A pinprick of clarity

(Surfacing in Google Chat, of all places)

I think that, for too long, I have attempted to substitute precocity for maturity.

So close. So fucking close.

On the cusp of a migraine, monitors make it worse, but lying alone in the dark is worst of all.

It feels like every storyline I've ever conjured up, every significant memory of persons and places past are crashing into each other, and if I could just push through the pain, everything would be cohesive; I'd have an epic work. It's right there, and my entire being is burning for it.

(Those of you in the know are aware that my body temperature elevates when I submerge myself completely in writing, but it's a bit of a soul-burn, too.)

Interesting stuff with regards to depression

I was reading last week's Economist over dinner tonight, because I'm a dork who lives alone, and came across a fascinating article on depression. Apparently, a strain of bacteria called Mycobacterium vaccae was injected into lung cancer patients who subsequently reported not only fewer symptoms of the cancer, but also an improved state of emotional health and cognitive function. Upon further laboratory research on mice, it was found that the bacteria increased serotonin levels in the limbic system. This observation is significant for reasons that are twofold: 1. It points to the possibility of a vaccine for depression (a prospect that yours truly finds a bit scary, but, ya know, it combines my fears of doctors, needles, and messing with my mind), and 2. It suggests that a biological factor towards depression lies in the ultra-hygienic landscape that also weakens immune systems.

As anyone who has experienced depression knows, one falls into a sort of loop of negative thoughts and emotions. While in such a loop a few months ago, Patrick looked at me and said, "Depression is a disease, Beth, and like any other disease, it has survival tactics." In my state at the time, it seemed like a fairly astute observation, and is something that I bear in mind every time I feel myself in danger of falling into such a cycle again. I am glad to see more research being done into the biological origins of such disorders, as I strongly believe that psychology is, as a field, a bit disjointed in its relationship with the hard sciences.

Four Flaws

Yes, there are certainly more, but I'm alliterative, and these four took two hours to write.

1. I lack a work ethic. This one is first for a reason, folks – work ethic is tantamount to force. For an object to be capable of motion, it must accumulate and be propelled by force. I am not, and thus I, and my ambitions, remain stationary.

2. I lack the capacity to name things. Hell, I've set entire stories in “a space” – a well-described space, certainly, in terms of objects and characteristics, but never defined in its totality – stories that take place between “he” and “she” – characters for whom I develop neuroses and failings, along with functional strengths and triumphs, but never do I give them their whole selves by naming them. Additionally, when I interact with the world and people around me, I never “give name” to any part of myself by articulating a concept that is near and dear to me in its entirety. I give glimpses, sure, and even salacious details when they're fun, but almost never do I allow anyone access to the entire picture.

“Perfect Fit” by The Dresden Dolls is looping in my head just now:

I hope you understand:
I'm not exceptionally shy,
But I've never had a man
That I could look straight in the eye
And tell my secret plans.

I've told two people, two, that my goal for this year is to have something that I've written published. I've wanted to be a published author since I was eight years old, in the third grade, in Mrs. Capps's class at Stratford. We had “journal time” on a daily basis, and I took one of the suggested topics and subverted it into what eventually became an entire series of short stories. I often didn't have anything ready to share with the class on a daily basis, but at least once a week, I was forced to read what I had thus far. I still remember the first time I read in front of the class. No one ever paid attention to what other people read, as it was usually about how they had gone to the beach on summer vacation, or what they did with their friends on the weekend. Still, when I stood up, I felt like I had people's attention, but I was sure that I imagined the whole thing. I made a point of reading different characters in different voices, and making eye contact with people – I'd read somewhere that this worked when speaking in front of people, but I didn't really expect it to, nor did I think I was doing anything right. Apparently, I was wrong. Without any cue from my teacher, because I was watching her carefully, knowing that her face would serve as a barometer for the entire room (I planned to bail if she started to look concerned or full of pity for me), the entire class stood up and clapped. I was an awkward kid, socially and physically, and had yet to find any way to actively engage with my peers. In that moment, I truly thought I had found my way.

I think somewhere in those thirteen years between then and now that I once again lost the path. I give people glimpses, both on paper and in person, and even those poorly defined images are few and far between. Of the two people to whom I've whispered my “secret plan,” I'm terrified to speak to one, and desperately fearful that I'll disappoint the other one time too many. There's a third, who should be let in on this segment of my passions, but to whom I'm scared to whisper a single word. I've read his work, and I'm intimidated. I'm more intimidated by the fact that it's utterly stupid of me to be scared of him and insecure, and I don't want to reveal just how much my obscurities bely insecurities.

3. Fear paralyzes me, and (see #1) I lack a means of forcing my way through it. I was long-winded enough on the previous point that brevity serves me here.

4. I am polyamorous, but I still function like a serial monogamist. In reference to my personal life, this often means that I am too caught up in myself and my relationship with one person to focus on my other relationships – until I get tired of the aforementioned person, or s/he lacks time for me; then, one of my other relationships comes into the spotlight. Rinse, wash, and repeat until someone breaks the cycle and leaves. Largely, the difficulty here was that I simply got too caught up in what felt like “the moment” to notice that moments were compounding onto each other and that people were getting left out. I'd like to think I've made some progress in this area – I no longer regard schedules and calendars as the refuge of squares – but not nearly progress enough. With regards to my writing, I do the same thing. I start multiple projects; one becomes my main focus; I get bored with it and shift to the next, and the next, and the next, until I'm bored with all my existing projects and start new ones. So, I'm back to point one. I will never have a successful relationship, with my work, or with another human being, until I have enough discipline to cultivate and maintain a work ethic. This statement should be my new mantra, but I'm a wuss and repeating it too much will likely just send me into a depression.

I think that, now, when I'm feeling too self-deprecating and depressed to be productive, I'm going to enumerate my perceived flaws and concerns. Having done so tonight, I can actually be productive, now that it's nearly four in the morning and I've spent the better part of two hours writing this nonsense.

Because arms as circles and mysticism appeal to me of late . . .

I was going to spend tonight working on an overly ambitious essay on human interaction and sexuality, but I doodled this in the margins instead. Look at what got finished, and what didn't. Rawr! This, er, vaguely poem-esque thing is a bit more disjointed than the last, but, at least I used line breaks this time - that must count for something, right? (Also, no one is holding me in thrall these days, but the memory of feeling stifled was on my mind.)

I want to rest again
Within the ardent circle
Of two arms about me
As I drift into sleep.

Where once I was enthralled,
I am held in thrall.
I distrust the protective circle
Cast about me
Unless it comes from my own hands.

By choice, tonight,
I wrap up in myself,
Eyes dry, air damp.
The rain beating down,
Landing with a gentle,
But persistent, force
On the dry earth,
Will suffice
For the tears
That cannot touch your breast.