How I Became The Neurotic Writer – Mad Chaos: September 10, 2004

A Junkyard Bedroom

The more problematic and flooded the memoir reservoir is, the less basic functions I am able to do.  For weeks, the miscellaneous inventory in my room mirrors this debacle, for a once organized mess to accumulate into an overt junkyard.  

I find simple sanitation unmanageable now because of its inconvenience to the principle pair of influences in my life, the memoir and insomnia.  I either write or I sleep, where all focus revolves around this.  I am lucky to have one meal a day.  I am lucky to remember to drink cordial.  I am lucky if I can transfer a dish from my bedroom to the basin, and am lucky when I wash those dishes.  I am amazed to spare five minutes for exercise or remember to shower, or shampoo, or shave, or brush my teeth.  

I have a junkyard room full of reminders of a normal life.  There are empty boxes of food, cups that have been reused for days, warm jugs of water, the photos I developed strewn in small bunches, moisturizer, a bunch of clothes, and assorted other abandoned items to bunker me in.  The only function I am able to sustain outside of the unshakable influences is Alprazolam, which is part of my psyche because severe cognitive paralysis equates to its absence.

Pressures Of The Memoir Backlog

Sustained pressure of the reservoir is a drain on the normal function of the memoir as well, because rarely am I able to reflect on immediate circumstances.  I have to write for yesterday or the week before, so summaries for the day are illusions.  

I have probably been able to start and finish an entry within a deadline of hours twice in ten days, and today will be one of those days.  I anticipate a return to normal function as well as a resolution to revise these months when the pressure is over, but insurmountable are the extremes for now whose consequence thickens my hostilities and irritable nature.

I have hoped to have as uncomplicated a day as possible.  The day’s impact was minimal, but the inconveniences are a psychological minefield when you wish people would understand your crisis and leave you alone.  

Work On The Memoir Through Interruptions

I went to sleep around 1am and woke up six hours later at 7am because I could hear mum roam around the house.  I did wish to sleep for a few more hours, but the repercussions of the noise would disturb me more asleep than awake.

So I woke up, to measure 84.6 kilos on the scales, and have a shower.

I wrote in my memoirs from 8am for over six hours, but social interference was inescapable when I heard a car pull into our driveway to notice my brother there.  

I am irritable whenever a noise breaks my concentration, like a lawnmower outside or my parents that walk around downstairs and make noises in the backyard.  I am also irritable when website dictionaries are unavailable or cause headaches with new surprises like pop-up windows that desynchronize momentum back to my memoirs.  I feel inconvenienced because a minute is now precious.  So when my brother arrived at 10am I wished I were invisible.

The Consequences Of Zyprexa (Olanzapine) Withdrawal

I associate a lack of discretion to my brother.  While all my friends can read between the lines and even my parents understand my curt interactions are tantamount to protectionism of my memoirs, my brother lacks perception and is unable to recognize the implicit behavior that screams for people to be scarce.  

I have to say my brother is oblivious to allusions.  He is only able to respond to voiced opinion.  However, because I would rather be superficially cooperative to facilitate my brother rather than considered rude because my memoirs are more imperative now, I am never candid about my priorities, for fear he will be offended.

The primal reaction to the arrival of my brother to the family house is to shrivel up, because while I love my brother, I know he will want to talk, and a loss of productive hours to those talks is associated, which is a cumulative obstacle to harmony in my memoirs.  

I remember I used to have an abundance of prosperous balance between a reflective life and a social life until I refrained from Olanzapine.  I know I am irritable, inconvenienced and hostile because of an imbalance unable to broker peace.  I know I have a bipartisan life intolerant of third parties.  I also know people may see this as an unhealthy obsession.  I am one of those people, but I chose this life like a priest chooses his.  Now I am bound to celibacy until my pains are overcome.

Friction When Brother Arrives

I was distracted once my brother arrived to the house.  

“Why are you so early,” I frowned in frustration.  

I knew I would be unable to perform, uncertain of when my brother would use his lack of discretion to walk into my room.  

I am as conservative with cooperation as is required when the demands of my memoirs are extreme, so after half an hour in the engine bay of his car, he knocked on my bedroom door and asked if he could come in.  I obviously said he could because a life as the infidel condemned by the vagaries of my vengeful brother is the alternative.  

I know my brother reacts in extreme but trivial measures, like how he resiled his computerized chessboard from dad to show in a contemptible manner his disapproval.  I could probably see my brother would take back his mobile phone in a childish statement, but despite his history, I do like to be there for my brother.  So I made a concession to welcome him, albeit with an intractable irritable behavior, as an implicit clue I hoped he would receive.

Brother Fixated On Second-Hand Laptop

Eric opened my bedroom door and asked, “Would you have an hour to spare later in the day?

He had plans to purchase a prehistoric laptop computer with only three and a half inch floppy disk access.  

“I saw it in the paper for eighty dollars,” my brother sounded like it was his already.  

I later wondered where my brother found eighty dollars for a laptop when the previous day he was unable to find money to pay the excess repair bill for the car.  I knew I should never have intervened because now I have contaminated their financial affairs.  I allowed my brother to score cheap points on Lottie in front of me, and it made me feel like a monster.

It may sound absurd, but my selflessness was selfish, because I was oblivious to the politics Lottie and my brother play.  I was made to feel uncomfortable because of the tension it created.  I had a sense Lottie would have preferred to say no because maybe she knew they had available funds and my brother had used me for his convenience.  

Maybe Eric is the avaricious one while Lottie has the family conscience.  I used to believe it was the other way around, but I have seen the materialistic side in my brother and the covetous romanticism he portrays, from his unrealistic dreams to have flash cars, in how he borrows thousands of dollars from family in deception.  He also spoke of his wishes to own a restaurant, and once hoped our parents would sell the apartment we rent as collateral.  I even see a pitiful kleptomaniac in the manner he asked to borrow five dollars from Lottie two days back, as if he were an animal devoid of ethics because he needed sustenance to survive.

From what I have seen, even to where he bartered with parents he disowned so he could expand his empire for his ultimate benefit, my brother likes to hoard.  He has a neurosis, in the sense that the acquisition of a commodity causes a chain reaction.  I believe his avarice is really a search for an endorphin release, like a fix he needs.  In this case, the fixation was a new laptop computer.  

I know it has its convenience for his exams and schoolwork but my brother has no scope to understand that a computer for eighty dollars (especially a laptop) would be so archaic that his prize would have serious limitations.  

“Did you call the number up,” I asked my brother. 

“No,” he shook his head.  

“Well you have to call them soon because a laptop at that price will disappear soon,” I advised him of the obvious.  

Eric coughed as usual in an unhealthy manner that disturbed me, which has exacerbated to a pathological nightmare similar to the torture I used to live with daily.  You can see the strain in his face just to remain composed, his eyes open in terror and a bloodshot red hue in his face.  He looked disturbed and sounds helpless even when he is alone, but when he has a conversation, the distraction allows his symptoms to abate.  

I feel like I need to ask my brother to at least have a blood pressure test to see if all this torture he chooses to live with daily has impacted on his physical health.  I believe my brother should be on medication because he looks so traumatized.  I wish he were never too proud to take medication, but he is so paranoid of any authority that he deprives himself of help.

An Unpredictable Roller Coaster Of Insomnia

I worked for a further four hours once my brother disappeared in his car.  

After an adequate drain of the reservoir, I visited the local shops at 2:45pm to purchase a battered fish and drink.  

I came back home with the first and only meal of the day and watched a touch of television.  I was so tired however in this unpredictable roller coaster of insomnia that after an hour, I decided to have a catnap.  

I would have loved to remain asleep until an hour of my choice, but after four hours of sleep, the need to watch the rugby league preliminary match between the Panthers and the Dragons allowed me to open up my dreary eyes and watch.  

I heard my brother arrive on his mountain bike an hour earlier, his din of coughs palpable.  I woke up in a tentative manner at 7:45pm because I was desperate to watch a passion outside of the bipartisan influences, but the fear was that my brother would hear and use his lack of discretion to assume I wish to be bothered.  

I was in bed.  On occasions I would fall back to sleep, so I was in no mood to be incommoded.  But sure enough, my brother chose his hour and pounced on me at 9:15pm.

Brother Purchases Second-Hand Laptop

I prayed for discretion when he saw darkness and heard no sound in my room, but instead he knocked.  

“Are you asleep?  Because I can come back or leave you alone,” he said.

But it would have been easier to process him then rather than suffer uncertainties for hours or days, which impact on my memoirs.  

Eric said he had purchased his laptop computer, but like suspected, it only had three and a half inch disk access.  

“If you want to install a new platform on your computer you will have to take the hard drive to a computer store and have them install it there,”

I remembered his desire to upgrade from Windows 95 to Windows 98 because it was compatible with computers at school.  

“I doubt a computer store will allow you to use a pirated copy however,” I said.

I asked my brother into my room even while I was half asleep in my bed because he wanted to know if I had any games on my computer that I could place onto a disc for him.  In the meantime he spoke of how he wants to upgrade the hard drive and motherboard, and an array of other components, which harps me back to his neurotic chain reaction after an acquisition of a commodity, like his car as another example.  

“You would be hard pressed to find parts for your laptop,” I said, “because the manufacturer may not make parts for this model and the new computers are so slim that it probably relies on new technology.”  

I hate to be the pessimist but my brother should have invested more money and researched more before he made his decision.  The purchases of components is pointless because my brother has no need for a faster computer if all he needs to do is write essays.  But my brother is similar to dad, whose garage is full of fishing rods, dozens of barbecues and other items he has collected over the years for no real practical purpose but to hoard.

Brother Learns About My Insomnia

“Lottie said that you had insomnia,” my brother mentioned, which made me look down in sullen humor with a proverbial roll of my eyes.  

“I have had insomnia since I was sixteen,” I started to sound crabby because I could not believe the obtuseness of my brother.  

When I was at his house two days back the common words he would hear come from my mouth were, “I am so tired,” or “I have been unable to sleep since yesterday.”  I also introduced my brother to my problem of insomnia a year back.  I allude often to how I will be awake when he is asleep upstairs.  

Eric hears me active in my bedroom when he wakes up to disappear back to the apartment, so it strikes me as bizarre that all of a sudden, it clicks in his head I have insomnia because Lottie (who actually listened to me) explained it to him.  I turned up to the hospital after Sabrina was born with remarks to how I had no sleep.  There are several other instances where my behavior is obvious.  But what insulted me most was that my brother now is conscious of a problem in me he is concerned with.

I explained how I have had irregular patterns of sleep for months now since I refrained from Olanzapine and how the withdrawal symptoms cause deeper insomnia as a consequence.  

I also said in frustration that I have to keep up in my memoirs, and that further distractions increase the burden.  

“I have so much work to catch up on and when I am distracted from the work by people or events, then there is a pile of added work to do.  All I want is to be able to return my work back to normal,” I said.

“You should take some breaks, or try to do something else, like exercise,” my brother expressed how I should pursue other activities.  

I was even more frustrated now because my brother fails to understand the importance of work I do.  

“If I never wrote, I would be depressed,” I said.

The Impact Of Medication On Writing

People are unable to comprehend how I am this memoir and how unfeasible it is to consider a break. When I behold the one hundred and three written months of the franchise, the artwork, audio and years of toil, I know how central these memoirs are to life.  

My brother did say that maybe I place too much pressure on myself.  He is correct, but the cause of pressure and the reason I have a reservoir now is because of the side effects of an imbalance.  I never had a problem with balance until I refrained from Olanzapine, and then came the withdrawal symptoms, the induced apathies, depression and immense deprivations like the reclusion syndrome.  

I used to be able to live in the jasper house and coexist in the real world and in my memoirs.  So the problem is not these memoirs, but the obstacles an imbalance poses on them.

The Trouble With Eric

Eric believes I have a problem, but I believe he has a problem as well.  I may be imbalanced and confined to mere unhealthy existence, but my brother is mentally infirm.  I believe he has had an unresolved mental illness for years, ever since he explained a psychotic episode to me where he said he had a conversation with the television.  He thinks he sensed the devil when he placed his feet in the beach water.  Then he presumes he saw God in the form of a man in the car beside him that asked him if he was fine.

Eric is hostile and paranoid to the point where he abused the nurses that wanted to inject vaccines into Sabrina because he saw no logic to risk a possible contraction of the disease with the lesser, non-lethal strain.  Eric has caused people to complain to welfare because of his behavior, which others deem hostile.  There are countless other reasons why I believe my brother has some form of mental illness.  Perhaps schizophrenia is a misdiagnosis because his hallucinations only occurred when he was stoned but his exacerbated abnormal behavior troubles me.  

Perhaps Eric is insecure, because ever since my brother purchased this laptop, his coughing fits have calmed down.  I would like to know what his blood pressure reads because it would help me determine whether he is anxious, insecure or has a panic disorder, or perhaps some other form of mental illness.

I know my brother has a mental illness like me and I would never push medication on him like he would never push me to relinquish these memoirs, but it troubles me to hear him so tortured each and every day.  

I remember I used to be where he is now.  

I used to wake up, and the torture of adrenaline would pervade me, never to relieve me unless I had distractions as preoccupations.  Sleep was the only dependable escape from the torture, and the same is clear with my brother.  So, at least he has peace once a day for many hours.  I just wish he could have conscious peace as well, because it causes me deep grief to see him so overwhelmed.

The Memoir And Insomnia Theme

Eric is asleep now, while my illusion of normal hours of sleep is over too, due to a catnap and conation to delve into current sentiments for five hours.  I am prepared for a shower, a drink and a stab at the reservoir, which presently stands at five levels, one a month old.  I am nonetheless happy conation was recovered from the clutches of apathy and intolerance, which were the hallmarks of the previous month.  In those days I was lucky to bear a daily hour before resignation but now in this bipartisan norm of the memoir and insomnia theme, each serviced day is a blank cheque.  

In this landscape, I know none of my friends will bother me because of a visible aversion to socials.  Invitations to socials cause me to have an allergic reaction, for now.  So my objective is to continue on this memoir and insomnia theme, remain awake until I am scatterbrained and seek sleep, to dream in open speculation on the odds of the abnormal hour I will wake up.