In the world according to my shades, there are none really; no more not the writer, the lover, the mischievous or the recluse, whose strengths diminish, but moreover, a generic vacuous space now protrudes, of neutral self-worth and consciousness missing, so slotted in since the days after the holocaust. This holocaust day when like other recessions, the frontier of dedication gave in, was when the writer had had enough to leave without a swansong present.
Studying The Rise Of Anxiety
The sentiment of my words often loses me when its purposeful motives ring obscure, but bludgeoning in my mind again was a reason to bring about an entry. Tonight it was about an activity in my mind, which was not to have gone unquenched, since the writer only does pen now if it is potent retrospect.
Whichever way, as my mind frequently casts long lines retrospectively into my past to hook some critical understanding of times now, an accurate picture can be drawn when one has all the facts, or when one has a timeline of facts wherein it is it. So it was curious of me to wonder why anxious behavior was never a fundament of the lost years, and of course, why, and in what evolutional steps it did change.
Anxiety never affected me in days afore perhaps because its profile was non-evident. Back then it was all an idiosyncratic smirk, a brushing away of seriousness, as in labeling for recognized peculiarities, like claustrophobic confrontations in example.
Major Events In The Timeline Of Anxiety
Discovery never really came until its rudimentary acknowledgements manifested themselves; meaning my life went on without question until the last of faith disintegrated, and a holocaust event of revelation occurred.
My first one of these would have been the panic attack at work for HIH Insurance; followed by the fruition when packing shelves in aisles at Coles, to which anxiety was discovered as a condition, the recession towards the true millennium these memoirs had to have, and of course, the many black days on marijuana, especially the seventh breakdown, when all an ugliness came to its fore.
These were events that stuck out, earmarking the development of my anxious turn. Life of course however never really changed; true to crawling, like young society before its contemporary whim marched in, keeping me small in morsels of discovery proffered never to an industrial age; and now that it has come, my strengths are slow to revert from their essence flawed.
I appreciate now however that my rebellious youth and luck in love allowed me years to avoid costly anxiety, which more or less was always in me.
I cared not about conscience and more about my music blaring, which prolonged a path to this bittersweet separation of silence deafening. Mum thought the music was a nuisance, but looking at how we adjusted, it may have kept us sane.
Being Uneducated About Mental Health
Back to the pointed reason for instigating this entry however, thinking back on the timeline of anxiety and its stigmatic fortunes since made me wonder why it wasn’t earlier that my anxieties popped, to realize that my obliviousness was partly the cause. I use a lot of distractive techniques these days to keep my mind from succumbing, but back then it was the unconscious distractions, which kept me in simple, surface explanations to uncharted behavior.
I used to do things but never really knew its importance until now, like how the writer sort of used his Data Compilations to distract himself, never really knowing that it had staved off the onset of anxieties or the process of thought towards it.
Keeping busy kept me sane and from answering the loosening circuitry in my mind.
But in the end, the purpose of it all failed me; when my girlfriend left me, drugs took me over, a recession in my memoirs happened, and other end-routes began to entertain my life.
Anyway, the whole point of this entry was to acknowledge how anxiety could have been an earlier occurrence if my mind was mature enough to understand. If you were to read back into my entries, you would probably see the evolution of instinctive writing to the thrombosis of deep-seated maturity one now sees, sadly to wonder if its journey for tale’s sake was good, or bad.
Diary Of A Mad Chaos is a daily diary written from March 1996 until today, of which individual books and book series have been created, namely “The Lost Years” an exploration of young, entwined love, the “Wubao In China (猎艳奇缘)” book series which provides an extensive comparative analysis of the cultural differences between Eastern and Western societies, and the book titled “Foreigner (华人)” an exploration of race relations in Australia.
