a partial dissection of self

It is difficult to accurately assess how and what I am feeling at this moment. Obviously it is impossible to objectively evaluate the rationality of my emotions because they are my emotions, so just how does a man as self-conscious as myself know which feelings can be attributed to my illness and which emotions are a result of my wandering mind? What I mean is: I'm acutely aware of the mind's tendency to process and extrapolate information. If a man is ill, he understands – on many levels, conscious and subconscious – there are feelings, or symptoms, both physical and emotional, associated with his sickness. (And when I speak of sickness, I'm speaking of all forms – physical [influenza, a cold, upset stomach, migraine, etc.] and emotional [depression, bipolar disorder, etc.].) Just how many of those symptoms can be directly attributed to the sickness is speculation, because the mind works in strangely powerful ways. See the placebo effect, or somatoform disorder. I have little doubt that some of the anguish I experience during my depressive phases is self-inflicted. Given my history of self-injury, there is a clear, albeit disturbingly sick, subconscious desire to inflict pain upon myself, and because the line between physical and emotional pain is muddled in my mind, I can rely on either method to satisfy the impulse.

I wonder just how valid these self-examinations are. When I was completing the five-page self-assessment form prior to my BHBHC visit Thursday, I jokingly asked myself, Is someone who is potentially mentally ill really qualified to offer a self-assessment? Perhaps I know too much about the motivations behind my thoughts and this sickness. Maybe I understand very little, if anything. A self-conscious man that continually analyzes his thoughts and the stimuli thereof risks unraveling the threads that bind his sanity. I suppose there is no better person to scrutinize my thoughts, but I am probably the last person who should, which is why I question myself about how honest and forthcoming I will be in my upcoming therapy sessions. I fear that unfiltered honesty may have undesirable consequences.

I do not know if I fully comprehend the degree of repression I have used upon the urges and emotions within my mind. But again, here is the Catch-22 of self-examination: I accept that I have repressed (and continue to repress) certain feelings, so does that simple allowance send my mind on a subconscious whim to plant repressed desires and memories that have no actual seeds within the tapestry of my reality? (As I type this post, I know what a reader might be thinking: What the fuck is he talking about? He's gone sideways. No I have not. I am simply offering a raw – and perhaps completely erroneous – stream-of-consciousness account of my current headspace.) Whatever the case, I am aware of certain urges that pulsate more prominently during my depressive phases. I hope to explore this topic delicately in my upcoming sessions.

During the last couple weeks I have been questioning myself about some of the personal details I post here (this very post, for example). Am I sharing too much? Why share anything? A little exhibitionist, don't you think? Last night I spent some too much time looking for one, just one, blog that contained something personal, something real… a blog that seemed to have some blood behind the words. I didn't find such a blog, which validated my space here in some ways. Everything is too sanitized in the blogosphere. Despite the fact that we are in "the worst financial crisis since the Great Depression," little has actually changed, socially speaking. I found blogs about the newest designer shoes; blogs about the latest and hottest tracks consuming radio airwaves; blogs overflowing with cynicism and snark; and blogs where seemingly nothing bad happens (a picture of a smiling woman… she writes about her wonderful relationship with her husband, Todd… she posts pictures of family picnics and smiling children).

It seems that many, too many people avoid talking about themselves, even when the Web's cloak of anonymity is available. And the ones who do discuss their lives live in some Technicolor vacuum void of pain and honesty. People have told me that some of this blog is cliché. Trite. "Emo" (I've heard that more than once). This blog is a window into my life. It is what it is.

I don't write this blog in search of a reader's validation, regardless if the reader is friend or stranger. I write this blog because this is my personal time capsule – and I'm not going to fill my capsule with designer products, shitty music or opinions about our culture's industry of disposable personalities. I write this blog because, while I'm not seeking vindication through these words, vindication, however slight, can be tasted through the words of someone else. When you recognize a piece, especially a fragment that stings with pain or regret, of yourself in the expression of another, something happens. The recognition doesn't necessarily improve your situation, but it alleviates some of the toxic pressure that I, and (if more people were honest with themselves) so many others, carry inside. For me, this has been one of the Internet's greater gifts – the practically infinite number of contacts and connections one can make; while these connections are usually scarce and fleeting, they can offer a glimpse of quietness amid chaos.

And so I write.

Here.

xx