writing about my life

Chambers within the Mansion of Self

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Dear Steve,

I just blogged that last addition to your letter, and then some thought took hold of me that I should rest, but really I am not tired at all. After all you, yourself, write and write and write when you are in the mood!

I wonder to what extent I am fulfilling the professional statements about sufferers from my condition that I “do not actually think, but merely ruminate on a set of obsessions”. In a way now I can see that I have tried very hard to frantically avoid this prophecy applying to me. I am thus in quest of novelty, and my reading will give me this more effectively than much experience in the other parts of my life. Going for a walk to Margate makes me fitter but in many ways is just a struggle not to be overwhelmed by the hallucinations of people making rude comments as I pass them. This doesn’t give me much that’s new, especially since I am coming to know that coastline quite well.

So I must read more! yes! Of course that would apply to your letters as well, don’t worry dear friend.
After I have read one of them I usually tear it up and give it to the rats as bedding. It amuses me to think that they are finding a use for your words, as the paper is dragged to their nest and slowly softens and coalesces into a nice comfy mattress for them.

I am really stuck in a transitional phase here. I either pay attention to my innermost feelings or I ignore them. For years I did the latter until my discovery of the lie-in-bed-and-breathe technique. That worked for a while and opened a new world for me. But after the honeymoon of novelty I seem to have found that lying in bed may suck me into a black hole from which I can’t escape. My illness of the bowel became worse and also the feeling of being lost in the wilderness as I walk down the street got so bad it was at emergency level. So I flipped back into partial denial and found things to do like working on fitness, reading and writing. As a result I now know that there are things within me that I cannot really face, and this feels like a failure of my resolve to explore self so unflinchingly.

Many people use the objective capability of the intellect to lay aside emotional problems. Usually they trouble us for a while, build…and then we push them away with justifications, hoping they will disappear from our consciousness. I was doing something different. At first it worked but then I got bogged down and had to abort the process by forcing myself back into the being-state I had been in before.

While the going was good whole new faculties and senses opened to me in the form of new feelings and sensations that would come. I just had to keep digging deeper within myself for the process to continue working, I thought. But I had by then come off the prozac and reduced the olanzapine, and was crying a lot every day. My tears were often not of sadness but of a kind of spiritual beauty, that would touch me as I was listening to music or watching films. “A time for everything under the sun”. But I was living like a naked child and the cruel world was after me. Now I am back on the full dose of meds and haven’t cried for a while.

I don’t know what the resolution of this is, except to keep living and see. Maybe something inside will shift or give and I will understand what is happening properly.

At times during the mystery I felt in love, at times I felt I was more doomed than any other being alive. I was much more aware of pains in my body than usual. This was while I was cold turkeying off the codeine too, so I think my pain threshold had lowered. It seems more normal now but I am now aware of the smoking damaging me, with twinges and aches frequent.
I felt agony at the knowledge that I had been a bully at my prep school. I felt damned by the powers of light for this. Now that too has receded. Maybe we are not meant ever to resolve some of our root emotions, we can just visit them for a while and move away again back to the present and its appearance of normality, normal function. But I wanted actually to unweave them like a gordian knot that I could have solved once and for all, with a newfound sense of clarity and certain self-understanding remaining as the lasting result of my inner success. This may have happened slightly in some ways, but with other regions of the realms within I really failed to grow and understand fully. Oh well.
As I said, you can find a place of torment within, and then you can move away to a less troubled region of the self and leave the torment, hoping it will recede back into the darkness of the unconscious, but in some fashion you will know that the torment is still at work there, but merely out of your ken. It has been hidden by the fact that you are not paying it attention, but it has not disappeared permanently. If you stumble upon the doorway that leads to it, it will become real to you again. No permanent solutions, compromises and mixtures. We are imperfect in an imperfect world. That alone is hard to face fully, better do it in dribs and drabs.


Written by Luke Dunn

May 29, 2015 at 10:01 am

Posted in Prose

Tagged with , , , , ,

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