If I spent the first few moments of writing in this blog/diary explaining or trying to vindicate why I haven't opsted for a while I suppose I would do this activity all the time. Writing in this blog is like talking to a friend. Although I have a few friends; it seems that very few of them are on my side and are allies in my battle against my depression and increasing sense of despair. I stay guarded from my friends and family. I entertain a position of silence and submissiveness. The other day I felt a flash of anger, I wanted to insult people and assert onto them a sense of superiority from my masters degree and greater wisdom and intelligence as well as being physically imposing. I then paused to think that being angry and violent to people is like a fantasy to me.
My anger fantasy is my desperate desire to want to have control. I suppose it is like the rapist's anti-feminist assertion of power over women; the desperate want to assert brute and mindless power by inciting fear and sexual violence. I think that anger is in all of us and I am by no means a sexually angry person. My anger, however, reflects that deep down I have a sense of grandeur inside me, a desperate need that I want to achieve a powerful place by means of working hard to where I want to be.
My life right now represents everything that is antithetical to that. I am powerless, if I visit my ex girlfriend I willhave to be amicable to a man who is a complete fuck. As I type this I feel a desire to throw down my table and scream. I've learned in the past that if I were to throw something down in anger, I would have to pick it up, and probably repair, or dispose of a destroyed object. There is nothing more humiliating than seeing the results of your anger than picking up the pieces of what you have thrown about and destroyed. I suppose my life is like that in another sense. My life right now is so because of my lack of persistence at finding a job; my lack of effort during my MA studies and the explanations of my subsequent rejections from PhD programmes; I am living with my parents as a result of my lack of committment with the woman whom I had loved very much, warts and all. Now she is with a man as old as my dad and she intends to have another child, with him.
*Pause typing to cry*. End pause
Writing down these feelings, I in part imagine to be some form of catharsis. I do not realistically envisage any kind of catharsis in depression. All that happens is that you cry, and cry some more, and cry because you have spent so much of your life crying and not doing. It would seem that a solution to this is not to listen to this desire to give in to the dark feelings and despair. This can be difficult because there is a certain indulgence that is being denied when we deny our feelings. Aristotle writes about the positive nature of catharsis for the moral life of a person. Is it for me, a positive, or even tangible thing to engage in catharsis? Is depression perhaps, just an endless wailing of tears, if I had allowed it to be? I think it is the latter.
In writing this post I have kept a list of things that I wanted to talk about. I listed definitive things that I wanted to list down and I have also let myself go free forming on my thoughts and feelings as I imagine that I will come up with new thoughts and feelings as I type this down. Writing this methodological remark encapsulates this latterly spontenaity. I also realise that my grammar and lexicon are more of my own mind when I type this. In normal life, like when I humbly sit in the queue at the job centre , or am talking to my parents, or some friend or family member who is asking about my current hell of unemployment; I dumb down, and I feel that I slowly accept a droll cockney ignorance. This blog, this diary of my thoughts may be the only preservation of myself in this battle against myself and my mental death. I suppose that is why I feel so eager to type here. When I talk to my ex on the phone, she seems reluctant to talk to me because my phone has a very weak microphone and she cannot hear me. It is usual that I speak too quietly on the phone. When I speak to others, I speak with a quiet sense of defeat, and I wish not to talk to anyone at all. I prefer the comfort of groups because when you are with more than two people; you can hide behind both of them whilst giving the appearance of conversing. There is not a profound and intimate interrogation of one's personal life in the group conversation, except, of course, when the whole group turns on me. That situation I somewhat dread. I am being slowly led to an insight about group conversation. Some people, my dad, for example, seem to dominate a conversation in a way that is entirely negative. To push a certain agenda constantly or single topic of conversation; conversely, to change the subject to irrelevant matters or not to stick to a subject at all, seems to put the art of conversation to a detriment. Constant non-sequiturs are common among people I have talked to; sometimes changing the subject is apt. I fear, after typing this down, that I may excercise this.
*Pause, to reflect, and cry a little*. End pause.
Just now I have unveiled a revelation about myself which I think triggered a sense of upset. I reacted to this by my desire to purge. I then paused, took a hankerchief from my interview suit to wipe my tears, stare in the mirror, sit on the floor and think through some things, and then I weighed myself. My weight is 218.8; that is for all concerns and interests, my 'default weight'. I've lost 2lbs since my last reading. That is a positive sign. I'm going to play up the positives as much as I can.
What I realised just now is that there was a time when I was with my ex and the man who is now her partner. This guy talks a lot of shit, and being academic and intellectual, I felt obliged to tell him that he misunderstood the theory of relativity and he should consider the background of the developments of 19thC mathematics that underlie the theoretical physics of Einstein. This man talked a lot of shit about hexagons and new age glossy pseudoscience without any knowledge of mathematics, physics or the philosophy of science. I tried to explain some basics of classical logic to him and he kept going off on a digression about antrhopomorphised depictions of the universe. I often think about this conversation because there are so many flaws in the argumentation of his that I need to bring up all of my skills against him.
Later on it was said by my now ex that she felt uncomfortable in the environment, 'energy' - so she calls it. Because I dmoinated in a conversation that made her feel not only uncomfortable but unable to be herself. This immediately connected when I thought of my dad and his style of conversation. I have adopted a subtle and very negative flaw of his. Being silence, and embracing the silence in a conversation, in a sense, making a strong effort not to be the person I normally want to be, is liberating.
I have decided to break up my thoughts into multiple posts. I feel after typing and emotionally exploring for an hour that I cannot emotionally write anymore, or probe into my thoughts. On my list, I have more to say.
My anger fantasy is my desperate desire to want to have control. I suppose it is like the rapist's anti-feminist assertion of power over women; the desperate want to assert brute and mindless power by inciting fear and sexual violence. I think that anger is in all of us and I am by no means a sexually angry person. My anger, however, reflects that deep down I have a sense of grandeur inside me, a desperate need that I want to achieve a powerful place by means of working hard to where I want to be.
My life right now represents everything that is antithetical to that. I am powerless, if I visit my ex girlfriend I willhave to be amicable to a man who is a complete fuck. As I type this I feel a desire to throw down my table and scream. I've learned in the past that if I were to throw something down in anger, I would have to pick it up, and probably repair, or dispose of a destroyed object. There is nothing more humiliating than seeing the results of your anger than picking up the pieces of what you have thrown about and destroyed. I suppose my life is like that in another sense. My life right now is so because of my lack of persistence at finding a job; my lack of effort during my MA studies and the explanations of my subsequent rejections from PhD programmes; I am living with my parents as a result of my lack of committment with the woman whom I had loved very much, warts and all. Now she is with a man as old as my dad and she intends to have another child, with him.
*Pause typing to cry*. End pause
Writing down these feelings, I in part imagine to be some form of catharsis. I do not realistically envisage any kind of catharsis in depression. All that happens is that you cry, and cry some more, and cry because you have spent so much of your life crying and not doing. It would seem that a solution to this is not to listen to this desire to give in to the dark feelings and despair. This can be difficult because there is a certain indulgence that is being denied when we deny our feelings. Aristotle writes about the positive nature of catharsis for the moral life of a person. Is it for me, a positive, or even tangible thing to engage in catharsis? Is depression perhaps, just an endless wailing of tears, if I had allowed it to be? I think it is the latter.
In writing this post I have kept a list of things that I wanted to talk about. I listed definitive things that I wanted to list down and I have also let myself go free forming on my thoughts and feelings as I imagine that I will come up with new thoughts and feelings as I type this down. Writing this methodological remark encapsulates this latterly spontenaity. I also realise that my grammar and lexicon are more of my own mind when I type this. In normal life, like when I humbly sit in the queue at the job centre , or am talking to my parents, or some friend or family member who is asking about my current hell of unemployment; I dumb down, and I feel that I slowly accept a droll cockney ignorance. This blog, this diary of my thoughts may be the only preservation of myself in this battle against myself and my mental death. I suppose that is why I feel so eager to type here. When I talk to my ex on the phone, she seems reluctant to talk to me because my phone has a very weak microphone and she cannot hear me. It is usual that I speak too quietly on the phone. When I speak to others, I speak with a quiet sense of defeat, and I wish not to talk to anyone at all. I prefer the comfort of groups because when you are with more than two people; you can hide behind both of them whilst giving the appearance of conversing. There is not a profound and intimate interrogation of one's personal life in the group conversation, except, of course, when the whole group turns on me. That situation I somewhat dread. I am being slowly led to an insight about group conversation. Some people, my dad, for example, seem to dominate a conversation in a way that is entirely negative. To push a certain agenda constantly or single topic of conversation; conversely, to change the subject to irrelevant matters or not to stick to a subject at all, seems to put the art of conversation to a detriment. Constant non-sequiturs are common among people I have talked to; sometimes changing the subject is apt. I fear, after typing this down, that I may excercise this.
*Pause, to reflect, and cry a little*. End pause.
Just now I have unveiled a revelation about myself which I think triggered a sense of upset. I reacted to this by my desire to purge. I then paused, took a hankerchief from my interview suit to wipe my tears, stare in the mirror, sit on the floor and think through some things, and then I weighed myself. My weight is 218.8; that is for all concerns and interests, my 'default weight'. I've lost 2lbs since my last reading. That is a positive sign. I'm going to play up the positives as much as I can.
What I realised just now is that there was a time when I was with my ex and the man who is now her partner. This guy talks a lot of shit, and being academic and intellectual, I felt obliged to tell him that he misunderstood the theory of relativity and he should consider the background of the developments of 19thC mathematics that underlie the theoretical physics of Einstein. This man talked a lot of shit about hexagons and new age glossy pseudoscience without any knowledge of mathematics, physics or the philosophy of science. I tried to explain some basics of classical logic to him and he kept going off on a digression about antrhopomorphised depictions of the universe. I often think about this conversation because there are so many flaws in the argumentation of his that I need to bring up all of my skills against him.
Later on it was said by my now ex that she felt uncomfortable in the environment, 'energy' - so she calls it. Because I dmoinated in a conversation that made her feel not only uncomfortable but unable to be herself. This immediately connected when I thought of my dad and his style of conversation. I have adopted a subtle and very negative flaw of his. Being silence, and embracing the silence in a conversation, in a sense, making a strong effort not to be the person I normally want to be, is liberating.
I have decided to break up my thoughts into multiple posts. I feel after typing and emotionally exploring for an hour that I cannot emotionally write anymore, or probe into my thoughts. On my list, I have more to say.
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