The Situational Isotopes Of Anxiety – Mad Chaos: April 7, 2003

Happiness Deceived By Grief

As the laborious tensions since the fourth surprisingly pass without incident, vanquishing its vile uncontained from these skeleton days, such disperse of paranoia, suppressing fears and panic’s grief have a boon been to remove those energies which so burdened in struggles, and in merciless chains o’ might, hindered my mental being. 

I often never rose to adequacy since the dark ages cloaked unto me, choosing instead against my will to remain sapped in a whelm of unforgiving negativities.  Praise never gets its chance beyond fickle, as even when happy response is written about, nigh is it surrendered the next day, nigh to paint me to these memoirs as a fool. 

A day could be upbeat and pleasing like when slim chance turn success or occasion pays attention to me, but as the writer hath come to expect, much to his deploring demise, it pains a person to speak the superficial, only to see the ends eventually never meet.  I might ramp up my happy fortunes but grief is the deception, when one thinks (like many instances in rehabilitation have led me to believe) he has solved his problems, when in fact he has only had a look in. 

One Good Day Is Not Progress

Progress is never progress unless its direction is absolute.  I would be a fool to believe that a smile from a girl would be my moment of clarity or some cataclysmic epiphany; just as it is unconvincing to master the elements of anxiety on one particular day, convinced that its form must repeat itself evermore.  I used to be deluded in that way, and it would explain the highs and lows, how crackling hopes turned deep depressions, how my ambitions in pen and life progressively waned, and how my once-proud faith so unerring turned itself into a squint. 

I used to be deluded for so long.  I would still be deluded if these words became my foundation decree, because tomorrow is another day, and this verity uncovered may sadly in its idea never conceptualize, but instead be a buried rambling my naïve eyes tend not see. 

I would be a fool to take today as absolute because it is only a slice of the whole severity, a division of fabric that is not wholly complete at any time.  I can only take each day and weave it together but the picture of truth is an elusive dream.

Like a comet, its epiphanies are like the crust always bright, and in its traveling the tail fades, until eventually its brilliance once collected, steadily begin to disappear. 

A moment of revelation is sort of like that intensity of spark a comet creates in its trails across the spatial globe.  Then like the mysteries of the universe, truth is never absolute, but elusive like the truths we seek in our mind.  It is these truths that evade me daily, or at least deceive my mind so foolish to believe that a current truth will always prevail.  I sometimes wish it did because my happy days on those terms would translate into tomorrows.  But in a world not so naïve, it never happens that way. 

A Past Life More Secure

I would have more faith if my life was securer.  But in the past few years, my standard of life has allowed itself to degrade.  Whilst nothing in life is ever certain and uncertainties always undermine our being, back in the lost years era, the epitome of unquestioning, I used to feel more secure. 

I never used to cling to unrealistic expectations like my unthinking hopes had me do in more recent days, to fall deeper into ruts more dismal than the last.  Love, friends and the culturing elements of those days made me feel complete, and so, never in a defining need for answers.  I was as wholly there as happy made me.  It was bliss, even in all my pre-marital spats with the badgering bane or the crude that comes with it. 

Married content makes you a different kind of naïve because it satisfies you in more ways than loneliness and insecurities can.  but nonetheless, eventually my relationship became an unrealistic expectation, as a search for answers in questions began, and confusion deepened in my joie de vivre. 

A Simple Cause Of My Anxieties

All that aside however, my expounded point today was to note how my life slipped from this naïve content in the lost years to the dregs of this inevitable mess in pieces, pulled apart.  I wanted to appreciate the circumstances that led me here and not only blame it on baseless allegations to be naïve. 

I used to think it was so elaborate because it seemed there was no conceivable basis to my anxieties.  but the writer never had a whole picture back then. 

He was like an artist probing from inside the painting walls, living abstractly from within segments of the absolute. 

He lived the pain, but at any one time could never bear to explain it because inside the truth, the truth was never uniform.  I still see it like that because the whole picture is even now unclear to me.  Nevertheless, like the irony of unrealistic expectations where you would have heard countless times the writer blab in absolutism about how he has finally figured it out, when really the next day polarizes his exact thoughts into a mockery; the irony, like morsels and morsels builds up until all those fickle epiphanies turn plain, and your pioneering path becomes a picture as whole as one can conceive. 

I mean to say that eventually the complicated answers will become plainer as you progress toward a truth, and it seems like the last year or so since focusing on the importance of me has delivered me to much plainer seeing. 

I am neither as deluded anymore nor by myself as deceived.  I no longer believe that simple explanations endeavor to uncover more complicated matters but instead that plain answers preside over the ridiculously simple.  I used to believe in chunks with missing links or blocked out beliefs because of pride, but no longer. 

Anxieties A Part Of The Picture

I now believe my downfall was simpler than the fabrication of anxieties, but that anxieties however were a part of the picture, yet not the founder of rift.  I believe simply that the complicated part of my life was in the lost years in my two minds between the badgering bane and my joie de vivre.  Pride in morality played its part.  But then when the badgering bane and me separated, it started falling apart. 

My torn emotions were then the catalyst.  Much as it is unlikely to be ever admitted, there was a budding depression in those days.  I failed to believe in depression however so its demise took many forms.  One was perseverance to overcome my moralities and to chase my joie de vivre’s fate.  But my true emotions were always held back, and it was a regret, which till months back still ate at me. 

I sacrificed to honor my girlfriend.  Then because of the repercussions, a year later I lost my job at HIH Insurance.  I started losing the plot in this time too because despite the demoralizing months of lowering self-esteem to which the badgering bane would still see me, she eventually left for London, and used that excuse to clean her hands of me. 

I would battle with a sense of identity in this ghosted form for months at work at HIH Insurance whilst we disingenuously saw each other.  I would lead myself on understanding it was a lost cause, but exploiting my vulnerabilities regardless.  When my ex-girlfriend left, snatching my last ounce of dignity as she invited me to her farewell party as a loner left to realize my fate, it was a moment that opened up my eyes, and opened the doors to this degradation many junkie years on pot now see. 

The Fall Into Marijuana Addiction

I turned to marijuana for all the wrong reasons.  When my time should have been spent using that as an opportunity, the depressing anxieties in imaging a life alone made me recline to those rebellious new things.  I should have looked for work or exercised to motivated confidence at the gym.  Instead, in a devoid world, my friends were all to turn to, and it was a weird association after such estranged living, so much that it wanted me to be a part of something, “one of” instead of the unique exception to the rule. 

I took my dive on marijuana and now plainly see that those years and these were wasted.  I would never have had anxieties, panic attacks or such paranoid delusions as acute as these if my life choice was to remain on the correct path.  I should not have turned to a glutton of misery, and all the time, like the machine, in delusions and disbelief. 

I lost two years to marijuana and two years more to its repercussions, and counting still.  I may be predisposed to anxieties but marijuana made it so suddenly severe, and this is the problem, when actually, anxiety is just an excuse for past naiveté. 

This then is my clarity, with all the morsels as woven today as one could get.  Paranoia no longer shadows me, which is a tribute to my struggle back.  Perhaps it is these pills recently taken for added effect.  But if it helps me see a greater picture, then it was worth the abatement of pride. 

Life is meaningless unless you are happy. 

The writer for his absence would attest to that. 

Building Back On Solid Ground

Anyway, that was where my thought took me tonight, which did tickle my cranium for days on end.  I elaborated on the plain, a snapshot that justifies my current status.  I have downhill climbed for many years only to think a dozen times in these last months that my full circle came, but there was always somewhere lower to go when my head was looking in the wrong places. 

I therefore no longer take naively to the superficial gains but build back my character on solider esteem. 

• I build on a portrait of my body image and not on what panic attack will dissuade me this weekend. 
• I build on administering and maintaining inventory in my fridge and am rewarded in a lesson that watches me lose pounds instead of relying on mum to handle my diet and cook me food. 
• I preside over my life and take control of it, and do assert myself in ways that are comfortable to me, so that the lesson of comfort may build from hereon in. 
• I can now take control of my credit card to pay it off and with foresight can see the end of the tunnel. 

I have patience not to frustrate myself as long as progress is being made.  I no longer talk about chances but take them, and the benefits are paying off.  I may not have moved out of the house yet but this was an unrealistic expectation to think it would be easy. 

Self-Sufficiency Leads To Self-Esteem

I have been less depressed because cooking my own food and buying my own meals has been a great responsibility, and the lack of depending has distanced my relenting neediness.  It has distanced me from the sloth of being served, and it has helped me serve myself for the better good.

I have poured my water from the laundry tap and not tensed to hide panic by invading the water purifier in the kitchen upstairs, and not out of necessity but because it is water the same, and the trip upstairs unnecessary. 

I need avert my adversaries wherever they may be. 

So in this instance the downstairs fridge helps decently to shield me from those.

I believe that my distance from daily psychosis has lessened my anxieties at night, and perhaps this oblivious nature my mum also happened across from me.  I still hear her and she probably still hears me, but neither of us lets things get the better of us.  We are more content each in our lives to let this paranoia affect us as much, or to let anxieties stem off of it.  I might say this however, then tomorrow to my naiveté it will change, but it matters less to me now, this paranoia.

The Root Of My Paranoia

Paranoia came from insecurities and from frustration in a stagnated life.  Anxieties came from this intensifying routine.  My anxiety has been through many instances in the past three years as well, instances where its property remains the same but its situation modifies to many isotopes. 

For example when working the mass of my anxiety was not as severe.  Anxiety was not as severe in the dark ages when panic attacks were an adversity, or like now where anxiety traverses layers of burden towards depression, and many isotopes along the way.  Anxiety has always been there.  At each stage the writer quotes it as his severest anxiety, but the substance of all my harms has always been in theory the same, but just in the practice differing. 

If all my anxieties were a square, then one may be an oblong, one with massive height but in its stature short.  One may extend very long but its pinnacle narrow, and one may just be a standard square.  But despite all these forms that my shape of anxiety may take, it will always be a square, and defined within these parameters. 

My anxiety has a reference of many isotopes, and so is always in a constant state of exchangeable flux.  So it is hard to say which has been the worst or in fact if the worst will ever be seen.  I have not felt as bad as my furious trip to see the doctor however, or indeed, in a totally foreign context, since my breakdown on the seventh and many months ago.  I have not seen the unwavering anxieties that would follow me to sleep or the ones that would greet me in the morning thereafter.  I have not fallen to relentless coughing and methods of preoccupation like games on the computer, like the writer before in his memoirs, or even like the occasional truth of lyrics to resurge my cause.  I have no future in these remedies anymore. 

How I Find Solace

So I find solace in keeping fit.  I find solace in my pride of small trips to the shops to keep up my endeavors of independence.  The dreaded fortnight anxieties have not seen me as drearily succumb since purpose has entered back into my life, and those fortnights are paced out with frequent shopping. 

I am not anxious now to the point of exhaustive insomnia putting me to sleep, and need not be deluded by the creaking responses upstairs.  I no longer need the computer humming or the bedroom window shut to soothe my mind with its mild distraction, or to lock myself away from paranoid gulps that all my neighborhood, my coughs would hear. 

I am still conscious to keep myself covered by a blanket when the morning arrives and mum takes her suspicious mosey around my bedroom window under a guise of spotting the garden, although she doesn’t seem to do it as often.  I am still a nervous current of panic around certain people.  I still am hit hard with a spurt of coughs on occasions as the telephone rings from fear of compromising my comfort zone in talks to unwanted people.  But there are good days and bad days now. 

Before it was impossible to carry any sort of conversation and it was always me looking for escapes with premature goodbyes.  Now I call people when bored instead of this pride, and expect no compromises to stem up in my decent mood.  I can control myself at the gym and with two people; being mumbles and the machine.  I still feel anxious around the negative and jasper as well but perhaps this is rather not because of how they act but because of what they think, and don’t say. 

I may be holding onto certain paranoia but there is still a trust issue with the negative, and the smear of association that my liking jasper’s sister did to me.  I feel more anxious around certain people compared to others but don’t know the context of it all yet. 

Seeing The Importance In Relationships

Speaking to strangers is the easiest now however.  I used to be so anxious speaking to some operator on the phone or in handing my allowance form in, but anxieties are not a part of me anymore when outside of this house doing a function that involves disposable contact. 

I see the importance in relationships now and what not to worry about.  I have however swept most of my anxieties away without the aid of many.  Again, some part of it may come back to these Tofranil pills, but if the blood pressure pills and cholesterol pills help point towards general health, and if my own organization with diet and the gym help as well, then the pills were only part of an overall plan of rehabilitation, and pride was no factor, and that is that. 

Prepare For Macarthur Anxiety Clinic

This morning in a few hours sees me visiting an anxiety clinic when most of my repressive conditions have ceased to exist, but it will help, even if the report of symptoms will make me feel like a fraud. 

Anyway, nice to see a balanced positive entry for a change, where neither the writer goes unacknowledged nor is there any shame.  I shut out too much in times of depression, which is why my memoirs are so terse lately.  I might eventually change that hopelessness around however… and self-denial may never be the same again.