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The Sordid Soliloquy of One Wounded Soul

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  • The Sordid Soliloquy of One Wounded Soul

    The Sordid Soliloquy of One Wounded Soul
    Chapter 1: An Introduction to Earthly Purgatory:

    Wow, the potency of alprazolam is far more apparent within the context of the sudden destruction it has wrought upon my stimulant high. I was relatively numb, I felt like an impervious cerebrum, damaged and barely functional but emotionally fairly untouchable. Now I am once again a shredded nerve connected to a brain stem, which pulses with the shrieking, horrific input of a body battered and fraught with injuries incurred during a fugue state of unknown length and intensity.

    I used to seek the glittering, guttural, stunningly beautiful euphoria of mania with abandon, though I was able on occasion to ground myself somewhere between the depths of hell I’ve always felt reaching upward with the lapping heat of malignant magma from below, and the seemingly infinite and gorgeous heavens which stretched in all directions above, ahead and behind.

    Despite a love for the human capacity for scientific genius and achievement, and a desire to attain a state of unshakable logical accuracy and consistency, I’ve always been, primarily, one caught in the throes of emotional volatility; a labile and lascivious being who revels in delicious carnality and supreme intensity of feeling – both sensual and psychic – unadulterated by the oft disturbing veneer of rationality governed by the highly evolved elements of the homo sapien brains: namely the frontal lobes and their magnum opus, the prefrontal cortex.

    Now, ostensibly, all is lost. I am no longer able to navigate my environment effectively because I’ve cooked my once beauteous brain to a ghastly and nonfunctional crisp. All around me I see projections of my unconscious…monstrous creatures which seem to possess supernatural powers and an insatiable hunger for more pieces of my body and spirit.

    The denizens of the world are zombies and they wish desperately to eat my brain…the vacuoles it contains should be evidence enough. Fuck the skeptics, and fuck the doctors who, despite my lucid and agonized proclamations and explanations bourne of research and insight and the inevitable reality of inhabiting a body they can only evaluate from the vantage of their limited sensorium’s, declared me relatively healthy.

    But since these seemingly external zombies are merely manifestations of malevolent forces which rage within, it is I who am undead, feasting upon my own decaying yet still animate corpse. The only difference between the mythical zombie and me is that I maintain a volatile yet acute sentience.

    My consciousness is utterly unpredictable. One minute I feel quite aware of objective reality and my place in it, the next I feel as if I am drowning in a quagmire of horrific and inescapable irrationality. My solipsism is at least as paralyzing as my unpredictability and volatility; it is oft times the source of both those disdainful qualities and many others. I realize now that I was always wrapped up too tight, lost within my own experiences.

    My consciousness is a venomous python whose grip is growing slowly tighter, restricting my movement and compressing that which should expand. I can feel the bones cracking beneath the pressure of my neuroses. I swear to myself that if I had my neurological health back I would promptly escape this prison, but history does not pan out such fantasies. I never appreciated what I had and I still find it impossible to truly enjoy any good fortune I may contain or might exist within reach if only I applied some effort. I oscillate between tortuous self-blame and furious anger at those I feel created this monster they call Jaime Banks.

    I am so self-absorbed I can only fully muster my deft grasp of English when bloviating about my inner world. I am exhausted of myself. And yet, when I turn my gaze outward, I see an undulating, melting outer reality due to the nature of my neurological destruction. The official name is of my condition is Korsakoff Syndrome, though some use the dreadful slang-term wet-brain; regardless, I am stricken with visual disturbances and tinnitus, in addition to both anterograde and retrograde amnesia and disabling flaws in executive functioning.

    When forced to engage with the world at large I seek out those things which offer the most intense and immediate release and gratification, both due to habit and in response to my incessant dysphoria and spontaneous bouts of overwhelming euphoria. When I obtain euphoric experiences and the instruments thereof, I further destroy myself, my tenuous connection with reality – including and most tragically my chance at any real relationships with other human beings, and throw away the tools of said euphoria in my heedless, greedy ravishing of all that is momentarily pleasurable.

    Now my brain is too damaged to experience even basic pleasures and my stash of goodies is squandered without having even been fully utilized. I suffer from chronic anhedonia. I am a glutton who no longer gains joy from gluttonous pursuits.

    I possess an unusual level of self-awareness for someone so convoluted and deviant, but this awareness which once held the promise of creating yet another creative, narcissistic genius has been misused – like everything else I possess I crush it in my hands and watch the innards of a once beautiful songbird ooze outward and downward like jelly from a glistening but nutrition-devoid donut. Bear in my mind-I am no sadist, that poor bird is a poorly rendered metaphor.

    I could go on forever like this, but the sun is rising and that means that my energies are waning. Instead of blessings I can count only losses as my battered brain begins to shut down. There was a time when my flights of hopeful fancy offset my repetitious bouts of melancholia; I oscillated between indulgent, nihilistic existential angst and indulgent, grandiose dreams of living a real life. My chest-puffing, strutting enjoyment and brandishing of my once striking looks and sophisticated intellect, while not utterly pathological, were taken to extremes due not to a sense of superiority but rather the exact opposite. I’ve always known I am not a fully-formed person. I loathe myself.

    They call the wounds which remain buried within my soul “core wounds”, and their inevitable and frequent reopening “narcissistic injuries.” I am dreadful. I am dying—slowly and painfully. And at this point I just don’t know how to stop hemorrhaging, for no pressure allows for clotting, no tourniquet except one applied around the neck sufficient to snuff the agony of existence. Who will re-parent me? I am built on a faulty foundation, and I am currently collapsing.


    Landscape made of monstrous things,
    Razor walkways, raging skies,
    Callous throats all full of lies-
    And ne’er as far as eyes can see
    Doth sit a songbird to allay,
    Errant humans won’t be swayed
    With crystal notes which don’t abound!

    The broken glass reflects all sound,
    You’ll hear no gentle swansongs sung
    Amongst the horrors sunrise brings.
    Withered claws peck just like beaks
    At the keys of the plastic harpsichord;
    This melody plays just for me,
    Divorced from all humanity.
    Last edited by WoundedBird; 10-08-2017, 02:55 AM.

  • #2
    Make sure you tell your therapist or prescribing provider that your meds haven't kicked in yet. Stay safe.


    • #3
      Medications are ineffective for treatment of personality disorders. I've been on more meds than I can count. Most of them caused more problems than they alleviated. I am beginning Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, which was was created by Linda Linehan who currently holds a position in the psychiatry hospital of New York Presbyterian and has been shown to be the most effective treatment for Borderline Personality Disorder, which I have, and which she once had and has since healed from - no medications involved.

      I don't know what I would really expect to gain from posting this piece of writing on this forum. I have physical health problems which severely, negatively impact my life that are related neither to circumcision or my personality disorder. Medication will not fix my chronic neurological disease - the hallucinations I speak of are not psychiatric in nature, I have damage to certain parts of my brain from toxic brain injury. I am not schizophrenic or even schizotypal - I am not delusional or psychotic.

      I guess I was/am hoping that some of the people who feel intensely negative feelings about their lives might be able to relate, chime in, have a discussion, something like that. I was apprehensive about posting this here in the first place. I will think about it and check back to see if anyone other than you has responded by tomorrow or the next day, because I think there are other people who float through these forums who suffer from more than just circumcision grief - as I said in previous posts, I've gotten PMs (on the old board) from multiple people, mostly very young men, who seemed to have more going on than only circumcision grief...people who expressed suicidal thoughts and even plans. Talking/writing/creating art out of one's negative feelings can be incredibly cathartic and potentially healing. Writing about my feelings sometimes helps purge them from my inner world, makes me feel less consumed by them, if only momentarily.

      Edgar Allan Poe, Dylan Thomas, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton - all these writers seem to have had Borderline PD, and the suffering they experienced is obvious in their writings and their biographies. We BPD people feel everything far more intensely than the average healthy person, hence so many talented artists being stricken with this illness. While treatment for mental illness has considerably improved over the past decades, we are still in the dark ages of psychology/psychiatry. I've been in psychiatric wards for suicidal ideation, and I can safely say that I came out in worse shape rather than improving. Medications simply don't do much if anything for personality disorders, and the experience of being locked up and analyzed like a lab-rat was dehumanizing.

      I suggest reading Sylvia Plath's "Lady Lazarus" to get an idea of how that can feel - "Yes, yes herr doctor it is I - Can you deny the nose, the eye-pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath will vanish in a day." and "Them unwrap me hand and foot, the big strip-tease - Gentleman, ladies, these are my hands, my knees...I may be skin and bone, nevertheless I am the same identical woman." She spoke of contempt for her doctors and how she felt she was being dehumanized and analyzed like a fascinating object when in psych hospitals. She also spoke of how she would often stabilize after inpatient care but was aware that she hadn't truly changed, and that she would inevitably fall back down into the quagmire of misery within which she spent most of her life. So sad, considering how insanely brilliant and talented she was.

      People with personality disorders were not given the experience of fully bonding with and being mirrored by their mothers in infancy and childhood, and often experienced abuse/neglect, whether it was overt or subtle. Consequently, when faced with the pain of a major life altering event in adulthood, we react like the abused children we are deep inside. This is not the sort of thing a medication can even come close to mending.

      I have seen more psychiatrists than I can count, and most of them would only talk to me for 10 minutes a session (despite being paid for a full hour), and prescribe me powerful medications which were inappropriate for my condition. Drinking alcohol to insane excess has caused me permanent neurological deficits, the Korsakoff Syndrome I mention in my writing, which include the visual disturbances I speak of in my writing as well as severe memory impairments and "Essential Tremor" - which is a disorder of the cerebellum which causes permanent and usually progressive tremors in the hands and sometimes other body parts, and the only thing I can do to control that now is take another medication to ease the tremors sufficiently that I can use my hands and do basic tasks. Being on Medicaid means that it is very difficult to find a psychiatrist who is actually good at what he/she does, and even then a high percentage of them are too eager to prescribe powerful, toxic medications for disorders which don't even warrant pharmacological treatment. Fortunately, my partner and family are helping me locate better services at the moment.

      I ask anyone who passes through this post who has even an inkling of what it feels like to suffer incessantly to speak about it here, if you feel so inclined. And if anyone ever wants to chat privately about such things or anything else, feel free to PM me. I won't judge anyone nor will I share anything anyone tells me with anyone else, either online or in person.

      I "self-medicated" by drinking gallons of booze week for a few years and now I'm paying the price. It would be so lovely if medications could do anything more than dampen down the vertigo and tinnitus. And as far as the personality disorder - as I said, I am putting that treatment team in place. Its far, far more difficult to get appropriate, effective help for many mental illnesses than most people seem to realize. I used to think there is a safety net in the world for such things, this is the wealthy United States after all. But the psychiatrists often don't know how to help and we're all very aware that doctors in the country are responsible for the sexual maiming of millions of baby boys. One has to be very discriminating in the professional medical care they utilize.

      Thank you, info, I will try to stay safe, and I hope you do the same. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that your glib response was not intentionally offensive.
      Last edited by WoundedBird; 10-08-2017, 02:50 AM.


      • #4
        I think you did the right thing with the original post, and that you have gotten one, and now two responses. I will be re-reading the latest posts, and will reply afterward.


        • #5
          Originally posted by WoundedBird View Post
          Medications are ineffective for treatment of personality disorders. I've been on more meds than I can count. Most of them caused more problems than they alleviated. I am beginning Dialectical Behavioral Therapy....

          Thank you, info, I will try to stay safe, and I hope you do the same. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt that your glib response was not intentionally offensive.
          No, not intentionally offensive. I know that medication can help some, but as you've implied, they are far from a panacea, especially with some diagnoses. I had simply detected some of the hallmarks in your prose. I remember that you've said you weren't under care, so I was a little worried that you were adrift, and now I'm happy you are in a hopefully better spot.