The Cerebral Mum

Rosemary mentioned in her comment on Avoiding depression… that it sounded manic. And it is, and I am. So I’m going to write a little about Bipolar Disorder. I could write a well researched post with citations and such to clarify and support or counter what I have to say but I’m not going to. These will just be my thoughts about it in relation to me. I know that there are a couple of you reading who know far more about it than I do so if I’m mistaken about something, please correct me. I apologise in advance for the gaps in my knowledge.

I have always had seasons. Ever since I was a child. I have seasons when I am extraordinarily sociable and seasons when I just want everyone to leave me alone. Seasons when I am completely oblivious to food and seasons when I cannot eat enough. There are times when I have to be doing things constantly, when I am extraordinarily productive and extraordinarily creative. And there are times when I have stayed in bed for weeks just numbing my mind with trashy fiction.

Because of this, if I ever answer a questionnaire about bipolar or psychiatric illnesses generally, it always comes up as a probable diagnosis with recommendations to see my doctor. I never have talked to a doctor about it because I don’t consider it problematic.

I see my seasons as my balance. For outsiders looking in it may not seem that way. The only difference between me and them is that my cycles have a different length. They satisfy their social needs, their need for introspection, their need for stimulation, their need for peace, their need for productivity, and their need for rest in snatches of time that suit life as it is composed today. Life as it is composed today does not suit me well.

But is that necessarily a pathology? Is that necessarily a disease? I am quite sure that I could easily obtain that label, but I don’t want it. The reason I don’t want it is not because of the stigma, or because I reject help. It is because I like myself as I am. While I could easily be said to exhibit many of the “symptoms” of bipolar, the trouble with psychiatric diagnoses is that they are necessarily subjective. (At the moment anyway: There are small advances being made.) In the current climate, for “spectrum” disorders especially, I think we are in murky water.

All we have to do is look at the rates of diagnosis for things such as ADD and autism and, yes, bipolar in children to recognise that there is some cause for concern. The borders of “normal” are shrinking. There is no longer any room for temperament.

This is not to say in any way that there are not people out there with real illnesses going undiagnosed or misdiagnosed and untreated. There are. Too many. But at the same time, difference is becoming less acceptable. Behaviour is becoming medicalised. I think in part this is because humans seek order and this global environment we live in is chaotic. I think in part it is because we do not understand that in genetics and biology there are no absolutes. It will be a long time before we know the full truth of the organic causes and effects of human behaviour, probably not in my lifetime, and because of that, I echo the sentiments of The Last Psychiatrist: At this stage “it may be worth, oh, I don’t know– conservative management?“

As I said, looking at the diagnostic criteria I could easily get a diagnosis. But I just don’t think that it is as simple as that. My temperament has always been such that I lose myself in the world of my creativity and my ideas. It makes sense that I would make up for lost time and meet my other needs in larger blocks. I have to catch up, refuel, before I go back to doing the things that are important to me, to my identity.

And there are lifestyle factors which have also effected my cycles. Studying and working as a cocktail waitress both involve intense levels of energy, often in bursts and the sustained effort of them both disrupts normal functioning. I have held down two jobs, night and day while at university full time. I have worked full time at an office job while waitressing nights. I have done back to back shifts of seventeen hours over and over again in hospitality, requiring enormous levels of concentration and creating an adrenaline high it is difficult to come down from.

Do I do that because of my temperament or has my temperament been shaped by it?. Do I do that because of my seasons, or do they create my seasons? Yes, it is possible that there are organic causes. Almost everything we are is a genetic expression. At the same time, there are many events which have occurred in my life which have contributed to lengthy highs and lows. And we do not have the knowledge to separate the two.

That makes psychiatry a dangerous business. The definition of metal illnesses and disorders largely social. Genes, contrary to popular understanding, are not prescriptive. Society is and we do not live in a tolerant one. Psychopathology is a way of systematizing behaviour, categorizing collections of symptoms. But how do we define what is a “symptom” and what is a character trait? Those lines cannot help but be drawn, even if collectively, subjectively.

I am not saying, of course, that this means all diagnoses are expectations of conformity. As I said, there are people suffering and there are people for whom diagnosis and treatment helps. I am simply saying that at the edges the line is very fuzzy and the line for me, in the absence of definitive science, is this:

Are my seasons destructive or constructive?

Do they impair my ability to function in and of themsleves or do they impair my ability to function because they do not suit society? My answer is that society and I are not a perfect fit, but we are not enormously at odds. Everyone functions best when their work and responsibilities are cycling in tandem with their energy levels. For some people, there is a natural harmony between the two. For others, it is more difficult to shape their lives according to their temperaments and I am one of them.

Perhaps someone else can answer this, but it seems to me that I cannot be ill if my patterns of behaviour, when able to be expressed fully, are regenerative. It is highly likely that there are organic similarities between the way my brain functions and the way someone’s with bipolar does. Just as it is likely that the same function can be created synthetically by lifestyle choices. But how does a person with bipolar feel about their seasons? Do they feel overcome by them? Do they shred up their lives? Do they have a negative impact on those around them?

I don’t know, but my seasons are not like that. It is when my life is most in harmony with them that I feel most like myself, that I feel most comfortable. And it is then that I am most likeable.

Of course, much of this is moot because at the moment I have no balance and I am clinically depressed. And I could be completely wrong. I shall see my doctor and have her check how everything is functioning physiologically. Rosemary’s comment was not off target and I shall seek help where it is appropriate. But if there is one thing I have learned in life, it is that I am most depressed when I have ignored my seasons.

I sleep like a bear, not a cat. I have to live according to my design.

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Yes. I have been avoiding it. I’ve been moving furniture instead. And toying with the idea of creating a plugin for WordPress. That, of course, is a skill I need to learn right now. It is very important that I learn PHP and smart CSS tricks. That I fix holes. Or learn how to fly a plane. Or how to turn straw into gold.

It is almost 1am and I haven’t written anything particularly purposeful for days.  I don’t mean that I should be writing about depression all the time, but I feel very scattered and I can’t make sense of what I’m doing.

Actually, I know what I’m doing.  I’m creating work for myself.  I’m creating more burdens.  I am bombarding myself with new ideas and new responsibilities.  In a normal situation, that would be great.  It would be one of those times when inspiration floods.  At the moment, however, it just makes everything seem out of control. It’s supposed to, I guess.  Because if I was in control, my messed up head wouldn’t be able to force me to look at myself.

That’s why I am so suspicious of people who think you can just behave your way back to normal.  Pushing your behaviour is a part of moving out of this place, yes.  But not the whole of it.  If you don’t want to descend again, you have to face the ogres.  You have to really spend time inside yourself.  You have to listen.  All this pressure - this imaginary pressure - it is telling me to listen.

I just can’t hear anything yet.

Right now, I’m going through a crazy cycle.  Instead of feeling so exhausted that I don’t want to get out of bed, I really cannot force myself to sleep.  Instead, my head is throbbing and my whole body is aching and I am typing frenetically, doing everything frenetically, but I have completely lost perspective on everything.  If I stood up now, I think I would fall over.  Instead of not being able to concentrate, I am concentrating too intently.

I should go to bed.  I will make myself go to bed.

As I write that, my mind has already moved on to starting a new post.  Because this one is finished.  And the post after that is writing itself too.  It just won’t stop.  It physically hurts.

I. Am. Going. To. Bed.

If I didn’t have Caspar, that would not happen.

Caspar is a good, good thing.

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I’m in a foul mood. Last week a muscle seized in my shoulder and I was walking around with my head immobile and angled like a zombie. This week, my lower back is excruciating and I can’t sit, or lie down without excruciating pain and I can’t walk upright. I feel like crying, because there is nothing else I can do.

I have had lower back pain on and off since having Caspar but this is the worst and it really worries me because of what my sister has gone through with her ruptured disc and years immobile and surgery which only returned some of her functioning. I don’t want that to happen.

On top of that, I was planning on going to see my doctor tomorrow and now I am in too much pain to go. It is a two hour trip for me and I just can’t do it. I can’t even see a doctor out here because they are either terrible or don’t bulk bill and I don’t have the money to pay for an appointment even if I get most of the fee refunded by Medicare.

It just plain sucks and I’m just plain miserable.

Right now, I even hate my blog. I hate everything. I’m sick of everything. I just want everything to go away. I already had limited resources to cope with the simplest tasks, like doing the dishes or having a shower. Now I have nothing. Just a pain in my back. I can’t even twist to wipe my ass when I go to the toilet.

Seriously? Is this exactly what I needed right now? To feel even less capable and less functional.

I hate everything. I just want to give up.

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Yesterday was my first counselling appointment. I didn’t want to go. I mean, I really didn’t. As the time got closer, I had to force myself to take a shower and find the paperwork and in the end, I left ten minutes before the appointment, feeling panicked and still unable to find the address. Driving there in Big Sis’ car, only knowing that it was next to the hospital, I think I didn’t want to be able to find it. I think I wanted to be able to go home and cry about not being able to find it. I think I wanted to go home and call and cry to whoever answered the phone so I could make not being there someone else’s problem.

But there it was, the Integrated Health Center, looming large and unavoidable. I didn’t have a dollar to pay for parking so I found some dirt behind the bus stop across the road. By the time I reached the doors, tears were already straining and I handed my appointment notice to the receptionist saying, I don’t know where to go, so quietly that I don’t know how she heard me.

Go upstairs and wait in the foyer, I’ll let her know you’re here.

The foyer was a gaping atrium, a large, open, central space, full of people coming and going, the doors to rooms and the elevator constantly opening and closing, staff laughing, running out for coffee. And there were seats, hard up against the wall, with no where to turn away from it all. The tension just grew and I couldn’t stop the tears from falling, exposed in that light and every moment interminable. I watched the clock. I wondered how long I would have to wait before I could justifiably leave. I wondered when I could just say, I’ve been here an hour and I’m leaving, making a dramatic exit and, again, placing the burden of my failure on someone else’s shoulder. Then the counsellor came, and I rose only to hear that they were still looking for a room. Okay, I said in the smallest voice as I sank back into the chair.

When she returned and we crossed the floor to one of the closed-off corridors, she asked me something, I can’t even remember what, and whatever my answer was, no sound came out at all. My words just moved the air and by the time we got to the room, where a second counsellor sat, nothing was left to restrain my sobbing. We got a few of the basic formalities out of the way, me in my smallest voice, and many tissues later I explained that I found the situation confronting. When they asked what they could do to make me more comfortable, I said, Just talk to me like an normal, intelligent human being. Which they did. Sort of.

Part of me wants to record here all the I-Said, She-Saids, because in truth it feels a little like a dream that I’m clutching to recall the strains of. But it doesn’t really matter. Counsellors 1 and 2, who I’ll call Counsel and Miss Symp, were very different. From those pseudonyms it’s fairly obvious who I liked.

Miss Symp spoke in a carefully modulated tone, drawing out all her words, her pitch slightly raised as though talking to a baby and each sentence ending with with a subtle, inquiring inflection. I hated it.

When I was a child, I had a kidney disorder, which meant 9 years of catheters and daily antibiotics and radiologists and specialists. I will never forget the last specialist, who spoke in such condescending tones to me. I loathed him, I was arrogantly rude to him (even at age ten) and the thing I remember most was his use of the word “panties”, which seems to be a common term in the US but here it is a word only used for children. I ranted and raved each time I left his consulting rooms. My mother tried to explain that he didn’t know that my vocabulary was probably larger than his.

I hate been talked down to, I hate being treated as fragile and I hate synthetic sympathy. It repels me. It does not engage my emotions. Have you noticed how Miss Symp implies simpering as much as sympathy?

I realise this says more about my character than it does about her, and I recognise the intention. I even recognise that for others, this may be exactly the tone of voice they need to hear. But not me. Me, it just aggravates.

And the content was no better. In the end, she became almost unintelligible. I could grasp nothing of what she was saying. She said something about addressing the brakes (breaks?) before dealing with the gears, or the situation, or something. I still have no idea what she was talking about. Like other counsellors, she repeated back to me the things I was saying but I was sensitive to every misspoken word. She had all the hallmarks of listening, but she wasn’t listening. And she pressed me about motherhood with, But really…, and, You must…, in spite of the clarity with which I expressed my love for Caspar, and my confidence as a mother.

While I recognise that patients (or whatever we are) don’t always know the truth or speak the truth, all the visual and auditory cues were there for her to understand. She spoke in nothings, repeating the same nothing words and phrases over and over again. In the end, I had to challenge her to speak plainly when she expressed concerns about my level of distress and said we needed to deal with the distress before we could work on changing the situation. Was she telling me I should be taking anti-depressants? Of course not. She’s not a doctor. But what was she saying? That question was never answered. It was deflected with you knows what best what you need and affirmations of how well I was doing to have been emboldened to ask for help.

What use is that? I know that I am the only one who can fix myself. If all Miss Symp can do is say, There, there…, and tell me things I already know, really, what use is that? At that point, I shut down to her completely.

Counsel, on the other hand, spoke to me just like a normal person. She laughed when it was appropriate, she smiled, she asked relevant questions which opened up the conversation. Like Miss Symp, she was supportive, but not in such a practised, generic way. She responded to me, she gathered information she needed. She treated me as an equal, instead of just paying lip service to me.

I know that seems a harsh interpretation of Miss Symp. I really don’t mean to impugn her but I can honestly say, if she had been the only counsellor there, I might have forced myself to go back but it would only have taken one or two appointments for me to develop a fury and frustration that would lead me never to return.

I’m glad that they had two counsellors present. I think it’s important that after that first encounter, there will be two perspectives to decide on a path for me. Counselling cannot avoid subjectivity so it’s good that there is a system for checks and balances. I can’t help but wonder, though, whether part of the purpose is to see who is the best fit for the person needing help. If that is so, I think it is wonderful luxury to have that burden taken from me. How many people who need help seek it out only to reject when it comes in the wrong form and then never ask again?

I am grateful for my two counsellors. In a fortnight, I will be going back, to see only Counsel, and I know that I will not experience that dread again, that I will not be crying in the atrium while I wait. I know that the light streaming in from that domed glass will feel like a little ray of hope. Now, there is a little space for me to heal myself.

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The last 48 hours have been relatively busy and I was going to talk about all the things I’d done, all the things I’ve yet to do and all the benefits of the new site for me and for my readers but I’m too tired to make administrivia sound interesting right now. Even though it is interesting (to me at least). So I’m leaving that for another day and what I’m thinking about is this:

How on earth do we know when things are real?

I’ve spent the last couple of days moving this blog, which required a certain amount of commitment and energy which I purport not to have, and chatting and joking on Skype with people I don’t even know while we worked together to get things set up. I felt normal. I think I even seemed normal. I almost felt likeable. I almost felt human.

And then I got a message from a long-lost friend, the closest friend of my teenage years, and I sent a happy, chatty message back. That felt kind of normal, then very fake.

I was genuinely excited to hear from her and I would genuinely like to see her again but I was also scared of the mess in my head and hyper-aware that if we were to find a time to catch up, I would be stricken with anxiety and feel overwhelmed by the process. I have to ask myself, is a computer a place to hide or is it a safety net while I find my feet again? And I don’t know the answer. I really don’t. Maybe it’s both.

A few people have left comments, and sent messages, appreciative of my candour. Am I candid? I think I am. I try to be. But my mask is still on when the conversations are closer to home, and away from my homepage. Part of me thinks this is good: It is nice to be reminded that there are actually human beings in the world that I can interact with, it’s nice to feel like myself, but then I’m challenged as to why I don’t feel that way when it becomes face-to-face. Worse, I’m challenged as to whether this depression is just a figment of my imagination, something I’ve made up. Maybe there is actually nothing wrong with me. Maybe I am one big faker. Maybe I am not being candid at all.

In the cerebral part of my brain, I can untangle it all, see that none of this is black and white. I can reject the false dichotomy: That’s logical fallacy 101. In spite of that, I just cannot seem to find solid ground to stand on.

Why do I feel that ominous sense of guilt for momentary pleasure? Why do I feel that ominous sense of guilt for being depressed? Why does everything I do or feel make everything else seem like a lie?

The truth is - I know this is the truth! - that we all have many faces. We all play many roles. How honestly we play them is dependent on us, but we play them nonetheless. Why do I not feel at home in any of them? Being sad feels wrong, being happy feels wrong, being alone, being with people, being quiet, being intense… It all feels wrong. I want to feel comfortable in all my faces again. I want them to feel real.

I need to shake everything up. I need to rattle me in a dice box and just see where I fall. I need to somehow create something to work with again, something to hold on to.

In the past, often I would do something sudden: Move house, change jobs, shave off all my hair, anything just to see who I was. At the moment, I can’t even move the furniture. It’s not my furniture. I am living in borrowed space in borrowed time. Time borrowed from living that can never be paid back. But I can do nothing suddenly. I have created too much of a mess. I need to strip away everything, all my labels, all my things, all my burdens, and try on new faces.

I need people.

I think I require a stage. I think the only set-decoration should be me. I don’t think I can do it in this vacuum. I don’t know how to get out of this vacuum. Am I too scared to get out of this vacuum?

The other day, chatting with my Mum on Skype, I called her Mrs. Plod, an affectionate insult that she is not insulted by in the least. I would be highly insulted by it. Is it slow-and-steady that will win this race for me? I am not slow and steady. I am fools-rush-in-where-angels-fear-to-tread. With nowhere to go and no way to get there.

Tomorrow, I will rearrange my room.

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The assignments I haven’t done from 30 poems in 30 days are just sitting there, clogging up my dashboard. I can’t write anything good. It feels like thinking. And I can’t think. So I’m just going to do them. Randomly. Whatever assignment I open, I’m cutting and pasting it in, then… Bang: A poem! In 30 seconds. I don’t even care how bad they are, or good. I just want my brain to start feeling fluid again. Instead of crushed.

So..

Bang! The 10th assignment: The good, the bad and the meter…

“Write a three or more stanza poem that uses a metered style for the first two stanzas and a non-metered format for the remaining stanzas.”

My head is just imploding,
I don’t know what I’m saying,
I’m sick of all this thinking,
There are no words left in me.

Numb and poetry is lost,
Blind and all my meaning gone,
Nights too short and days too long,
There are no words left in me.

I hate this.

I hate my stuck mind,
I hate my lost time,
and yesterday
and nothing.

There are no words left in me.

Bang! The 17th assignment: The constraint as a tool.

“Wikipedia’s Random Button is a great and magical thing. Today it lead me to an article about Cheshire Mammoth Cheese. The story of Cheshire Mammoth Cheese has everything you need for poetic inspiration. It has historical significance. It has political significance. It has small town appeal. It has people working together toward a common goaland it contains a pop culture reference. Most importantly, it has cheese. Find a way to incorporate this article into a poem.”

I’m not reading about the stupid cheese.
Seriously? Seriously?
(That’s a pop culture reference. )

I’ve heard the story before.
Cheese and politics
and highways for wolves
on The West Wing.
(That’s the pop culture reference.)

But politics isn’t like that,
It wasn’t like that then either.
Now, we talk faster.
We film it, dreaming they
Talk faster. And better.
Politics is pop culture.

Buffy likes cheese.
(That’s a pop culture reference.)

Bang! The 13th assignment: What is your writing process?

“Today is a two-part assignment. The first part is to think about your method of writing poetry… The second part is to shake up your process. If you have a lot of structure, try loosening up. If you write very loosely, try adding some structure to the process. Find a new place to write or use a different tool. The change doesn’t have to be major, but if you post your poem, please tell us what you changed.”

I normally don’t write poems
in 30 seconds bang.
I normally don’t write poetry at all.
I’m not a poet.

None of that’s true,
or it wasn’t once,
once-upon-a-time.

Then, I just wrote
and words were dark
and rich
and deep,
saturated with music
and sensation.

Redolent.

Now, nothing.

Bang! The 15th assignment: Imagism.

“Write a poem that follows the three rules of the imagists.

1. Direct treatment of the “thing”, whether subjective or objective.
2. To use absolutely no word that does not contribute to the presentation.
3. As regarding rhythm: to compose in sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of the metronome.”

Too rigid, imagism.
Too conscientiously flowing. Abrupt. Flowing.
The thing is not a thing.
It expands, contracts, unfolds. It has no substance.
I am not T.S Eliot,
The thing is words, stripped words, naked, undulating.
Shock me with it. Hurts like hills and dreams and loves,
like blood.
Flowing.
Gone.

Bang! The 14th assignment: Repetition

“Write a poem that uses at least two different forms of repetition. Try to embrace at least one form of repetition that you don’t ordinarily use. “

Repeat.
Repeat.
That’s all I do.

Fucking echoing, empty
chamber of my mind.

Repeat.
Repeat.

Dead nouns. Dead signs.
No metaphor,
no semaphore,
Just dot dot dot,
dash dash dash,
dot dot dot.

Repeat.

Bang! The sixth assignment: Developing your voice…

“Take at least five minutes to meditate in a quite room free of outside influences before you write today’s poem. Try to clear your head of stray thoughts. Once you feel like you are clear and calm, write your poem. Let the topic be about whatever comes to mind after your meditation. If you have never meditated before, simply sit in a chair with your eyes closed and try to relax.”

Yeah, right. That’s going to happen. I couldn’t do it then. And I sure as hell can’t now.

How long is a second,
how long a breath?
How many moments spent,
With glass grating
my screaming head?

How long is five minutes?
Is it tense or dead?
My only thought:
Too much. I’m going
to bed.

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Today was a good day. Big Sis let me wallow in the bath for two hours, a thing I miss being able to do terribly since becoming a mum. It gave me time to wake up, and time to read. I used to read whole books in the bath at least a couple of times a week. Having a shower just doesn’t cut it, not that having a shower is that much easier as a mum anyway. By the time he goes down for a nap, the day is half over.

And then I said to myself, We’ll go out for coffee, which sadly around here means McCafe. All other coffee machines are half an hour away. There’s not a big market for espresso when residents either spend all their dole money on drugs, booze and cigarettes or are nice, quiet folk, never seen on their neat front lawns but when they are taking their bins out.

So I got to read half the paper while Caspar demolished a raspberry friand. We should do that more often. There is nothing better than a newspaper and real coffee, out in the world in the morning. Unless you add Eggs Benedict and quiet company to the scenario. That is my idea of heaven. Even if it’s in a pretty average part of the world, it’s enough to make me feel like myself.

And then the sun came out and Caspar and I just had fun. I can’t even remember what we did now. But it was genuine, unadulterated fun.

It would be nice to think that just having a bath and a coffee would fix everything, but I know that even if I do just behave my way to feeling better, whatever is screwing with my head will just come back to bite me on the ass later. This might not be a perfect way to look at it but, personifying depression, making my head seem perfectly fine is just as much a tactical advantage for him as making my head seem scary and explosive. He is maintaining his existence. He knows he’s here for a reason and there is a little war going on; a psychological immunological challenge. He that annoying guest who doesn’t know when to leave, that annoying prankster who doesn’t know when to stop.

The truth is, it was nice to have a little space where my mind let the go of the things I need to do. But I still need to do those things. It’s a vicious cycle and I need to reverse the polarity of it.

Even just writing this now, that sick, overburdened sensation is returning, kicking hard against the idea that I deserved to do those things today when I have so much to get done; when I’ve turned Big Sis’ house into a disaster area, when the nappy bucket is overflowing, when calls haven’t been returned, when I’ve screwed up my university application and, most importantly, when my house is still standing derelict waiting for me to pack up all my shit and fix it up and sell it so that I can be out of debt and Big Sis can have her space back and Caspar can have the life he deserves.

I notice that I said Caspar, not Caspar and I. Obviously I don’t think I deserve it. Why not? Because it is there for the taking and all I have to do is do it. It really is that simple. Instead, I fail to do it, beat myself up, and fail some more. It’s not good.

Mr. D doesn’t get the fine distinction between building up some resources in order to get things done, and not getting things, so I have to fight him on that point. Calling him Mr. D probably takes away some of his credibility. That’s a start.

Slowly, slowly.

And then there is the other work to do; addressing all the other things in my head that got me to this point in the first place. They are harder to grab hold of and require me to withdraw from the real world and move in other realms. It is an unsolvable puzzle, having to do both of these things at once. I am pulled in two different directions trying to reach the same goal.

I’ve done a silly diagram of that too, and made up a silly name for it.

It’s funny, of all the things I’ve read in my life, I’ve never studied depression at all. But this is how I understand it. Chicken and Egg. Catch 22. So I tell myself that time out is work toward the goal, and tell myself that the tiniest practical achievement is a step toward the goal, and I tell myself that the most useless seeming thoughts, the non-thoughts even, are a step toward the goal. And that is all I can do. If something is in pieces, it needs to be fixed piece by piece. It is hard to do such intricate work, balanced on a wire, when the problem feels so large. And when you can’t think clearly.

It’s hard to know whether a good day is good, because Mr. D is always on your back. But can you really tell when Mr. D isn’t right? Can you really tell when the choices you make are right? Making time for yourself is good, but it carries with it the danger of procrastination, of drawing out the problem. Especially these days, when Because You’re Worth It is an advertising slogan propping up the most empty, self-deceiving way of living. How do I really know when I am deceiving myself? Self-doubt hurts.

Then again, self-doubt is good. Because when you lose yourself, your mind becomes rigid. It closes itself to new ways of looking at things. It closes itself to the possibility that you are wrong. And then it tells you you are wrong all the time, when your brain no longer has the elasticity to defend itself.

This is beginning to sound like an essay rather than my thoughts. I am trying to untangle them. Usually I write a working title when I start a post, and then change it at the end when I know what I have said. I think I’ll leave this one.

When is a good day good?

Like the stuff in my mind, when it comes to the stuff in my life, I have to accept the shadow of that reality as well. I mostly live with the head in the clouds, and I find a lot of things there worthwhile and meaningful. I prioritise them. But other things get missed along the way and it is a fine line between the clouds and the sand. Nothing is safe. Nothing is right. There are always things you have to choose between. I have to be careful. I have to be watchful. I have to find a way to differentiate between action and avoidance. Anything and everything has the possibility of being either.

Still, I think today was a good day.

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