The longer that I'm nuts, the more fun it becomes for me...
I know that's probably not the most healthy attitude in the world to have about my particular set of problems. But I just can't seem to help myself.
I swing back and forth, going from depressed to maniacally happy, to tired, to not being able to sleep for days. To taking a sleeping pill or 7 and sleeping for 14 hours and damn near missing work. I don't drink all that much, not because I'm averse to drinking, its mostly because I don't want to miss a minute of the lunacy!
Try explaining that to people! They'll probably want to have you committed.
Try explaining half of what goes on in my head to anyone and after a few minutes they're going to decide that I'm so far off the deep end that I can't even see the bottom anymore. Which is pretty much fine with me.
Try explaining to people that the reason you hate the everyday mundane details of life is that you spent an entire year where pretty much every thought you had, every step you took, every word you uttered, every breath you drew, every bite you ate, could be your last. And not in the existential, modern day bullshit way that yeah I know everyone could be dead in the next moment but the fact is its not that likely. What I went through it was a distinct possibility and in the lion's share of my time a likely outcome.
Now people look at you cross-eyed when you tell them that you want to ride a bull. And that you want to run with the bulls in Spain. That you've generally got a psychotic need to follow in Ernest Hemingway's footsteps. Now he was a man if there ever was one.
Basically, it breaks down like this. I've spent all my time from the end of "that" until now trying to recapture that feeling. That state of mind. Its a wonderful thing. Every emotion was perfectly felt. The terror was perfect, the happiness was perfect, the calm was perfect, the longing was perfect, the sadness, the insanity, all of it...Perfect.
Slept like the dead.
Ate like a King.
Laughed like I was dying.
Loved like there wasn't another person in the world.
Thought, like a 9mm was about to find out if I could breath through my forehead.
Wrote like the page was my life and the ink was my blood.
And I don't understand why everyone seems to want me to stop trying to get those feelings back. I come back here to this soulless, lifeless, bloodless society and I wonder who's the crazy one?
Everything here is geared to increase comfort. Increase ease. Make your life easier. Compromise. Back down. Don't rock the boat. Don't make things hard. That's the mantra I keep hearing over and over again.
Get over these feelings you're having so you can get back to having a normal life. Hear that one all the fucking time. And I'm sick of it. I don't think that I'm the crazy one. I think you're the crazy one! You're the one who wants me to voluntarily give up my life and become another zombie. Go along to get along you tell me. Well I don't want to.
I want those perfect feelings back. Good or bad I felt those things from the top of my skull to the bottoms of my feet and from the base of my brain to the bottom floor of my soul. I want to run out into the world and find something, anything that will make me feel like that again. I want something, anything that will consume me to the point where I can be 100% in the moment. Something, anything that will remind me that I'm alive and that I may not be for much longer.
They say that I'm nuts because I embrace something as morbid as death. I don't embrace it, just so you know. I welcome it as a natural part of life. Something we're all going to do. Nothing to be afraid of, just the next rung in the ladder. Up or down, I haven't quite figured that part out yet. But I'm working on it. All it is to me is another chance to have those perfect feelings again...don't worry, I'm not going to rush it along.
Well, the prevailing wisdom here is that death is something to be avoided at all costs. With as much medical care as possible and as many pills as we can toss down your throat and on and on. Have you seen a hospice ward in a hospital? I have. Death is sweet mercy to those imprisoned there. I can only pray that when they shake off this mortal coil that they have that one moment of perfect feeling.
Over and over, I'm told that I have to compromise, that I have to moderate my thoughts and my actions to conform to the status quo that's been thrust upon me. I'm told that I can't live a good life thinking the way that I do.
The longer I'm nuts...the more certain I become that its you who is crazy.
So CALM. THE. FUCK. DOWN. I got this.
I love you Mom...