no sense at all

Most of my life I've been told I'm above average by various people around me, and at the same time disparaged by the people who are closest to me.

Think about how confusing it is when a woman admits to the rest of her family (in front of her child) that her husband had "brainwashed" her into hating and mistreating her own child for the better part of said child's life (oh maybe 11 years) . Then think of the same woman telling her child that she, in fact, is her favourite child, and that she's brilliant - it's too late.

This is my life. Moved out at 18. Already too mind fucked - and now, mid 20's actually trying to change it somehow. And then this assclown of a psychiatrist stares at me in my session - completely blanching on me. Does he even notice that my voice has dropped several octaves and turned into a monotone since the last time I saw him? Oh sure, it's just the stress of not getting your homework done because you know...you're a lazy slob. Which to some extent is the truth.

I mean - you should see my room. It kind of looks like a tornado hit it. Various empty bottles and papers, clothing all over the floor - papers all over the desk. Garbage. At this point in the night I would venture so far as to call myself a rapidly cycling extremely high functioning manic depressive, but....having both manic and depressive symptoms at the same time. And it fucking blows. Wait...what was my point? Right, back to this session. I actually express interest in change. I mention that I don't want to be the person with excuses, I want to not feel anxiety towards my assignments. I don't want to hide in my bed with a horrible feeling in my stomach about an essay that I have to write - waiting until the last minute because I'd rather fail by default than have to admit that I may not be as genial as I'd like to think I am.

And he stares blankly. Because I've painted a picture of my catch-22 existence and he doesn't know what to say. I mean other than handing me a winning lottery ticket he can't really do anything to help me, or at least that's what his face implies.

I can't live with my mother and stepfather.

How does one tenderly imply the crimes against one's physical and emotional self without being un-cliché?

Without being judged for the ramifications thereof and the violent tendencies they yearn to display every now and again?

Why is it that I can function absolutely perfectly for 6-8 months out of a year and then do this for the rest? (You ignore it for as long as you can and try to push through and hope it goes away?)

Why do I feel like a complete fake when I sit in that chair, like it's an excuse to not do homework. So, the long and short of it is: I can't live with them because it's bad blood, because there is no longer any room for me, because living there makes me feel worse than not living? The yelling, the constant phone, the physical clenching of my entire body, dreading hearing someone calling my name for any reason. I lock my door. There is no choice for a person like me, I must keep living, that is all there is. So I live, but it's not like I can devote as much time as I should to the work that I'm doing to be able to pull myself out of this situation.

And so to not have to think about it - which is where my mind goes when I'm frustrated and anxious about a paper, or an assignment, or a reading - I....escape. Be it with Cedric and Omar, or Dr.Sheldon Cooper, or Steinbeck and Gibson. Because I desperately want to believe that somehow I can live in their world. Either the world of savants or literary figures. I told my shrink - "...it's not like there's some magical course you can take that hands you a publishing contract at the end." So I have no motivation for University. Maybe you're an idiot and have not realized by now that I have no motivation for life at the moment. I mean being an atheist means that this is all there is. I accept that. But it also means I'm consigned to a life of mediocrity and I'm finally starting to accept that. And it tastes like ear wax?

This is the perfect example. Skye was taking one of those random IQ tests online today - he keeps scoring in the 130's. Skye's kind of a genius. I didn't make it that high. I know it's an online test, I know IQ doesn't really mean anything these days anymore, but fucking hell I only scored in the 75th percentile and fucking cock it means I'm average. It means I'm about as smart as everyone else. My whole life has been predicated on the fact that I'm better than everybody else. And yes this makes me an asshole. This happens when you have an under developed sense of self worth but an overly inflated ego. You balance in weird ways. I do want to rationalize it however, by saying that to some extent I think everyone must feel this "being better than others" because otherwise how would we live? We all have to innately think that we're unique somehow otherwise how would this experience be worth it? What would make our life different and meaningful? Sure there are infinite variables in everybody's life but....we've been sociologically conditioned to all want the same thing: a social survival of the fittest translated through notoriety, elite-ness and financial status.

Or maybe I'm just really really really skewed on what my values are.

On one hand I want... I covet the beautiful things in life, they bring me joy. Seeing an R8 on the street makes me feel at one with the universe, or...you know however you want to translate that high/zen feeling. The way those fluid lines come together, the animalistic power and growl of the engine, the gleaming headlights. In a stupidly fetishistic way it completely turns me on.

And yet I get the same things from Gibson - something about the way he puts words together produces a natural reaction that is not unlike Oxycodone. Why wouldn't I want to ignore everything else in the entire world and devote all of my time to reading his books?

So today at around 3am I experienced this unusual thought. I'm not special, or different. I am going to be consigned to mediocrity and banality for the rest of my life - and even if I'm not...who's to say I'll be happy?

Which is strange because I specifically recall some really happy moments of my life today. I looked forward to going to my new job. I loved talking to Aviv on the phone, he multiplies my innate happiness. I laughed genuinely at a TV show.

But - if life means perpetual debt, strife, depression, and mediocrity, and never rising above the average....well for a moment I saw the rest of my life flashing before my eyes and it was....boring. And in that split second I thought of, and rejected, premature ending....because I'm not a complete idiot.

But I think I came to a bit of a revelation. Pristiq fucking blows goats, and maybe so does my psych.

Also - maybe I need to work harder and stop being such a whinging cunt*.

This post is probably gonna be hella embarrassing tomorrow, or you know....in a few years. Oh well.

*c/o Damien Pease