Greetings from the machine shop.
This is a pretty angry piece, but I have to accept it as part of the process. Getting rid of old stuff that doesn't serve you is a bit like burning off excess gas. This gas is something you can't really see until you set it alight; & then...it looks pretty angry, & pretty fiery. But the fact is, it is serving a purpose. You are getting rid of stuff that doesn't serve you any more...once and for all.
It's just a matter of the way you look at it. Like the Danny Aiello character says in 'Jacob's Ladder', when he paraphrases Ekhart;
Eckhart saw Hell too. He said: The only thing that burns in Hell is the part of you that won't let go of life, your memories, your attachments. They burn them all away. But they're not punishing you, he said. They're freeing your soul. So the way he sees it, if you're frightened of dying and... and you're holding on, you'll see devils tearing your life away. But if you've made your peace, then the devils are really angels, freeing you from the earth. It's just a matter of how you look at it, that's all. So don't worry, okay? Okay?
This isn't about dying...it's about an old self dying, so the new one can emerge. It's a process, so I have to be patient, and trust where it is going. But if this is about letting go of anger...then I am all for it. Provided it is leading me somewhere better...brighter.
A lot of this is covered in my book, but I will post here from time to time stuff that relates to my friends, or stuff I think will be of interest to them. So those who would like to know how they are involved, by all means read on. If you're not in the mood for deep material...then go and look at cat videos. If I could...I do nothing but watch cat videos.
However...I have work to do.
ok...enter at your own risk...
As I work on my latest creation, I find myself thinking about
the writer David Foster Wallace; David was a wonderful writer (I didn't like
his stuff very much, but that is not to say he wasn't a good writer- he was
technically great, albeit not to my taste), but what I find most fascinating
about the man is that he was a terrific human being. A real humanitarian fellow.
David suffered from profound clinical depression for most of
his life, and he eventually murdered himself in cold blood in his early
forties.
I don't know what to tell you...some people's brains simply
don't work properly, or they have a chemical imbalance, or whatever. I don't know who this 'god' fellow is, but he
is a shitty goddamned tradesman, & I could build a better human being with
both hands tied behind my back and my johnson snagged in a lathe.
Perhaps that is what I am doing in the machine shop...a
retrofit. An upgrade. A reco job on myself.
In any case, I reckon given the crappy job
this god has done in creating such flawed mechanisms as we...so tortured and
stretched on the rack of our own frailty & chronic imperfection...his level
of expertise would be rewarded with a prison sentence back here in the real
world.
Have you noticed lately that the
level of customer service and attention to detail out there is in steady
decline? That's because we humans have a
shitty example of a creator in our 'maker'.
Monkey see, monkey do; your father a shitty parent? You will likely be a shitty person. This is the way the world works, and for a
man like David Foster Wallace to deliberately murder his own not insignificant
talent and rare beauty as a human being, is a shitty goddamned state of
affairs. However...at some point we have to stop blaming a god who doesn't exist, & take charge.
I really feel sorry for David, because I know something of
what he went through. Or imagine I
do. I guess no one person can know what
is going on in the mind of another person.
Which is why unless you have suffered depression or a similar mental
illness yourself, you will never understand what it is like for us. HOWEVER...I am blessed with a group of
friends who try. I have had my episodes,
and I can only imagine what it is like for you.
Believe me, if I go off my trolley, & you roll your eyes and say,
'oh jesus, here he goes again, now he'll bleat about how awful things are,
& how he's going to threaten to top himself, bah blah...', then I know
something of what you mean. Until things
really got bad for me, in the past, I had all the empathy of a housebrick for
the trials and torments of others. When
someone on FB began to fall apart, I would excuse myself out the back door and
come back when they settled down, or defriend them. Until you experience a profound mental
episode yourself...you are in the dark.
& you might as well stay there; no point trying to understand it,
unless you absolutely have to. I'll get
back to that.
Some of my friends did delete me- & I fully
understand. Sometimes it is too
much. Life is dark enough without being
friends with the prince of darkness and king of pain on your social network,
and when we the afflicted take a nosedive headfirst into the shit vat, wailing
all the way down, it might seem like attention seeking, but I assure you, it is
not. We have not the presence of mind to
be able to think in those terms. If
someone here on FB has an episode...then it is kind of you to drop a line or two on
their wall, offer your support, then step back and wait. Go back to your mahjong, mud wrestling or
nude segue sprints. Whatever. You cannot do much more than this...you are
not health professionals, and even if you were...it is better if friends leave
others to attend to such matters.
When
we air our dirty mental laundry out for all to see, you have to
understand...for sufferers of mental illness, it is like being on fire. & SOMEONE out there has to have the
extinguisher. Because we can't put the
fire out ourselves. When someone has set
your arse on fire...you screech. It's
reactive...& not dissimilar to the way we would bleat when we were beaten
by our parents, or whatever. Whatever dreadful heart breaking thing happened to you. The point is, it's simply
reactive. It's pain, anguish, and
frankly...surprise.
These episodes catch
you off guard; & in the panic of the agony...we do the first thing we think
of. Run to our friends. Why don't we call psych services? For me, where I live, there is a shitty
goddamned excuse for psych services.
Health care in the bush is virtually nonexistent. And even when you can see someone...they are
about as sympathetic as another house brick.
I'm not going to bang on about this, because these freaks don't care, so
I don't know who I would be banging on about it to. They are about as useful as god in such
matters, and over time, you get used to certain things simply not working. You soon find out getting health care in the
arse end of the world is like building a holiday rental out of
marshmallows. I might as well pray to a
dinner gong. It would be of no value,
but it does make a terrific sound when you bang on it. I'll show you resonating...
Depression is not just feeling wistful...we all have our dark
moments. Depression sufferers have been
in the dark for so long...it looks like light to us. It is something we have become conditioned
to, usually since childhood, & it affects the way we think, act, and
behave. We literally don't know there is
something wrong with us, until we begin to collapse. Or fall into a series of collapses.
We are not normal...although given that mental illness is on
the rise, it will soon become the new normal...so if you don't get it now, then
you had better soon; because the odds are, one of your family is going to get a
mental illness. The stats are that
ominous, the mental business is booming, and no one seems to have a definitive
answer why.
So...a word of thanks to those who take the time to
understand. You can't do much more
than that- most of you can't exactly come around and see me, and even if you
could...I doubt there is much you could do.
Depression is a bastard to treat.
& a friendly chat won't fix anything.
Nor will telling us to 'snap out of it'.
Just keep doing what you're doing...that is MORE than
enough. Certainly more than should be
expected of you. People with mental
illnesses are difficult to be around.
They behave in a very shitty manner to others in extreme cases, and they
neither know why, nor even know they are doing it, quite often. It's like blackouts...without the
alcohol.
I appreciated all the nice comments and well wishes from
people here. But beyond that...don't get
sucked into the black hole of my illness.
(or anyone else's) I am a
complicated fellow, and not in a good way, like in those quirky American movies
you see. Our brains don't work in the
normal manner- they are the neurological equivalent of a dog's breakfast. (let's face it, artists are a kooky bunch,
and the amount of time we spend in our heads trying to figure out shit that
simply cannot be figured out...it's a mystery how we live as long as we
do. mad fuckers.)
The truth is, and shall remain, that I will either murder my
arse like David Foster Wallace, or I won't.
And there is not a goddamned thing you or anyone can do about it.
At some point...as sad as it is, you have to let go. We all do. I am told those who talk about it, ultimately don't do it. It's the quiet ones, like David Foster Wallace, that you have to watch.
The bottom line is, this life is the stuff of tooth and
claw. Every man for himself. If you find yourself handicapped in some way,
that is tough shit. If you are jinxed
and fucked up with a mental illness that did not even have the courtesy to let
you know you had it...then the instant you are aware of it...find the last
longship on the left with the people with no eyesight, some horrible wasting
disease, or no legs, and start rowing!
You live with an illness all your life?
That's some shitty goddamned luck right there, and everyone is very very
sorry indeed. But the INSTANT you wake
up, and find yourself zapped by a liberal dose of self awareness about what
your illness has done to you, how, and whether or not something can be rescued
from the ashes...then you owe it to yourself and everyone else to get off yr
arse and get it done. That's a fact,
Jack. You neck yourself? That's a greek tragedy, and everyone is
choked up beyond words, to be sure. But
every soldier must carry his own pack...no matter what. That's just the way it is. I wish it wasn't...but wishing is
fishing. With a toothpick. We are here in the warzone...we must expect
the occasional mortar in the old tradesman's entrance. If you can't hack it, the way things
are? You didn't ask to be here? No one is asking you to stay. To sit at a party you hate and whine about it
just makes you pissy, and everyone around you want to dig out their eyes with a
punch ladle. So if you can't think of
yourself...then think of them. And
shuffle along. We will have our little
grizzle, but as far as you guys are concerned??? You might have care and compassion coming our
of your arses, but at the end of the day?
You also have your own lives, your own families, your own worries.
A kind word and a patient, generous thought or prayer is MORE
than this little black duck deserves, trust me.
I am trying to atone for the consequences of my illness, while I still
have life in my body.
In the meantime...thank you, each and every one who has been
there for me. You might not stop me
leaving early, like that beautiful man David Foster Wallace, but you make it a
lot harder to leave.
Peace.
