forms. To me, it seems like an extreme waste of energy. So much time is wasted drinking, playing, and chasing an ephemeral idea that will inevitably flee from your grasp.
The casualties of The Pursuit are two fold: people like me, and the ones still in the race. Nobody wins.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
The Tattoo
I have been debating on getting my first tattoo. Being a gamer there is only one tattoo I want. The wrist chains from Bioshock.
Image of the actual tattoo (undecided on A or B):
The consensus is that it matches my personality well. It is nerdy, easy to conceal, and it's a chain. Wait... I can't exactly remember why it matches me. But I like it. I think it's cool. Damn anyone else who cares. Still, I have some apprehension on getting a tattoo, let alone my first in such a visible area. When I go to job interviews I will have to cover them up. Long sleeves will suffice. Maybe a set of watches.
While talking with my brother about getting the tat (I probably just invented that slang) our conversation spiraled into silliness, as it usually does. I decided that getting my first tattoo is only 1 of a 2 stage plan. Stage 2: get a bullet bandoleer tattooed on my leg or around my torso. This would allow me many options in the adult film industry later. Gotta keep my options open.
A man chooses. A slave obeys. A nerd possibly gets a nerd tattoo.
The consensus is that it matches my personality well. It is nerdy, easy to conceal, and it's a chain. Wait... I can't exactly remember why it matches me. But I like it. I think it's cool. Damn anyone else who cares. Still, I have some apprehension on getting a tattoo, let alone my first in such a visible area. When I go to job interviews I will have to cover them up. Long sleeves will suffice. Maybe a set of watches.
While talking with my brother about getting the tat (I probably just invented that slang) our conversation spiraled into silliness, as it usually does. I decided that getting my first tattoo is only 1 of a 2 stage plan. Stage 2: get a bullet bandoleer tattooed on my leg or around my torso. This would allow me many options in the adult film industry later. Gotta keep my options open.
A man chooses. A slave obeys. A nerd possibly gets a nerd tattoo.
Monday, July 19, 2010
The Force Of Attraction
I have been contemplating a great number of things recently. Among them has been the nature of attraction between two people. My scientific mind first conjures up memories of gravitational movement equations. I suppose the word "attraction" triggers that thought. What force draws two people together? What force allows the bond to remain? The amount of lurking variables in these queries are infinite and thus impossible to fully understand. Still, I try to make sense of the chaos. Let us try to tackle these two questions independently and view a few specific sections of the impossible questions.
What force draws two people together? To me, the best place to start looking at this question is at the first moment of attraction. Just like in physics, two objects will remain traveling as-is until acted on by an outside force. For humans, this most often by sight. We see someone and are either attracted or repelled from them. Note that this force is frequently not strong enough to cause any actual usable attraction. We see plenty of people every day we find beautiful, but we take no action. No, I believe that sight may be the first step in generation enough momentum, but it is not strong enough by itself.
The force of attraction must be compounded with other elements. After sight we often notice how the person sounds, acts, and smells. While they may not all be pleasant at first, the force required only has to be enough to propel both bodies towards each other. This is, unfortunately, harder to achieve than it should be. For the sake of simplification, let us call this required force the "Event Horizon" of attraction. This event horizon cannot be defined the same way as a black hole. In our case the "EH" of two people simply means that after the first meeting they want more of each other. Every meeting after that will then have its own EH. Using this definition we see that to be attracted over the long term requires a certain momentum that propels the parties through to the next EH. To me this feels like a linear magnetic accelerator.
The ball is the attraction between the two people and the magnets signify the EH between each meeting. With a magnetic accelerator we see that each ball moves faster when hitting each magnet. Again, this is not the case with romance. In romance the ball(attraction) randomly changes speeds and even reverses course for no reason. We can only hope that, in the end, the force was enough to make a bond.
At some point the event horizon / magnetic accelerator metaphor breaks down. We must then move on into a more stable and less chaotic model. When I think of a working long term relationship I think of two binary orbiting bodies.
The relationship is the velocity vector between the two bodies. As you can see the force between them is not equal. In real life, this makes sense. One person often has a little more pull, or power, in a relationship. The metaphor goes deeper. Just like the video, relationships have their fast and slow times. They ebb and flow. None of this really addresses the posed question. Let's get back to that.
What force allows the relationship bond to remain? In the same way that attraction was additive, so is the bond force. To hold a couple together requires a massive multitude of little things all adding up to enough strength to keep each person orbiting the other. With all the tiny interactions and forces flying about, chaos is rampant. To hold the two bodies together requires a reduction of chaos over time, and thus increasing stability over time. I think that is key. For two people to stay together their orbits must relax to a point where neither of the masses have to work at cycling each other.
Sometimes a much more massive body flies by and rips one or both of the masses apart. Newton, the bastard, loves to point out that sometimes things are outside our own control. Sometimes there is an external force greater than ourselves. No matter how hard we try someone can be ripped from us as easily as scissors through paper.
All we can do is try. Try to find the attraction force. Try to find the bonding force. Try to find that other body to orbit.
What force draws two people together? To me, the best place to start looking at this question is at the first moment of attraction. Just like in physics, two objects will remain traveling as-is until acted on by an outside force. For humans, this most often by sight. We see someone and are either attracted or repelled from them. Note that this force is frequently not strong enough to cause any actual usable attraction. We see plenty of people every day we find beautiful, but we take no action. No, I believe that sight may be the first step in generation enough momentum, but it is not strong enough by itself.
The force of attraction must be compounded with other elements. After sight we often notice how the person sounds, acts, and smells. While they may not all be pleasant at first, the force required only has to be enough to propel both bodies towards each other. This is, unfortunately, harder to achieve than it should be. For the sake of simplification, let us call this required force the "Event Horizon" of attraction. This event horizon cannot be defined the same way as a black hole. In our case the "EH" of two people simply means that after the first meeting they want more of each other. Every meeting after that will then have its own EH. Using this definition we see that to be attracted over the long term requires a certain momentum that propels the parties through to the next EH. To me this feels like a linear magnetic accelerator.
The ball is the attraction between the two people and the magnets signify the EH between each meeting. With a magnetic accelerator we see that each ball moves faster when hitting each magnet. Again, this is not the case with romance. In romance the ball(attraction) randomly changes speeds and even reverses course for no reason. We can only hope that, in the end, the force was enough to make a bond.
At some point the event horizon / magnetic accelerator metaphor breaks down. We must then move on into a more stable and less chaotic model. When I think of a working long term relationship I think of two binary orbiting bodies.
The relationship is the velocity vector between the two bodies. As you can see the force between them is not equal. In real life, this makes sense. One person often has a little more pull, or power, in a relationship. The metaphor goes deeper. Just like the video, relationships have their fast and slow times. They ebb and flow. None of this really addresses the posed question. Let's get back to that.
What force allows the relationship bond to remain? In the same way that attraction was additive, so is the bond force. To hold a couple together requires a massive multitude of little things all adding up to enough strength to keep each person orbiting the other. With all the tiny interactions and forces flying about, chaos is rampant. To hold the two bodies together requires a reduction of chaos over time, and thus increasing stability over time. I think that is key. For two people to stay together their orbits must relax to a point where neither of the masses have to work at cycling each other.
Sometimes a much more massive body flies by and rips one or both of the masses apart. Newton, the bastard, loves to point out that sometimes things are outside our own control. Sometimes there is an external force greater than ourselves. No matter how hard we try someone can be ripped from us as easily as scissors through paper.
All we can do is try. Try to find the attraction force. Try to find the bonding force. Try to find that other body to orbit.
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