The Path Into Darkness – Mad Chaos: March 3, 2003

The skeleton of my memoirs continue, albeit, lackadaisically marooned on each limpet day.  Ever so often a pulse massages back into frame however, based usually on morose sadness and miseries, far stretched from a once scintillating life. 

The Cyclical Pattern Of Anxiety

I come here at present not to poeticize the dulcet tones of discontent however, but more so to gorge into the last week or so of unwritten cycles, which in most part have been predictably unnerving in nature. 

You see, as usual, my aching days have been based around a common thread, which no psychology or instituted logic of mine seems to resolve.  Anxiety is an illness still propagated, and the unit fortnight is cyclically where it still breeds. 

I have taken sleeping pills once more tonight in vain attempts to sleep but considering its futile effects, a tranquilizer would do best to guarantee results. 

I have insomnia and have had it for years now, having never been motivated nor felt an able need to sleep before midnight for these past four years.  I have been this way even since the lost years days, watching over the badgering bane as she slept, untapped into my own fertile consciousness.  However, since the lost years innocence, the grounds for nocturnalism have never been the same. 

Trapped In Nocturnal Insomnia

Night is a very intense time, unlike the day where one can lose themselves in sports or physical activity.  I guess it never bothered me before to think because my life was set with impressions in the lost years, so fulfilled to not dwell in the reasons of my insomnia. 

Back in those days, my parents were more liberal to occasional posses so rambunctious in my room.  So there was no negative relevance to nights.  I would write in my memoirs and so not need to think statically about my insomnia.  As long as my girlfriend loved me and my walk was still on, I had no problems. 

Freedom was mine and rebellion floated me.  But since the lost years and breaking up, my life has since only slumped.  Only afterwards in the years succeeding did those cherished freedoms come to light, of adolescence.

The Decline Of Happiness

One cannot deny my decline of happiness and feeling of place in the world since the folding of the lost years.  One never comprehends the enormity of a situation through a situation until moments of reflection afterwards.  Even my memoirs were inadequate, and still are, because perspective only realizes itself every so often. 

I stress however in hindsight now how my once effervescent personality suffered because of perceived mistakes in the past, and how since then they have always psychologically dogged me.  I used to be full of hope and prosperity, but slowly my faith declined. 

Reflecting on the past and holding onto it was also insufferable to live with.

It was this sort of confidential lifestyle, which slowly unhinged me over the years. 

The Aspirations Borne Of Adolescence

Ever since the lost years, my shades have never recovered.  I used to be a man led by passions prospering freely within them but it was the desperation of holding onto these dreams that hurt me in the end.  I had many passions, like the treasure of love, loving and being loved in return, the passion of writing my memoirs, all the while with an aspiring belief as a givens that one day they will be published. 

I believed that by this age marriage would be on my mind and the rest that comes with the dreams, but over time, since the lost years, the desperation to hold onto those dreams eventually ruined my virtue of hope, and so the darker side of life pulled me down by the leg.

How Anxiety Enveloped Me

To put it in perspective, there have been many periodic changes since a self-destruction post lost years, but in all cases, my once proud posture has slumped and worsened.  I believe the invent of drug taking was a catalyst to separate an era clinging onto dreams from one forfeiting to inevitability. 

I still had reason to clamber up belief upon my breakup with the badgering bane because it wasn’t the end of the world, but for the fist time now, my life was uncertain.  Being alone was my flaw, and it was this insecurity, which instilled into me an anxiety.  I worked for a year and was budding socially with events and social continuity, but gradually, insecurities started creeping in. 

Becoming Damaged Goods After Break Up

My joie de vivre was a serious waypoint in those days as well.  At one stage, pride permitted me to shut her out after we went our separate ways.  My life carried on thereafter but the ghost of passion eventually returned, during a labored time of self-doubt. 

I remember how tortured it made me feel to have mixed feelings about two loves, and how in the end my loosened sincerity with the badgering bane and the painstaking decision to let pass our relationship haunted me psychologically for years.  I never regretted how we broke up because we were moving in separate paths, but regret still pains me, knowing how it was a gesture too late for my joie de vivre to accept, and how my actions rightly so left me the only one out to dry.  I should have suffered for my misguided passions but is a sentence so long of psychological spoil so necessary still? 

I have never been the same person since the tribulations of the lost years.  I may have tried to similarly emulate my organically blithe behavior but it always seemed like an effort afterwards.  Being myself was no longer instinctive.  An identity was lost.  From thereon, life was a masquerade. 

I found it hard work to maintain my old persona, like in my nights with the eve, my cheekiness was almost urged on because my passions were conflicted now.  I embodied an uncomfortable persona, where nostalgia peppered my psychology, and where happiness was a whim so transient now. 

The Descent Into Darkness

Over the years, as the lengths of my personality reeled in, my temperament did begin to change.  I lived more hopelessly on memories of the past and clung more desperately to my passions.  An immersion into my memoirs for mental salvation began, as fears started to restrict me. 

I wondered whether it was worth the pain in believing that one-day my joie de vivre and me would reunite again, and whether it was healthy to hold onto this unrealistic expectation.  Last year allowed me some dignity however, to send my joie de vivre a parting letter, which was a way for me to accept realities and move on.  Around this time my hopes were questioned diligently however, and it was in these days after many failures in my memoirs and personally that my passions began to die. 

I started to focus on realities and probabilities rather than the eventuation of hope, because in all the years since the lost years, my life has endured many disappointments, daily, with heartening moments few and far between. 

I have sunk into anxiety, self-consciousness, severe rebuttals of self-esteem and desperation.

Where once my life was balanced, now it teeters only in the extremes, unable to find firm ground or balance in the middle.  I am prohibited by pride as well to expose my true emotions, instead leaving it to others to work out and favorably react accordingly.  I have disappeared into invisibility, lost of any kind of faithful demeanor.  Because of this, I have tried to distance myself, even if physically the detachment is not very far. 

Anxiety, The Basin Of My Misery

I have come to accept this sort of life as well, seeing no evident steps, which would deliver me from this division.  I would like to entertain my old self again, but how in this day and age can it be done, when your friends are leagues ahead but you are leagues behind.  I cannot find steps to embolden me, and so my life remains a fragility of void and desperation. 

I want to be happy and in personality, free, but anxiety is a clamp that never surrenders.  It is the basin of my misery.  I am resigned to my fate because of it, resigned to underachievement, to depression at home while the sun beyond my window plays.  I am resigned to this lifestyle because the steps to rehabilitation seem incomprehensible. 

If anxiety is my barrier, how does one overcome it? 

How do you move on from the past to form a future? 

How do you take that leap of faith or forego your fears without falling all the time?

Matryoshka Dolls Analogy

Happiness has only been transient for me since the lost years,and it has been because of the way my psychology has developed.  I have grown into an insomniac over the years engorged in these memoirs to serve as distraction to real life.  I used my memoirs as a means of emotional exploration at first, and then as an excuse to hide once marijuana hindered my being. 

Since then, life has been a gamut of insecurities and alienation, a battle of context in feeling remotely secure when also widely insecure.  I feel like that in this room right now, like one wooden Matryoshka doll in another; the inner shell being these memoirs of remote security harbored inside feeling of wide insecurity, of the tension associated with the suffocation at nighttime in this house.  I feel conflicted, and it is inescapably like this every night, which makes me wonder in all these paradoxical tensions, will this spiraling cycle of unhappiness ever end.

The Phenomenon Of Stagnation

The original point of this articulated doctrine was to highlight how the process from the lost years to now has resulted in a phenomenon of unerring predictability called stagnation.  Stagnation has become a modern theme, which has always enjoyed some success over the years, but probably came to its most popular attention last year.  A way of defining modern principles of stagnation is to state that all of its events revolve around a common unit, which in latter cases is modeled by a fortnight, or more apparently, a day.

Back in the days, my life seemed to revolve around moods and passions and it thrived on distraction or happy disorder.  Passion was my happiness, and so as long as the illusion in its faith was there, i.e. fulfilling my trade of memoirs or spending spendthrift to please myself, my problems were never involved enough to worry about. 

Recently however, since my insolvent burden, the lack of a telephone or any social outsource, the ongoing issue of anxiety, boredom and sheer desperation to normalize my sanity, life has been so much harder, and it provides no escapes.  I used to enjoy massage parlors, smoking marijuana and suffering by repression of anxieties in exchange for a social night out, but now without money or passions to sustain me, and also with my ego fighting the superego over morality, life has seen me so sated in stagnation, in a conflict of paradoxical tensions, unable to separate the extremes from my day. 

A Typical Day Scavenging For Positives

In a common unit day, where my life has slotted into fortnights of predictability, there is always an air of inevitability.  I wake up deep in the afternoon because of insomnia and already half its worth is gone.  I hate being the smaller Matryoshka doll distressed in this room bred for anxieties.  So even while my day is late, it always tempts me to pack my knapsack for my only last-standing pastime. 

Daytime is the only time in this common unit where any peace can be had, and so taking any sort of advantage over it is beneficial.  I was happy today to be outdoors, no longer glum at waking up periodically during sleep, peering outside with squinted eyes thinking opportunity would pass me by. 

Slim as it was to even remotely make me happy, a day at the gym seemed like a small step of achievement over my condition of anxieties. 

I have come to understand that the suffocation of this house makes me gravely uncomfortable because a lot of bad psychological stimulus is associated with it.  I have come to hate this room for example because it feels like a prison to my moving on, a cascade of underachievement, a palace of friction that makes me depressed by being here.  Being outdoors on the other hand is a fulfilling escape and the only productive donor of happiness.  So, days out of the house have come to be associated with wellness.

Being So Unhappy At Home

There are situations that make me equally uncomfortable outdoors however.  I think a day unfavorable if my insecurities deepen or if my detachment from society becomes painfully obvious, but at least my Matryoshka frame in liberty is not confined. 

I feel confined at home because of this recent estrangement from my parents, and because every decision seems coerced.  My only escape at home is to become invisible, to shrink mentally farther and farther away from emotional contact, even though my parents are just upstairs.  I have created this detachment simply because of my anger, resentment and shame.  I want to have moved out by now but the lack of empathy from my parents and my lack to find any sort of bridge to happiness have been the precursors to this move toward a common unit of stagnation.  I am so unhappy yet it seems inconceivable to garner steps to happiness because the steps of continuity since the common unit have been taken from under me.

The paradox about my current situation is the lack of continuity.  No matter how motivated I am or how hard I try, one has to be happy in order to progress, and one cannot be happy if happiness abruptly stops before it is even allowed to begin.  Take today for example. 

A Desolate Gym Day

Despite the insomnia waking me up at three in the afternoon, and even after almond drove over with an impersonal visit abstracted by his own content asking me to copy him some songs before his leaving, my desolate mood leveled to a sprite of satisfaction when walking to the gym today. 

I pedaled swiftly for thirty minutes before working an unscheduled visit to the apparatus upstairs.  All this cleansed with a sauna and shower bolstered my mood for the day.  Like so many other days, the skepticism of my mood had risen from poor to adequately somber; my fair spirits aided by thoughts of a marathon walk to the city (over a period of three days) thoroughly concocted on my trek home. 

However, even with all this hope, the case of inevitability was there.  I knew that once I was back home, the discontinuance of my anxiety (aided by a productive day) would falter, and the inevitable cycle would rush in me like adrenaline, and that inevitability is what cancels out the continuity in that thread of hope, resetting my dread as insomnia sets in, fears of failure loom, and the frustrations of midnight hysteria creep in. 

Living this experience has become the common unit of my day, and owned by the fortnight.  No matter how promising my day, always, my hours dark differ.  I cannot sleep and therefore cannot continue without frustration, and this inevitability settled by occurrences over these last years has defined me to this stagnant decree.  I feel resigned because of it, as if my day is futile because of my night, and because nights like these will never excel me beyond these anxieties. 

I feel like a Matryoshka doll within a doll, like the powerlessness of an ant trapped under a heavy object thrown over it, a futile resignation.  I keep trying, but trying only exhausts me, hence, the lack of hope, inviting resignation. 

Defeating Psychological Suffocation

Escaping this wrath with hospitalization or the peace of a hotel room could break my cycle held to this common denominator called psychological suffocation, but nights like these always have me ponder it, frustratingly and without resolution.  I am bereft of little steps because I am confined to this mocking circle.  I need happiness in order to make larger commitments, like moving out, but ironically, the only direction my life seems to travel in is in a committal of repeated mistakes. 

My brainstormed hope of walking sixty odd kilometers from the city back to home over the course of three days is partly due to the helplessness of my current situation.  I want to create an opportunity of continuity, a way to be happy and keep happy over the course of some days, to see that it is possible. 

Back some months ago continued happiness used to be possible by visiting friends and spending the night over.  It helped, but even this was a strained method.  I tend to think that those sleepovers were productive, as was our trip to Byron Bay and countless other excursions, but to be honest, anxiety has always made me ill in company.  I am only comfortable by myself because only then does my anxiety disappear.  So, socials have always been a two-edged sword, shifting one set of problems to yet another troubled Matryoshka plain. 

I am only truly comfortable in my own company because there is no need for a mask of performance, which in principle constitutes my disassociation as well here at home.  I have always toyed for some time now with the idea of sleeping alone in a motel, but resorting to this costly sort of escape was always perceived as depressing.  However, now with my idea to walk suburb to suburb from the city back home, which will incorporate stopovers at motels at night before continuing on the next day, my hopes of true liberation might to fruition come. 

Jett Visits My House

I thought of this idea today when waking up after the almond had arrived.  He strengthened my misery by being the antithesis of me, all crisp and fresh looking, enrapt in his own involvement with me envious of his healthy staple.  He had his commodity parked outside, a friend as neatly dressed by his own, his life in order without any dissatisfaction at all. 

I on the other hand had just woken up, my room a corded mess, horrid to appreciate and musky in smell because of my slob lifestyle and trapped feel.  We all could see a gulfing vast contrast.  But like everyone else around me, he kept the conversation superficial, never openly curious or caring to wonder why. 

Not even my parents care to concern themselves with me, which is why we hardly communicate anymore.  You would think my parents would be parents and try to help, but they are either too insecure themselves or scared to approach someone as diffident as me. 

Dad Confronts Me About Music

I stopped speaking to dad soon after he stormed down to my room pettily ordering me to turn my music down, even when it was only at a whimper.  I realized in reflection that night that the only time my dad spoke to me was when he had something disassociated to say.  I thought I was always the first person to say hello or acknowledge dad when walking upstairs.  Ever since we stopped talking, in all my visits up there, he has said nothing. 

Maybe dad is as pig-headed as me out to prove a point, but there is a method to my madness.  I feel insecure always being the instigator of conversation, as if my parents were content to squabble amongst themselves, thinking it an effort to engage with me.  Dad has always been uncomfortable around me anyhow, but this rift only deepens my torment, adding as well to this worthless feel. 

I fish for peoples’ initiative now, disgruntled in my demeanor and sometimes in humanity as well. 

How People In Society Act

I know it only makes for a more distant expectation when waiting for people to come to me, but it makes me tired to show my anxieties through, to put myself out and always go to them.  It looks desperate and it demoralizes me as well. 

Is this how people in society are supposed to act? 

I question it every day. 

Why are people always reluctant to approach me, or is it me?

Am I so weird to want to say hello first?

Do people see this as desperation, or is it my anxieties they see?

Maybe people are afraid to help me.  Rather to see me suffer in silence because my condition is so severe. 

I don’t understand why people don’t ask, “Is everything alright?” 

Why Can Nobody See My Pain?

Sure people should help themselves, but ignorance achieves nothing, especially in my parents.  How could they not see the compromise of quality in my life, having seen me transform from happily in love with the badgering bane to an errant playboy, to conflicted, and now to extremes so intense with me so beleaguered with insomnia and coughs all night, one begs to ask, why are my parents so passive to my plight? 

I am obviously vulnerable and forcibly resigned, but my parents turn the other cheek to this troubled adolescent crisis.  My parents did agree to help me move out of this house by loaning me money for board, but since our talk, the silence on the issue from my parents has given no confidence to my esteem.  All through my associations there seems a presence of private dissent and unwillingness. 

I would feel assured that my parents were truly trying to help if every so often they would ask, “So how is your idea of moving out going?  We are still behind you.”

But never would you think it from them.  I guess my parents come from an archaic ideology.  But in such a vulnerable time, it would be nice if only they took an active role to help with this one thing.

Taking Medication To Treat Insomnia

As for the rest of my life, in this common unit fortnight, nothing has changed.  Some days have a bit of decoration; all nights are subject to suffocation as well as attitude rebuttals of insomnia, and then with this jagged existence starts from scratch another day.  My fortnight is the moderator; the only progress because money from Centrelink gradually pays my bills, as it gradually depresses me the longer sustained it is. 

To treat my insomnia tonight some sleeping pills were taken, but obviously it never helped.  I need a tranquilizer to adequately put me to sleep but I doubt the doctor would prescribe one to me.  Instead, tonight the writer was used to bide my time, a distraction, which takes my mind away from anxious, responsive coughing. 

I also resorted to cleaning some drawers in my room, but since my memoirs took priority, the mess is kind of all over my floor now.  A lot of old memorabilia was thrown out.  But when coming across an old picture of the badgering bane, it made me grit my teeth, and then think. 

I looked at her thinking about the lost years, thinking how easily my genuine personality once thrived.  I used to be in that league dating a daydream blonde most people would fantasize about, but life now is such a contrast.  Looking at her now, it would be hard to see myself fitting in.  Anxiety has changed me so much.  If it just went away, my old shied personality would progressively come back.  I know it would, which is why this walk is so important. 

The Marathon Walk Idea

I didn’t like my flabby fitness compared to seeing the almond today.  It is always these sorts of comparisons, which set me off to the gym in the first place.  Working out is my vent for depression, and an avenue to build my body image.  Now a walk across kilometers from the city back to here is yet another method of breaking the cycle. 

I appreciate sometimes the blankness of thought in my walks and then often, the imposing reflections.  Spending a stopover at a motel would also allow me to unwind like never before, totally accomplished from a hard day walking. 

In my estimates, its 60 kilometers would take roughly three days, so two stops to motels would be needed.  I would catch a train into the city, mosey around at first, perhaps have something to eat, and then begin on my journey back home. 

I want the marathon walk to begin on the ninth this weekend, for less-clogged streets and serenity to start me off.  On the next day, breakfast would welcome me, then a walk, a handing in of my Centrelink form somewhere along the way, and finally, a second day of rest in a motel, with dinner beforehand. 

I am hoping to synchronize with a gym visit on my third and final day homeward, and then a final third leg home.  I hope it happens because it would be very symbolic, since it is something out of the ordinary and a vast achievement.  Of course, the sacrifice would be a downsized deposit into my credit card deficit but it would be worth it, even if my current situation of common unit has to endure a few more agonizing weeks. 

I want to pay my phone for the freedom of looking for work.  I also want to buy a mobile phone for its freedom too.  But as long as financial debt hangs over in arrears, life will always be stuck in relative stagnation.  Having freedom for three days however would be a welcome sacrifice; even if it means one more month of enslavement to this discouraging yield.