Friday, January 21, 2011

Ships Float on the Horizon

Greetings earthling. 

You may be asking yourself, how did a charming and elucidate fellow such as myself end up on the wrong side of the crazy train?  Well, that's a hell of a story, one that'll fill a billion pixels or so to describe.  Suffice to say, and I think this says it all, but I know I had an emotional response once, but then I got angry.  I am possessed of the emotional toolbox of a 9 year old.  I get angry and then I get angry.  I've done a pretty good job on controlling my anger as it relates to dealing with other human life forms, or at least enough that I don't feel like I am going to go all David Banner on everyone around me.  But, I've never abated in the unceasing self immolation that I call my personal hell.  I am self-abusing in the extreme.  Not in the, 5 Hail Mary's, 4 Our Fathers', self-abusing way, but in the "You are no good, you are weak, you are worthless" kinda way that makes so special my inner dialog.  On the outside, I am a wickedly successful guy, hugely respected, loved and admired for my intellect above all.  

Ahh, the intellect.  See, I am smart.  I can visualize how the most complex systems on the planet work, all in my head, and rationalize with an incredible speed what the smallest change will do to the working of the entirety of the system.  Even among smart people, I am admired.  If it sounds arrogant to say it like this, it isn't.  It has taken me a long, long, long time to even come close to accepting the brain I was born with.  It is a brain that seems to have been gifted to various members of my paternal grandmother's family.  My father has it, his grandfather had it and most importantly for my personal acceptance, my son has it.  He is amazing, my son, with his mathematical and complex systems understanding, particularly when those systems are flipped on their temporal plane.  It is eery and awe-inspiring and made me understand what I would be, in potential, if my brain wasn't encumbered, so, with the horror of my childhood.  He doesn't have that. 

Depression has been my companion, in some form or another since I was 10.  This is not, in the context of my admitted self-indulgence, one of those "wah, wah, my childhood was bad and it caused all my problems" overstatements that people of my generation are so prone to exaggerating.  I like to tell the story that I have made a counsellor cry in front of me with my story.  It isn't for some attempt at grandiosity through agony that I say that, but more as a resigned sigh.  More to come in the next 19 days.  I am committed to being better.  I am not going to keep keeping on with nothing in my heart. 

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