An Experiment with Stream of Consciousness
***As the title indicates, this is a digital copy of the stream of consciousness that I wrote in my journal. I haven't editing anything, nor have I omitted anything. I'm trusting you to follow my journey in recovery, so try not to hate me for the things that come out of my skull.***
Stream of consciousness has never been easy for me, as if my unfiltered thoughts aren't good enough for the semi-permanent state of pen and paper, or even the semi-impermanence of the word processor. That's the crux of the problem, I presume -- I hate my flaws. No, I hate my perceived flaws. I always fear that I am not fast enough, strong enough, smart enough, interesting enough, worthy enough for all of the good things that happen to me. People describe me as unique, as fascinating, as brilliant, as giving, and yet...I can't accept it. Why can't I see myself the way that they see me? Because I see my every thought, my every selfish action, my every failing, my ever monstrous moment. Because I hate myself every time that I can't fall asleep, every time that I can't get out of bed, every time that I indulge in my sexuality. It's not the acts, really, and it's certainly not the people. I fear that it is a drug for me. I'm not a sex addict who cannot connect with whomever I am fucking. It's the connection that I crave. The fundamental, innate unity. But, I suppose, that's just a part of sex. Biologically, our brains release endorphins that facilitate such a connection. Perhaps I am afraid that I am making it religious? But it is, and there is nothing wrong with that...
Perhaps, I hate my reliance on it because of my introduction to it. Such a thing is certainly not unheard of. I hate that such a beautiful, important, religious element of my life had its origins in betrayal. That it has been used as a source of control so often. That my society throws in it in my face. That it's one more part of me that is fundamentally and innately connected to him.
So many things about me lead back to him. He fostered my love of role-playing -- a core element of my personality, a favored past time, and a pivotal aspect of my recovery. He developed my love of learning and debate, central to my mental health and life goals. He encouraged my love of reading and analysis, which are instrumental to everything else. He made me feel special and loved and real and safe, until I couldn't anymore. Even with all of his betrayals, his faults, his flaws, he was the only hero that I really had. And what does that say about me?
I know, I know. I was only a child and all children's parents are Golden Gods until such a time as they are not. But all of my heroes are deeply flawed -- not one of the could leave their addictions behind and it destroyed them. And what does that say about me?
I want to accept that all Great People are deeply flawed, that I could be one of them, that I can be renowned through the ages. I don't have such delusions. Not anymore. I'm just another survivor, picking up the pieces, praying that I don't rage too much.
Whatever that means.
My rage gives me power, sets fire for my activism, my altruism, my beliefs. But it terrifies me. I fear that I can't control it. I fear that it will run away with me, turning me into the Hulk or Hyde or him. I fear that it will devour me from the inside out, rotting me like a diseased tree. This scenario, though, will happen either way. How do I let it out, without letting it run my life? It doesn't matter, I guess. It already does. It runs my life alongside fear and self-loathing. A perfect triumvirate.
Stream of consciousness has never been easy for me, as if my unfiltered thoughts aren't good enough for the semi-permanent state of pen and paper, or even the semi-impermanence of the word processor. That's the crux of the problem, I presume -- I hate my flaws. No, I hate my perceived flaws. I always fear that I am not fast enough, strong enough, smart enough, interesting enough, worthy enough for all of the good things that happen to me. People describe me as unique, as fascinating, as brilliant, as giving, and yet...I can't accept it. Why can't I see myself the way that they see me? Because I see my every thought, my every selfish action, my every failing, my ever monstrous moment. Because I hate myself every time that I can't fall asleep, every time that I can't get out of bed, every time that I indulge in my sexuality. It's not the acts, really, and it's certainly not the people. I fear that it is a drug for me. I'm not a sex addict who cannot connect with whomever I am fucking. It's the connection that I crave. The fundamental, innate unity. But, I suppose, that's just a part of sex. Biologically, our brains release endorphins that facilitate such a connection. Perhaps I am afraid that I am making it religious? But it is, and there is nothing wrong with that...
Perhaps, I hate my reliance on it because of my introduction to it. Such a thing is certainly not unheard of. I hate that such a beautiful, important, religious element of my life had its origins in betrayal. That it has been used as a source of control so often. That my society throws in it in my face. That it's one more part of me that is fundamentally and innately connected to him.
So many things about me lead back to him. He fostered my love of role-playing -- a core element of my personality, a favored past time, and a pivotal aspect of my recovery. He developed my love of learning and debate, central to my mental health and life goals. He encouraged my love of reading and analysis, which are instrumental to everything else. He made me feel special and loved and real and safe, until I couldn't anymore. Even with all of his betrayals, his faults, his flaws, he was the only hero that I really had. And what does that say about me?
I know, I know. I was only a child and all children's parents are Golden Gods until such a time as they are not. But all of my heroes are deeply flawed -- not one of the could leave their addictions behind and it destroyed them. And what does that say about me?
I want to accept that all Great People are deeply flawed, that I could be one of them, that I can be renowned through the ages. I don't have such delusions. Not anymore. I'm just another survivor, picking up the pieces, praying that I don't rage too much.
Whatever that means.
My rage gives me power, sets fire for my activism, my altruism, my beliefs. But it terrifies me. I fear that I can't control it. I fear that it will run away with me, turning me into the Hulk or Hyde or him. I fear that it will devour me from the inside out, rotting me like a diseased tree. This scenario, though, will happen either way. How do I let it out, without letting it run my life? It doesn't matter, I guess. It already does. It runs my life alongside fear and self-loathing. A perfect triumvirate.
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