Fragmentary Pressure Release Unit

[altered]

Warning: this is probably, I don’t actually know because I’m a terrible judge of this sort of thing due to my innate biases with regards to myself, badly written, self-serving woe is me dramatic bullshit over most of its length. About two thirds of it is aimed at a small collection of random people I won’t name, who will never ever read it anyway, because absolutely none of them are, ever have been, or ever will be on this forum, and the rest is just saying things to no one to get them out of my head where they aren’t doing all kinds of horrible damage to me.

I wrestled with even posting it after I wrote it all out, but I decided not to let that ... two hours, I think? Go to waste. Maybe it’s garbage, maybe it’s not, but it’s mine and I made it and if someone anywhere finds even a single turn of phrase that was worth the time they spent reading, fuck it, it was worth it.

For my part? I have warned you, and that is all that is necessary from me.


——————


Nothing tells you you’re in for a wild ride like when you aren’t rich and a pig says “I heard about you.” It’s not a mark of pride, he didn’t hear about you from being an extra on his favorite TV show. He heard about you in the context of “one of those people,” take your fucking pick who “those people” are in your case. Depending how fucked up you are by the standards of those /other/ dirtbags, you’re between 100% and 40% likely to be right. Either way, it’s time to shut the fuck up and be careful.



If one more person cuts contact in an absurdly over the top and aggressive way because of my psychological damage being “scary” I’ll just tattoo “Sybil” on my forehead and start breaking out the psychotic grin every time I meet someone. They’re going there fucking anyway, I may as well have fun with it.

True facts begin here. My damage is mine, and in this particular case I like it and want to keep it. Yes, I am crazy, and if given a half a chance and some decent health care I’d get on just fine, I promise you. My little collection of people sharing a body doesn’t need integration, it’s not going to kill you or even talk too loud when you’re listening to the same song for the four-hundredth time, and every movie Hollywood has ever released and 90% of the books written on the subject by so-called professionals lied to you from start to finish. Your head is full of bullshit and you need your meninges scrubbed clean of the scum before you can be trusted to interact with a third of the human species in a healthy manner, and you can just keep threatening the fucking cops if I ever “show up” again, because I’m never going back to Fresno, or to California at all for that matter, and you can eat the shit I trailed in my wake like a leaking septic waste removal truck.

Besides all of that though, “We can’t include the mentally ill in our activism because of the optics” is a statement that needs the full, furious attention of someone with the psyche of Spider Jerusalem and the impulse control of a panicked wildebeest. What the fuck is wrong with you?



People keep dying or disappearing or else ending up so fucking horrible that I wish I could trade them for someone who had, one for one, I don’t really give a fuck who shows back up just so long as the world gets a little fucking better and a little less horrible.

So much incomplete shit, notes left unfinished and then lost when everything ends up in a dumpster, a yard sale, an eBay listing, in a scrapyard. I’ve been dwelling on that for about a month now. I started finding all the shit I never finished that I can and backing it up with as many different people as I can. At my current pace I won’t complete a damn thing in my life but leaving those fragmented works out there for someone else to make their own ending to is a gift to the world in its own way. And while I hope one day I can offer more, I have gotten to understanding that it’s okay if this is the best I can give: the world only ever gave me feces to paint the fucking canvas with, its not necessarily fair to expect rich blues and bright, clean greens out of my palette. Maybe I’ll find some nice colors in there anyway, and maybe some others can see what I saw in them too. Maybe one day I’ll find some real paint and a brush instead.



Yes, I’m angry, yes, I hate your fucking politics, yes, I really meant it when I said never talk to me again. If your worldview involves me or my friends, acquaintances, people I met once online and felt that unavoidable BPD flush of love for, suffering or dying or second class or imprisoned, then fuck you. Fuck what you stand for. Fuck your house, I hope it gets termites. Sit down and delete me from your Steam friends list or get used to my toxic spew, you rotten traitor fuck.



I’m emotional all the time, yes, and I’m anxious and I apologize all the time, I’m sorry. I have so much damage that my SAN has long since burrowed into the negative triple digits and shows no signs of decelerating. I try to keep it from splashing everywhere and wrecking the place, you watch me physically wrestle that shit down to present a socially acceptable face, so you can pretend it’s all okay, nothing you need to be concerned with, so you can turn back to the TV and watch baking shows or game shows or sports games and say: “this world is okay, nothing is wrong, I don’t need to be concerned” while you live in your house you own, drive your car you own, watch the TV shows they make for upper middle class white people, pretend and pretend and pretend that Nero’s Boot isn’t hovering, shadowing the fucking overcast sky, while it snows in mid-April, while I have to silently swap who is controlling this meat-puppet just to dodge the fucking psych ward — /again/, while they talk on the news you try not to pay attention to about how people like me, like my friends, like that cute girl we saw at the restaurant that first week I was here, are all slowly becoming, legally, a little less human every day.

I don’t hate you, but I almost wish you hated me so that I could justify it to myself. Even if I benefit from you, you are, in some small way, what I’m fighting against, and I have to hope you lose.



I have stopped caring about my health all that much these days. It turns out I’m loosely held together with paper clips and chewing gum, a bundle of misdiagnoses and outright lies and addictions and weird dietary shit hiding that I’m deeply, deeply ill, it’s a wonder I’m still alive, still able to move, still seeing most of reality. On the bright side, if I stay in Michigan long enough to see my doctor, it’s an easy and cheap fix as far as surgeries go. There is a possible future where I become as productive again as I was when I was 17, and that is a bright future indeed. And no longer turning that alarming, blotchy red color I did earlier today.

Besides all that though? It turns out the food we eat is becoming more poisonous by the day. There’s lead in the water half the places you go, if not worse shit. So yes: I smoke. I smoke to keep my intestines anchored on the inside, apparently to keep my body and mind from collapsing under thyrotoxicosis, and because when it comes right down to it, the chances I’ll live long enough to die of lung cancer are growing smaller by the day, through no fault of my own. So yes, I beg a friend with the cash to spare for ten bucks once or twice a week, and I spend it on something that’s ripping me apart from the inside. Yeah, I could spend it on food and not leech “as much” money off the system by way of food stamps. Or I could just not beg my friend for money that I haven’t “earned”. Whatever. It’s not your business and you should fuck off.



One day, if this keeps on repeating, inevitably there won’t be a “next spot” to jump. One day, I will have reached the end of the line. This is a mathematical certainty. There are only so many people in a position to help out there, and I try not to burn bridges but it turns out it ain’t me with the butane, the flamethrower, the acetylene cutting torch, the thermite charges and demolition cranes, oh no. And more and more often it doesn’t matter if the bridge burns or not, because soon there’s two of us, both hoping there’s another stop on this crazy ride. I sure hope I find a safe landing spot before the last car on this train derails. I hope everyone else out there, all the people cast out like me into the cold, living unbound and untethered and uncared for, I hope they can find shelter, an address, some warm food and some human comfort and dignity, someday soon, too.



And I hope one day I won’t be staining the screen with this disconnected word salad bullshit, yelling from the gutter surrounded by rotten wood and old McDonald’s sandwich wrappers, trying to let out 29 years of being stepped on, making my self small so others can pretend not to notice me when they pass, being turned away because someone read a book or saw a movie once where the bad guy smelled like me kinda, getting thrown down the mountain, a shadow of Sisyphus, every time I get the strength to try again to claw myself up another inch. I hope one day I won’t have to worry — is this too defeatist? Is this too sad emo kid? Am I just whining? Because I hope one day I’ll have different stories to tell, stories of victory and progress and improvement.

And really, above all, more than anything, ultimately, I hope one day I can look back and, if nothing else, see that I didn’t make the world any worse as I passed through it. If I get one wish in this life, let it be that one. If I can’t stop the tide of bullshit, just let me not have contributed. I don’t care if people /think/ I did or not. I don’t care how or if history views me. Just don’t let my final karmic balance, so to speak, be negative.

[chaotic neutral observer]

Breathe.

[altered]

I was torn between reassuring you I’m actually pretty okay as far as it all goes, and continuing the semi-intentional public mental breakdown style of the OP. I tried both and neither really felt right. I think I got most of the poison out.

So how about this: explain to me why that’s the response you have to the OP.

On one level, I kind of get it, in that clearly someone is having a freak out and needs to take ten minutes somewhere. On another I don’t, because even the more personal elements aren’t personal problems, they’re anecdotal examples of systemic issues (mostly ableism and classism) that prevent me and many others from ever feeling safe enough /to/ breathe. In other words, it could be considered dismissive of real issues to say that. (I think I’ve grown to know you better than to accuse you of that intent, though. Bringing it up because I wonder if you considered it when you posted.)

Hell, even if I was clearly having that freak out? In a lot of ways, that OP was a long needed exhalation, expelling the bad air so I can get some fresh oxygen exchange. It was here because there’s nowhere else you can exhale that kind of toxic vapor and not get it shoved back in your face while they throw you out an airlock. Not too different from the occasional vent post, just years and years of stored bile behind it instead of a month or two. That is to say, in a way, I was doing exactly what you said, before you said it.

So why was that your response? Not being confrontational, I’d like to honestly know.

[chaotic neutral observer]

I wrote that because, although I felt like I should provide some sort of help, or advice, that's the only workable reply I could think of.

I don't understand your hell, any more than I think you would understand mine.  I can generally tell when people have issues that mirror my own, and you're not in a category I have direct experience of.  Frankly, my problems are pretty garden variety, and not all that severe, so if I were to pretend I could relate, or had any significant useful insight, you might rightly consider that insulting.

But no matter the situation, breathing is an appropriate action.

When anxiety gets the best of me, I subconsciously start holding my breath, which obviously makes things worse.  I have to consciously recognize when I'm doing this, and force myself to start breathing again.  Focussing on taking slow even breaths never hurts, and it sometimes helps, if only a little bit.

Your post gave me a "holding one's breath" sort of vibe.  I'm not saying you need to take ten minutes off somewhere, or even calm down, just remember to inhale once in a while, or you'll turn blue.
Stopping--breathing, or whatever--is not a good place to be.  It's really not.

That is to say, in a way, I was doing exactly what you said, before you said it.

Um...oops.  Well then, let's just pretend I said something safe, generic, and vaguely encouraging.

[Fujikoma]

I actually find this adorable... I know, I'm terrible.

[altered]

It’s fine. I just wanted to respond to your post somehow, ignoring it felt like the wrong move but I didn’t think dismissing it would help and riffing off of it just wasn’t coming properly. Better to show I gave it due consideration and figure out what you /actually/, specifically meant rather than interpret it in the obvious ways.

[The Johnny]

Even tho my problems are more existential and professional rather than actual survival, i really do feel you.

And not speaking professionaly but personally, its really hard to find a place to vent without getting shit on... even venting to friends can be difficult since most of them have their own issues and i dont want to burden them... so despite knowing that venting is healthy, i dont have avenues for it other than redirecting my frustrations into my intellectual work or exersicing... i wish i could keep a diary, im sure it would help, but its so lame 

Mostly i just wrote this to acknowledge that i read you, and i dont comment more so i dont make some callous remark by mistake

[altered]

Actually, you’re probably better off not venting. https://psycnet.apa.org/record/2002-13494-002

I do it as part of a wide variety of housecleaning stuff, because I have no emotional gradient (if I’m feeling emotions at all, everything is at 11 all the time), and I obsess over things to the point of damaging myself. Even then, it’s probably not good for me, just better than the alternative slow spiral into self-destructive behavior.

But for most people, that study and I believe there were two or three follow ups conducted, but I can’t find those right now? Seem to indicate venting is more a “thing you want to do” than a “thing that is helpful”, much like how normal soda doesn’t contain enough caffeine to significantly impact my wakefulness and yet damages my health, but monkey brain says “mmmm burning sugar fluid tasty” so here I am with a bottle of Vanilla Coke like some kind of dumbass.

[LMNO]

Just interjecting to say that I'm impressed* that you not only vent spectacularly, but you're also fully aware of current research that this may not be an ideal method for everyone.  And a great analogy/personal reflection to clarify.












*not the right word.  Interested?  Think it's cool?  Respecting?  Has sparked a certain attention?  Not sure how to put it.

[altered]

Thanks.

I don’t know about venting spectacularly, but I make a point of trying to keep up with psychological research. I think the OP made it clear I have more damage than the average mental case outside of an inpatient facility, and when you live like that you end up with a lot of maladaptive behaviors and empty, pointless rituals.

Recognizing their utility to me personally is important, but that also means recognizing what they aren’t any good for, so I can discard them when I don’t need them anymore. It’s one of the hardest parts of self-directed therapy, but it seems to be working for me so far.

For all the hopelessness and woe in the OP, I have this. Every day I’m at least one step better than I was yesterday, and I don’t care if that’s a step for a giraffe or a step for a flea. Any progress is better than zero or negative progress.

[The Johnny]

Actually, you’re probably better off not venting. https://psycnet.apa.org/record/2002-13494-002

I do it as part of a wide variety of housecleaning stuff, because I have no emotional gradient (if I’m feeling emotions at all, everything is at 11 all the time), and I obsess over things to the point of damaging myself. Even then, it’s probably not good for me, just better than the alternative slow spiral into self-destructive behavior.

But for most people, that study and I believe there were two or three follow ups conducted, but I can’t find those right now? Seem to indicate venting is more a “thing you want to do” than a “thing that is helpful”, much like how normal soda doesn’t contain enough caffeine to significantly impact my wakefulness and yet damages my health, but monkey brain says “mmmm burning sugar fluid tasty” so here I am with a bottle of Vanilla Coke like some kind of dumbass.

Eh, i cant access the article but the summary sounds so weird, like, distracting themselves by thinking about becoming physically fit? The study complains about lack of empirical evidence for the usefulness of catharsis, then presents the test subjects phenomenological appreciation of anger as evidence?

What i will say is that catharsis is like opening a crack in a pressure cooker, which releases energy from the system... the problem is that it does not fix the underlying problem... so one can get stuck in an eternal cycle of blowing up, doing unexpected things or whatever, getting some temporal relief from it, then building up, etc.

So besides that, the problem with Catharsis as a professional practice is that its dangerous...  regression therapy (not to past lives, i mean regression to the birth scene) assumes in general that the birthing process went wrong, so people get "rebirthed" in this reenactment thru a big vagina with all the screaming and stuff... but people can have a psychotic episode from that.

Then theres "laughing therapy" or maybe there still exists some method in which anger is let out... so yes, energy is let out and the person feels relief, but its temporary... so they need to come in next week for all eternity, and create a dependent bond with the therapist.

So yeah, in a sense its like smoking or drinking soda, it brings temporary relief, but i dont think its harmful, if only in the sense that it distracts from maybe fixing the core issues.

[Fujikoma]

Thanks Nullified, only condition I can think of that dials every emotion up to eleven comes with some heavy stigma, it's due to brain structural differences, notably, a smaller, hyperactive amygdala and a hippocampus that doesn't really give a fuck... so you've got emotions blazing like a signal-fire, and no filter.

EDIT: This occurs to me because I have found numerous friends over the years with the same condition. It's great when they love you, not so much when they don't. Anyway, kudos for being a strong person and persisting in spite of all the negativity that might get hurled your way.