A stream-of-consciousness I began last Sunday after I had a mental breakdown.
Suffering can be, according to Marie Jahoda, the mark of the sort of danger people like me possess. One of a list, it is declared in large red. Yet, suffering is so personal that it is inflexible, unfeelable; touch suffering with a rubber glove if you dare.
That is the cause ignorance was suckled against. We can’t tell of suffering. Suffering is opinion – and opinion thence suffers.
It is all the same. In my mind, it becomes its own difference. Big fish eat little fish, and big changes flit away, ever chasing little changes. They will be the same in time.
I could tell of everything that has happened to unbalance me, to topple me, and throw me into ongoing panic. I remember. The fact that it exactly resurfaces is why I cannot – must not – remember.
I know you have forgotten. You always forgot my idiosyncrasies and pet hates; how, then, will you recall the past we have both ignored. My silence, however, is voluntary. Voluntary whilst constrained at the throat. Right is wrong.
In your world.
You, with your arrogance; every portent of change merely adds to my distress. You are forcing me into bulimia – present tense. It is happening as I fight the malurisms of my body, each new twitch the worse for me, as if the shift of balance is more than altering the physical.
That I know it is not. I am neurotic – you deny neuroticism, even when this exactly is part of personality, not illness. You would deny personality. That if you could.
But even these present presciences cannot be stopped, and I pour on deja vu as my skintone. Everything scuttles about my mind, yet, I am the captive burning under its heat.
But I know I am in power of wrong. My chest constricting, a red-hot flame is one that carries the illnesses. Every fear accumulates and melds into another. The bath is my trap when its walls tower in. I am paranoid to the no-thing shadows on the walls. Everything will fall apart if we lose each pattern-block of four.
Yes, I am nervous. I am neurotic and I panic forever. Maybe it can be helped; maybe it should not be. Humanity has a predicate: it keeps guessing. We will find treatment for everything we create one day; after then, we will still deny what we see with our eyes:
Other people suffer. But only if we let them.