Reflection from March 22nd, 2013 @ Age 31
Thank god it’s Friday. To recap, I was manic this week; decided it was possible that I could woo Eminem with my wonderful writing skillz and we’d live in love, forevermore—and then, also, that I had to get this “Adelshine Series” all up and running right away, real SUPER QUICK, so that President Obama could catch it in time for mental-health month May 2013. Sighhhh. I just don’t know what to do with myself, sometimes. Makes me feel like such a fool.
I’ve felt really sad, today. I was very angry, yesterday; mostly, at Adam and people like him and his mom, but all the same—just kind of the evil side of humanity, in general. The side, where people ignore the other side—that is full of suffering human beings. I don’t know; not a whole lot to say on that one, for fear of getting myself all upset.
I feel lonely. I feel like I have no friends. I feel like doing nothing. I feel like nonexisting. I feel like crying. And, lastly, I feel like my writing is horrible. I know I say that sometimes, and, a lot of times—it turns out to be really beautiful, instead. But, I’m pretty sure this time—is not like those.
I can’t tell you how much money I spent in the last two weeks. An exorbitant amount. Let’s see, just from Anthropologie—a $40 sweatshirt, and a $300 dress (that I have nowhere, to wear it to—right now, anyways). The worst, though, was TJ Maxx—which I’ll get to; but, less we forget DSW—my Badgley Mischka work-like pumps (around $79), and my House of Harlow peep-toe sling-backs (just about $55—yep!). They’re both beautiful—both pairs! And then, ohh god—TJ Maxx. Let’s see…
I got a Nanette Leopore purple blazer ($179), and matching (fabric and buttons) black pencil skirt ($80)—that both, just have, the most beautiful detailing and cut I’ve ever seen. Just immaculate design (compared to all the other stuff I have, for the most part—well, other than, the other designer items I already own). And, I don’t know; a James & Elizabeth white-linen button up ($99), and same brand—a silk, flow-y blouse-like casual shirt, if that’s a possible combination ($80—on clearance!!). Then also, a Rebecca Minkoff burlap-bag fabric, peach short-dress with the pockets (around $99, I think)—the Rebecca Taylor green leopard-print, blouse-y tunic thing that I’d wanted so badly ($80—yeah, on cleeaarannce!!); ohh, another top from Anthro—this red, I-don’t-even-know-how-you’d-describe-it, but-it’s-absolutely-beautiful top! ($80) Ohh, and a pair of pale-yellow, Sam Something-son wedges—with the cutest cut heal I’ve ever seen, on an espadrilles! ($40) God, it’s a lot of shit! What else?
Anyways, I don’t know. But, I do know it all made me feel much better. And, I want to keep it all. But I’d understand, if I had to return some stuff; and I’m pretty sure, I’d be okay with that. I mean, I wouldn’t be happy about it, given the circumstances—wherein I got supremely FUCKED over by Adam, but, you know…
Whatever, I guess.
So, I totally forgot about this cookie-dough that Rach brought me—when I was feeling kinda down, a few weeks back; I totally forgot, I mean—that I’d put it in the back of the fridge drawer, so nobody (i.e. Dad) would eat it. And then, I remembered it, and ate it just now—and I’m hoping I don’t get sick. I mean, it was like three-weeks old—but, I know for a fact, that there were no eggs in there. She likes to make vegan things, so Bryce will eat them. He’s so particular—reminds me of someone else.
Also reminds me, of when people call other people like Bryce and I difficult. They say that, we are difficult people. But, I don’t understand why we’re—the difficult ones. I mean, yes—we are particular. But, honestly, what’s so goddamn fucking wrong about that?! I really, I mean, I really would like to know. Why do you have to be so difficult? Why can’t you be like everyone else? Why can’t you just blend in, like everyone else? I don’t know—I just don’t want to. But, why is that so bad?
Why does every fucking thing, have to be easy—for these lazy ass, fucking self-centered, ignorant, ASSHOLES of Americans? Why must, they have everything—right at their fucking fingertips, at the very fucking second they need it? I don’t know—I’m just angry, is all; I’m very, very very much so—EXTREMELY angry at the world, right now.
Adam filed a subpoena, today. I don’t really know what that means. Maybe I should, ‘cause I’m a lawyer—but I don’t, so fuck you. Now that I’ve been trying to share my writing more—I know that’s a line I’ll wish later, that I’d never wrote. But, hopefully not. By the time I get around to reading today’s entry—hopefully, I’ll be over that little “should” routine again (for like, the millionth time). I just feel so tired. I just wish the “command” key on this mac—was in the place where it is, on the PCs is all. Well, that, and few other things—but, that’s the easiest to describe. Hah ;0)
I saw a new doctor, yesterday. I cried the whole way home, too. It’s ‘cause I was so relieved to actually hear a doctor say, “I can help you”. He took blood work to check my serotonin levels and dopamine levels, and other ones too. And then, also, he took genetic-testing from swabbing the inside of my gum—to check out the levels of my enzymes, what’s going on in my liver and all. So, that was all very exciting because I was also, able to get it all done right there—no waiting or nuthin’. Well, I had to wait an hour to see the doc—but, if he can help, then who cares.
Anyways, I think I mentioned earlier, perhaps—that Adam filed a subpoena, today. My attorney seems to think it will be to Paul—regarding my decrease in income, as of January 1st of this year. So, that should be interesting. We’ll see. I’m so over this stupid divorce, by now. It’s such a fucking drag—I can’t even begin to explain to you.
I try to not think negative thoughts—but it’s so hard, sometimes. I try not to think about the fact that I’m almost 32-years old, living with my parents, getting a divorce (i.e. no boyfriend, fiancé, husband or babies anywhere, in the near future). The fact, that I have no friends—I try not to think about that. The fact, that my life feels like an entire waste—unless I do something really important, to help save this world so very much curtailing towards evil every second that I sit here typing. I try not to think about my fear, that I promoted evil—albeit, from within my naïve vulnerability; but, nonetheless, kept an evil spirit alive in this world—one more alive, that was supposed to be dead. What if I did that, and screwed up the whole fucking balance of good and evil in this world? I mean, really—what if?! It frightens me, a little. I don’t know—it just makes me feel really fucking bad. I feel so used. I feel betrayed; but, I think the worse of the two—is feeling so used. I feel used up.
I mean, I know that I’m not. I know this is all in my head, and that I have so much more to give—and that my life has lots of meaning blah, blah, blah. But, what good is knowing in my head—when I cannot feel in my heart? Or, when I am feeling in my heart—and the feeling, does not match what’s going on in my head. I mean, I guess that’s one of the problems that all people have—not just bipolars, so…
I don’t know where I was going, with that.
I just feel deflated and used up, and sad and lonely—and people are tired of it, and they are tired of me. And, while they might not say that to your face—you can see it in their eyes; and, hear it in their nonchalant, passive-aggressive pleas to talk about something else—anything else, but about mental illness or the divorce. Come to think of it, I myself am pretty sick of talking about mental illness—and also the divorce, too. It’s just hard to stop it, though—when even I’m tired about it, but the pain from neither has yet found a way to escape me. Or, I have not found a manner by which to exorcise it. Yet. And, on that final note—I would like to leave you in parting, with this message:
The command-key is in a very inconvenient spot for me, on this Mac Book Pro, and so, I hate using it—which should tell you (and, if it doesn’t—then, I am…), that I really do mean every emphasis on every italicized word. I mean it—with all my heart, I do. And, here comes on—the fucking TV, downstairs. I really do wish I lived by myself, sometimes; in a peaceful, quiet house in the woods—where I could listen to the birds all day long, and not hear a goddamn voice from another human being or the fucking television for like, 800 days. Well, no, not the people for that long—but definitely, the TV. I hate the TV. And that’s exactly what I’ll tell the judge, too—when I’m explaining why I had to purchase these $300 Bose noise-cancellation headphones. Hah! God help me. Really, though—I mean, please.
In all my life I have met only one person who claims to have seen a ghost. And the interesting thing about the story is that that person disbelieved in the immortal soul before she saw the ghost and still disbelieves after seeing it. She says that what she saw must have been an illusion or a trick of the nerves. And obviously she may be right. Seeing is not believing.
For this reason, the question whether miracles occur can never be answered simply by experience. Every event which might claim to be a miracle is, in the last resort, something presented to our senses, something seen, heard, touched, smelled, or tasted. And our senses are not infallible. If anything extraordinary seems to have happened, we can always say that we have been the victims of an illusion. If we hold a philosophy which excludes the supernatural, this is what we always shall say. What we learn from experience depends on the kind of philosophy we bring to experience. It is therefore useless to appeal to experience before we have settled, as well as we can, the philosophical question.
If immediate experience cannot prove or disprove the miraculous, still less can history do. Many people think one can decide whether a miracle occurred in the past by examining the evidence ‘according to the ordinary rules of historical inquiry’. But the ordinary rules cannot be worked until we have decided whether miracles are possible, and if so, how probable they are. For if they are impossible, then no amount of historical evidence will convince us. If they are possible but immensely improbable, then only mathematically demonstrative evidence will convince us: and since history never provides that degree of evidence for any event, history can never convince us that a miracle occurred. If, on the other hand, miracles are not intrinsically improbable, then the existing evidence will be sufficient to convince us that quite a number of miracles have occurred. The result of our historical enquiries thus depends on the philosophical views which we have been holding before we even began to look at the evidence. This philosophical question must therefore come first.
Here is an example of the sort of thing that happens if we omit the preliminary philosophical task, and rush on to the historical. In a popular commentary on the Bible you will find a discussion of the date at which the Fourth Gospel was written. The author says it must have been written after the execution of St Peter, because, in the Fourth Gospel, Christ is represented as predicting the execution of St Peter. ‘A book’, thinks the author, ‘cannot be written before events which it refers to’. Of course it cannot—unless real predictions ever occur. If they do, then this argument for the date is in ruins. And the author has not discussed at all whether real predictions are possible. He takes it for granted (perhaps unconsciously) that they are not. Perhaps he is right: but if he is, he has not discovered this principle by historical inquiry. He has brought his disbelief in predictions to his historical work, so to speak, ready made. Unless he had done so his historical conclusion about the date of the Fourth Gospel could not have been reached at all. His work is therefore quite useless to a person who wants to know whether predictions occur. The author gets to work only after he has already answered that question in the negative, and on grounds which he never communicates to us.
This book is intended as a preliminary to historical inquiry. I am not a trained historian and I shall not examine the historical evidence for the Christian miracles. My effort is to put my readers in a position to do so. It is no use going to the texts until we have some idea about the possibility or probability of the miraculous. Those who assume that miracles cannot happen are merely wasting their time by looking into the texts: we know in advance what results they will find for they have begun by begging the question.