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Do I even want to get well? Part One
The following is a visceral insight into the mind of some one who’s struggling to carry on, and is trying to make sense of his life.
I have apparently been unwell for years, since I was a child. They say you don’t know you’re crazy till the shrink tells you, and that was certainly true for my psychotic symptoms, but i’v been aware of my disconsolate nature for as long as i can remember. So long now that my cynical, pessimistic, nihilist outlook as become my persona.
I have often wondered if seeking professional help would truly change myself for the better, how could it? What is the definition of better? Would i recognize myself afterwards? Would the product of the outcome really be me?
Never the less my psychotic symptoms forced change, I saw psychologist and psychiatrist alike, i have tried X and Y medications, dealt with every side affect under the sun. In terms of my depressive symptoms, perhaps the reason I haven’t changed is because I don’t want to get well, because the image of myself living contently doesn’t appeal to me. Perhaps the reason it doesn’t appeal to me is because i’m so depressed? Am I stuck in this self detestation forever?
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No Exit - Jean Paul Sartre
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“A man writes because he is tormented, because he doubts. He needs to constantly prove to himself and the others that he’s worth something. And if I know for sure that I’m a genius? Why write then? What the hell for?” - Andrei Tarkovsky
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Já, Olga Hepnarová 2016 screen cap
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Olga Hepnarová (30 June 1951 – 12 March 1975) - Mass murdered eight people with a truck in Prague on the 10th of July 1973. When people ask what i’d do if i could go back in time, I answer that i’d interview Hepnarová the day before her outburst.
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A simple walk to the shops
It’s only a ten minute walk to the store, i tell my self as I leave the comforts of my house. The act of going to the shops them selves is an innocent one at that, unless you’re going for the reason I am. To for-fill a void. As I leave the house the sense of dread kicks in, the uncertainty of what i’ll expect. I make it down the street, around the corner and make a right. My pessimistic attitude is flooding around me, it’s difficult to walk. Something is different, but I don’t know what. The people in the cars are staring as they pass me, it’s a quiet road, why are there so many cars out? I continue walking down the road as it becomes a struggle, walking feels unnatural, something I have done my entire life feels foreign and alien. I look down at my legs and a feeling of dread kicks in, they’re bigger than usual, impertinent, long and elongated. I keep looking down at my legs as I walk, stopping every decade of steps to examine them. I want to turn back but my lust for the products i’m buying is bigger. I keep marching on wards. Every chance I get to look at the reflection of the house windows is foiled, something is always in the way, and it’s causing distress. Is this all a prank by some higher power I think?
I approach the shops, first destination, alcohol shop. I make quick haste inside as i know the layout better than my own room. The cashier doesn’t ask for ID as he he knows who i am. A six pack of beer and a bottle of 7$ Shiraz will do the trick. I usually only go for the Shiraz but i’m feeling spontaneous. Next stop convenience store.
I go inside, it’s unfamiliar, i haven’t been in here before and it makes me anxious. An oriental lady hiding behind a display case pops out and surprises me. My anxiety makes me unable to speak, so I just point. She says do you want the cheapest? I nod, but inside i’m shouting “no I want the specific brand I like”. She hands me the cheap 17$ cigarettes and asked for ID. I show her and she proceeds to count back the months to last year when I turned 18, but in a sarcastic mocking voice. I want to tell her I know it’s wrong, i just need it to escape the dread of living, but I know she wouldn't care, I wouldn't either. I make an effort not to smoke regularly, just when I’m in a rut and need a way out. My anxiety makes me apoligise as i leave, alcohol and cigarettes in hand.
The way home is full of angst, I don’t focus on my legs as I’m playing the conversation with the cigarette chick, or lack of it over and over in my head. I get home and my mother is there. She sees me put the beer in the fridge and questions my spending habits. She says i should be saving, I know i should but I couldn't help my self. I need to escape the misery of living, besides I earned the money I should be able to spend it how i please, i’m apparently an adult after all.
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