Life is idyllic and relaxing. I have plentiful leisure time and few obligations. Soon I'll be marrying a very beautiful woman who considers my androgyny hot and my insanity lovable. She's wonderful and cooks me food so delicious it's easy to pretend I'm very rich and live in obscene luxury. There's a beach nearby I can enjoy at any time. Yes, life has never been so restrained in doling out it's miseries—at no point in my life have I suffered less!... I'm doing terrible!
I'm concerned I've become a lobotomised whale. For years now I've been on this medication that makes me sleep ten hours a day. When I finally wake up I'm so groggy I'm useless half the day—that's not a lot of hours left to cram my entire life into. I'm productive only late at night, especially past my bedtime when the drugs are least bio-available.
Generally, this has seemed like a serviceable arrangement as the pills keep my subconscious mind from vomiting it's constant nightmares into my waking headspace—yet, I am left in the unhappy state of a harem eunuch, lolling about in a man-made Garden of Eden wherein my only interest is feeding like a cow. Personally, I have never liked the idea of being fat, stupid, or lazy—least of all fat!
It's no longer enough for me to sit stewing in an overly-comfortable whirlpool like a rotten tree stump. What I really want is to finish something. I have a wall of text written up of all the things I need to do and none of them are getting done. I sit down, open some document I mean to work on and, after an initial essay, find my attention dwindling into oblivion. I emerging from a fugue of listlessness to discover I have already settled into a distraction.
So, I halved my medication. The problem now is that I'm bouncing off the walls—I eat less and I sleep less, but I'm also crazed by strange manic moods that make it difficult to live amongst civilized society. It's less comfortable, but at least now my problems are more my own and less the result of extrinsic biochemical adulterants. Still the days seem to run through my fingers with nothing to show for them.
The issue, I think, is one of isolation. There is a reason why solitary confinement is a form of torture. We humans need contact with the outside world to maintain our sense of reality. If you stick a person in a sensory deprivation chamber just a few hours they'll start to hallucinate as their personality disintegrates. If psychosis is defined as a loss of the ability to test reality, then we need other human beings to keep us from going insane.
Independent-minded hermit that I am, I feel like I'm going in circles, trapped in the warm bubbly pool of my own mind. It's no good writing for the drawer or drafting comics no one ever sees. My art already exists in my own imagination more perfect than I'll ever be able to reproduce it, so why bother doing it for myself when I can just drift, endlessly? The only reason to go about making my art is to share the things that are important to me with other people.
I'm not concerned with narcissism here—I'd sooner hear ten things that are wrong with my work, in excruciating detail, than get a boring single sentence compliment. Actually, I'm quite sick of politically correct encouragement—“It's all relative,” “Beauty's in the eye of the beholder,” “To each their own,” “We can agree to disagree,”—God, these aren't ideas, they're excuses not to think!—placards over the gates of a soft, soothing hell!
Ideas need exercise. They need to be challenged—to continually justify themselves against new arguments and evidence. They're like little martial artists—it's not enough just to drill them, read them books and things, you need to have them spar with other points of view. Sometimes, you get your ass handed to you, but at least you'll know better for next time. If you stick to the safety and comfort of your own little world, you'll whither away like a caged animal. Our minds need challenge.
Without fighting, there can be no trust or intimacy. When you spar, you always set some ground rules—no eye-gouging is good one, for instance. The fact that you can be slugging it out with someone and still know they're going to protect you is what allows you to build trust. Trust is meaningless without the possibility of the other person hurting or betraying you—it's risky to trust someone, but it's even more dangerous having no one to trust.
This is how we test our reality—we need alternate points of view, ones we can trust even when we're in conflict with us—we need them to help us see reality for what it is. This is why we have cross-examinations and peer-review—ideas need to be questioned or their justifications will lose their rigour—you're left with a world that thinks in slogans—thought is reduced to mindless imperatives telling us what to do.
Actually, for the last several years I've tended to think of heaven as a bunch of Valkyries training their martial arts in the clouds like The Monkey King's army from Journey to the West (only, because it's me, half of these warrior women are actually boys.) I can definitely get behind such an image.
Unfortunately, I have no community and few friends. I'm a neurotic, transgendered weirdo living on the margins of society. It's difficult for me to achieve intimacy with people—and yet, I think I need to if I want to keep from going insane.
As much as I think social media is symptomatic of a communications breakdown in our society, the fact remains that it's one of the few outlets available for reaching out to others. What I'm going to try and do is share a little bit of what I'm doing each day or what I'm thinking about. I guess I'm vaguely hoping to start something of dialogue with the world outside myself—because if I don't get out of this suffocating whirlpool soon I think my heart's going to explode.