Last spring as the cabin fever from a long New England winter was reaching its unbearable apex and
any escape from the four walls of my annual "it's too cold/dark/miserable to go out" solitary confinement sounded like an awesome idea, I began working on a book. It was supposed to be a prop for a game, something to add a little weight to a backstory (and preferably a bit of delicious XP). I'd written huge swaths of the Big Book of Blasphemy already, but I also had a little 8 page booklet from the defunct Circle of Eris that I didn't want to see vanish, either. So I set to work constructing an overarching mythology that placed Eris in the role of "Maiden" and Tlazolteotl in the role of "Crone" and the whole universe in a bubble of snotty pea soup. Obviously, to catch up with the huge backlog of material I'd saved up for the "Mother," I'd need to get a lot more down for Eris.
Searching for material for the second Book of Eris brought me to the Black Iron Prison for the first time. I'd read a friend's beloved copy of the yellow 4th ed Principia in college, and purchased the much-lamer Steve Jackson reprint for myself a few years later, but that was it. I never considered myself a Discordian (although I definitely absorbed pieces of it into my own clusterfuck of a belief structure), never sought out Discordians, or even looked for other Discordian works. It was, as far as I was concerned, a work of fiction every bit as valid and inaccessible as the science fiction I devoured. The BiP was much more appropriate for the project I was working on than a lot of the original PD, and spoke to a lot of the frustration I felt at my current ability to affect change in a shitty world. The PD is all sunshine and bubbles and five tons of flax, which is all well and good for a bunch of San Francisco stoners but doesn't sit well when there are people you care about dying from "Aneristic Illusions."
I also found this:
http://23ae.com/2011/05/self-improvement-is-masturbation-but-self-destruction/ . Judging by the publishing date, I must have come across it very soon after it was posted. It inspired me to give up my self-identification as "crazy," something I've held on to since I was 16, and retroactively applied to most of my life.
I know it's not that easy for most people, but I happened to be in a place where it was possible. It had already been four years since I had needed any psychiatric medications and three since I had needed therapy (though there were points in between where yammering at a shrink would have been
nice if not
necessary). I had a stable living situation and a few friends to lean on emotionally if I needed to do so. Even with that, it wasn't easy. Being "crazy" means never being held entirely accountable for your actions. Being "crazy" means skipping emotionally draining activities when you feel like ass. I never made a grand announcement of it, and even though I attempted to explain it to the Boyfriend it never really seemed to stick for him, but it made a difference in how I saw the world.
And then I let it slide.
So, this past month was a "big round number" anniversary in my personal history of crazy. I expected it to bother me, as I tend to put more weight on these things than is really appropriate, and provided the Boyfriend with ample warning of impending emotional difficulties. And no, no he was not as responsive as I would have liked when the day came, and yes it was disappointing, but
it was not the end of the world. And it occurs to me that this is what not-crazy people feel like when they are disappointed by a thing. And I have to say being "crazy" may be more fun when you're 16 and want the world to burn down around you and everything to be the Biggest Thing Ever, but I'll settle for going to bed miffed and getting up the next day to get shit done without a huge "OMG THIS RELATIONSHIP IS OVER BECAUSE YOU HURT MY FEELINGS" meltdown.
I'm not crazy, and that means a lot of work. It means I need to learn how to communicate my normal, human emotional needs to other people without resorting to the "my mental health is very fragile and if you don't I could end up in the looney bin" implications. It means when I do retarded shit I have to take it all on myself. I really should have been learning this stuff when I was younger, but better late than never. And it wouldn't have happened if I didn't see someone else yanking some bars out of their own cell.
So, I guess what I'm trying to say is "Thank you, Cram."
