Reflection from February 20th, 2008 @ Age 26
RE: A.K.A. SADIE MAE, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES—AND, DIETRICH MERCUTIO ;oD
It’s not been the best of days. It’s certainly not been one of the worst (thank god—if I believed in that and all), but I’ve had a fair share of better days. Today was another suicidal day. I really try’n pay attention to what I’m thinking, when I have these kinds of thoughts—because, I don’t know, it’s seems like it’s prolly important and all. Today, I was thinking about how I’m just so disappointed in the world, because I’ve worked so fucking hard for so fucking long—I’ve worked to be honest and promote truth as often as is humanly possible for a person like me, I’ve worked to put good into this world and to be kind and show love towards other human beings. I feel like I’ve done all this good, and you’re damn straight I’m fucking waiting for something in return. Anyone who says, “ohh it feels so good to give—that it doesn’t even matter if the favor is returned,” either doesn’t give all that often or is lying. There are a lot of hard things we have to do in this world—but, I think one of the most difficult is to give without expectation of receiving something in return.
Isn’t that what morals teach us, though? That, if we are good and honest and kind to others—then, we get to go to heaven. Isn’t it funny, how they leave the good part up till the very fucking end—and, even then, there’s no guarantee. I don’t know, it just feels like I’ve worked very hard for almost the entirety of my life, and I feel like I’ve gotten nowhere and I’ve gotten very little in return—and, at some point, when the daily grind and the daily suffering far surmounts the reward and satisfaction I derive from life, I just have to ask myself, what the fuck is the goddamn point?
I mean this literally—I wish someone could motherfucking tell me what the goddamn point is already. It’s funny, how some people never think about the meaning of life—it just never crosses their fucking minds. And, other people can’t get past it. I think these “other” people are the kinds of people that were put on this earth to suffer, for whatever reason, and the suffering is inescapable—there are no shortcuts, there is no maneuvering around or overtop or underneath, there is only pain. Never-ending, soul-crushing, heart-breaking pain. I don’t know how to describe the pain, though—I don’t know if I’ve yet, been able to put it into words. I haven’t finished reading through and typing up my old journals; and, while I’ve read a few of my old, originally-typed entries, I think it’s really going to take one or two good, comprehensive run-throughs of the entire story—my entire story, to even begin to recognize whether or not I’ve been able at all, to convey accurately what’s been on my mind all this time.
I always think it’s funny, that, when I tell people that I write, and when they see me writing and writing and writing away—they can’t even imagine what the hell I have to say, that would take up so much goddamn room. I don’t think they judge me—I just think they don’t have a clue, what all goes through my head—such that, I could have such massive amounts of writing to do. I can’t quite believe it myself, a lot of the time. I don’t know what compels me to sit down and write almost every day. To sit down, and write about my thoughts and my feelings and whatnot. Perhaps, it’s because I have so many thoughts and feelings—so many complicated and complex and intertwining and completely confusing thoughts and feelings, that, it’s the only way I can even make it possible to gain some sort of grasp over it all. Maybe, because I think, when I am dead and gone—I will have something concrete, something more intimate to share with others, than perhaps all the intimacy I’ve ever actually shared with other humans beings combined. I write my intimate thoughts and feelings, I record my intimacy, perhaps, because I want someone to share it with—I want someone to want to know what I’m thinking, what crazy thoughts and terribly difficult feelings I have to deal with, that I have so much trouble dealing with.
I think it’s interesting, trying to record what it’s like to be a human being who suffers from bipolar, because I have the illness—and, it’s tremendously difficult even for me to understand what the hell is going on, what the hell it means to suffer from this illness. There is so much yet unknown, about mental illness—and, drugs to treat mental illness. I think, for some people, myself included, it doesn’t matter how much effort you are willing to put in or how many different methods you are willing to try, or how many drugs you are willing to take—what remains inevitably constant through all the change endured throughout life, is a dulling, relentless, unbearable pain. A suffering has been placed upon me, from which I cannot escape. I could escape it temporarily, through drugs, most desirably through smoking pot—but, in all honesty, that only makes it worse, because it made it all the more difficult to return to the relentless aching that’s been thrust upon me.
I don’t know why, I was born to suffer. I only know, that I was born—and, I was meant to suffer. I don’t believe I’ll ever escape the suffering, and it makes me angry that people tell me that I can’t smoke pot to escape this insufferable pain—and, yet, they do not know how to help me; not my parents, not my friends, not professional doctors, not therapists…
Nobody knows how to help me. They take away the one method by which I’m able, at least for some period of time, to escape the inescapable suffering—and then, they leave me to suffer alone in the dark. I am not their problem. Even if I were, they would not know what to do with me. They do not know how to help me.
It’s just unfortunate, that I was born from the womb different from most others; I’ve suffered inevitably, from my consistently-proscribed deviation from the norm—I’ve been cut off from activities that constitute the norm, and I’ve been left beaten down and broken apart and bleeding on the sidewalk, a mere spectacle for the amusement of others.
No, I don’t really know what the hell I mean by that—so, don’t take it all too seriously. It’s so difficult to record feeling in word. I’m just so very tired; I just can’t see the utility of sticking around, for the minuscule moments of joy—when 98% of my life, is comprised of involuntary suffering and pain. If you open a business, and you are bringing in less money than you are expending out—then, you close it down, don’t you? If you find yourself in a relationship, in which the negative impact upon you far outweighs any benefit derived therefrom—you end the relationship, don’t you? If you walk into the fire, and it burns you—you retreat, don’t you? I just wonder how much longer I can lead an honorable life, in the hope for a better future—when the future never seems to come, and it’s been all but branded into my skin that there are, in fact, no guarantees in life. I do wonder.
I have these earplugs in my ears—I’m about to go to bed and all, and they tickle! They tickle the insides of my ears, but I hate to take them out—because, it’s kind of hard to stuff them back in! Anyways, I hope tomorrow is better than today.
The best way to conceive of the fundamental project of human reality is to say that man is the being whose project is to be God. Whatever may be the myths and rites of the religion considered, God is first “sensible to the heart” of man as the one who identifies and defines him in his ultimate and fundamental project. If man possesses a pre-ontological comprehension of the being of God, it is not the great wonders of nature nor the power of society which have conferred it upon him. God, value and supreme end of transcendence, represents the permanent limit in terms of which man makes known to himself what he is. To be man means to reach toward being God. Or if you prefer, man fundamentally is the desire to be God.
It may be asked, if man on coming into the world is borne toward God as toward his limit, if he can choose only to be God, what becomes of freedom? For freedom is nothing other than a choice which creates for itself its own possibilities, but it appears here that the initial project of being God, which “defines” man, comes close to being the same as a human “nature” or an “essence.” The answer is that while the meaning of the desire is ultimately the project of being God, the desire is never constituted by this meaning; on the contrary, it always represents a particular discovery of its ends. These ends in fact are pursued in terms of a particular empirical situation, and it is this very pursuit which constitutes the surroundings as a situation. The desire of being is always realized as the desire of a mode of being. And this desire of a mode of being expresses itself in turn as the meaning of the myriads of concrete desires which constitute the web of our conscious life.
Existentialism and Human Emotions—The Desire to Be God (cont.)