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Project 2 B
Transcript of Project 2 B
Career. Work. Major Anxiety Disorder. Tattoos and Other Body Modifications. A diagnosis. A reason, or an enabling? A crippling fear of large groups of unfamiliar people. Was it better or worse before it was labelled? Worry. Why is he looking at me? I saw that face he made. What's he telling his friend? Why are they laughing? It's me. It has to be. Stop looking at me. I should go. I have to leave. I have to go. Just start tomorrow. Hungry. Tomorrow. Or the first of the month? Don't. Two weeks wasted. Hungry. Bad breath. Uphill battle to even start the process. Day to day to day. Self control. Discipline. Stay away from the kitchen. Avoid the refigerator. Suppress the obsesion. Fight it. Day to day to day. An excuse. A breakdown. A lapse. An excuse. A binge. Start over. Later. Tomorrow. The next day. Next month. Put it off. Day to day to day. Today. Now. Do it. Writing. Lonely. Or the next day. Always best to start on a Monday. What a mess. Or a Tuesday. The pressure of having no clear direction, and really needing one weighs on him. His shoulders are slumped as he sits at his keyboard, typing in a program that allows him complete creative control. And in this, he also lacks a clear direction. Future is a blur to him. A painting with a turpentine splash smeared across the middle of the scene. The artist too frustrated to work on it, repair the damage, illustrate his vision. Where will this slump-shouldered man end up? What job will he take and call a career? The man in black sits in front of an illuminated LCD monitor. He stares into the endless pixallated void his computer screen and begins to type. After some time, he stops and having ended on a rather punchy line, saves the file and goes to bed. Upon waking up in the morning he stumbles into his office and prints what he had written. He reads it, and rereads it, and decides that his punchy line is still very punchy indeed, and takes a few copies to a writing workshop. It seems his colleagues do not find his punchy line the least bit interesting, and they begin to tear the rest of it apart as well. The man in black listens to their criticisms, takes notes, and is excited to return to his too bright LCD monitor to rework the peice and wow them next time.
Maybe the time after that. There is, after all, many other pressing matters in the man in black's day. Days pass. Weeks. And the man in black finally decides to edit the punchy-lined peice. As he reads what he had initially written, and the notes he took that day in the workshop, he starts to feel a knot in his stomach. He opens the saved document from that very familiar LCD monitor and highlights the unedited peice. He stops for a moment, takes a breath, and presses his "delete" key. And begins to write.
For me, the process of writing ends when my mouse clicks the 'save' button. For me, the editting process is something shameful that is best avoided. For me, editting is like a dog, who after eating much graass, vomits. For me, it is like returning to the vomit and eating it. For me, I would rather leave it as it is." Another challenge I have in writing is the love-hate relationship I have with what I write.
That "thing" in my head that doesn't believe the reader likes what I have written (STOP LYING), versus that "thing" in my head that is crushed and offended when the reader does not like what I have written. Self Loathing Narcissism.
accept The hardest thing for me to believe is that I am entirely responsible for the loneliness that I suffer. I am repellant. To be honest, it was all supposed to be a distraction. I wonder if that's why other people do it too. A sort of "refocusing" of people's vision. Control what people are commenting on, because they WILL comment. A kind of "never mind the man behind the curtain" moment where i try and draw your attention away from my size and point your eyes to the other oddities on my person. Of course, in reality, it doesn't work like that. People still see what I am. They know. There is no real distraction from this.
From the 26mm holes in each of my ears, to the tattoos going down my arms, legs, and across my chest. I see that people can still be just as hurtful as ever, and it doesn't have to have anything at all to do with my weight issues.
"Can you hear what I'm saying with those holes in your ears?" "What's that crap going down your arm? What is that?" "Why do you have that?" "You're a freak." Does everyone hate their job? Does everyone really love the money they make, but hate what they have to do for it? Does everyone else feel totally responsible for the foolishness that their work enables others to participate in? Does everyone else go to work everyday, years down the road, and remember that they served Wally his last beers before he killed himself? Does everyone else feel like there's blood on their hands?
Wife. My work affords me the luxury of not having to live a social life. After all, I am in a bar three to four nights a week. That is more than even the most social person. Of course, that isn't the only reason. The fact is that when I spend 24 to 36 hours a week in a bar as a sober bartender, I don't really feel like being around people in my downtime. People are exhausting. Drunk people are worse. And masses of drunk people swarming the streets at 2 am on a thursday night are enough to send even the most patient of people into an Agorophobic frenzy. Drunks argue. They cry. They laugh. They fight. Drunks are manic. They are annoying. They are verbally and physically insulting. Drunks fight sober people, they fight other drunk people. Drunks fight men. They fight women. Drunks say exactly what is on their minds with very little censorship or concern for how it may affect someone.
If a sober bartender is in a confrontation with a very drunk person, he may pushed and prodded into saying something, or doing something that he will later regret. The drunk spewing the incendiary comments will likely have no memory of what he said or how he acted, but the sober bartender knows that he lost. He took the low road, and compromised his integrity to hurt the person who is hurting him.
A drunk's lack of memory gives him a lack of conscience, and a lack of consequence.
Wearing your feelings on your sleeve. A major disorder characterized by
excessive, irrational fear and dread. (MedicineNet.com) Dread. From a Biblical perspective, fasting has always been
associated with transition. That transition is usually a
representation of a cleansing. A start over. A uncomfortable do over.
The first time I fasted, I experienced this transition. I suppose, in forcing myself to do it again, I am trying to recreate the cleansing I experienced. Renewed faith. New relationships. A new outlook.
Mirror. "...this disconnect from those around us is not, of itself, a good thing-though it may, off and on, lead to a good thing." (Cairns 25)
"But when you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you." (Matthew 6:6) I see the heading, and know I must write. And yet I stall. I get up. I go put my contact lenses in. I refill my iced tea. I sit back down and the cursor blinks in it's strange rhythm, as if tapping it's foot. Waiting.
I wrestle with this entity on a daily basis. Trying as I might to shove Him in a box that neatly contains all of the things He is. The simple fact is that what I believe has put me in the position of knowing that I am failing. Right and wrong lines are drawn, then blurred, and eventually erased. But that isn't true is it? The lines aren't erased, I simply try to smudge their edges.
Quiet time is something that most Christians are familiar with, whether they practice it or not.
It is a time of meditation where we are to read the Bible, pray, or just sit quietly and listen.
As a married man, I understand the responsibility that is put upon me.
"But I want you to understand that the head of every man is Christ, the head of a wife is her husband, and the head of Christ is God." (1 Corinthians 11:3)
I don't want it. It's too much. The pressure to (with the help of my wife, of course) steer my family in the right direction is daunting to say the least.
So instead, I do nothing.
And I am plagued with guilt.
More on this later. An abnormal and persistent fear of mirrors. Sufferers experience undue anxiety even though they realize their fear is irrational.
Fear of mirrors is termed "Eisoptrophobia," a word derived from the Greek "eis" (into) and "optikos" (vision, image, sight). (MedicineNet.com) He can't make eye contact with himself. Disappointment and disgust dance over his face and he has to look away. Seeing it confirms what he knows. Look away, and it's fantasy. She is driven. She is goal-oriented. She is patient in waiting for me to get up and go with her, to lead her, when eventually I stop dragging my heels.
She is my most compelling evidence for the existence and benevolence of God. With nothing else in my life have I ever been so sure of a decision I made.
And yet my nature pushes me to clam up. To keep secrets. To resent her for wanting to know anything beyond the surface. This is the dark side of myself. Like an audience watching a character on the screen, I watch myself in a role that is not appropriate. Why? I say its because silence is better than explanation. And it is. But that does not make it right. Those instances where at last I force myself to open up and have a real dialogue are crucial in a healthy marriage, and
I need to do more. Step out of my comfort zone, and share with the person who is sharing her life with me. Tomorrow I will fill this entry in. There are many reasons women live longer than men. Perhaps the least scientific, and most believable is
"They eat more food that leads to high cholesterol. And, perhaps related to that, men tend not to deal with their stress as well as women. They may be more prone to internalizing that stress rather than letting go though that's a fairly controversial point. Nonetheless, stress plays a very important role in cardiovascular disease." (Time.com)
Related to this is the notion that men are more stubborn, and are resistant to get themselves checked out when something is potentially wrong. Little pains lead to big problems, but for most men, little pains go away. So that life-threatening problems can sometimes go undetected. But why ignore the pain until it goes away or becomes unbearable? Simple. What you don't know cannot hurt you, and truth can be terrifying.
At least that's my theory. I relate to this because I have plenty of small issues that could be addressed, but will not. My wife, is the total opposite. A sniffle means an oncoming cold. An upset stomach means she may have a "kink" inside. A fever means the flu is right around the corner.
There should be a happy medium in there somewhere. Panic attacks are a symptom of this disorder. As far as can remember, I have ony ever had one panic attack. The severity of it, as well as the effect it had on me, leave me to assume that I would remember having another. Nonetheless, the fear of having another weighs on me, and directs my thoughts. Steering them clear of anything too intense. As much time as I spend thinking, it tends to be a full time job. Obsessive arguing with myself. Planning conversations before even interacting with someone.