Note on Self i.

Shade the Changing Man, 1990.

 i don’t know how to operate as someone who has severe mental issues that i don’t feel people fully understand hinder my ability to tackle thee world in a typical manner. i have serious psychological problems that i’m trying to get rid ov and have been trying to moderate thru medication and thru therapy and all kinds ov shit for years but it’s difficult. my reality changes rapidly in a spinning cycle, tumbling me from one end ov thee spectrum all thee way to thee other week to week with no warning signs. my psyche has complete control over thee reckless shit we do, how much drugs and drink we take, but Ithee Self] is not in thee drivers seat. he’s thrown himself off thee boat for thee time being and has left everyone else to drown. thee Self is something halfway between this and something more tethered to thee earth. maybe he slinked into thee space between my mattress and bed frame. i don’t know. but thee Self indulges, yes, but with a sense ov caluculation. 808 — which is what i’m going to call this version ov me — doesn’t have the same self moderation capabilities as thee Self but doesn’t do things with thee impression ov immortality or invincibility that thee high end ov thee spectrum [Yeezus] does. 808 is totally aware ov failure and embraces thee pitfalls almost with open arms. 

 i’m exhausted. thee very simple answer is that i’m exhausted, constantly, by everything, and it’s impossible for me to keep up thee ruse that i want to be here @ all bcoz i don’t want to be. i want to sleep forever. don’t be mad at me, i’m trying my best and i know my best is horrible but i’m trying. you’re hurt, i know. i don’t know what to do. self annihilation is thee only thing i seem to return back to. i’m not hurting you intentionally. i am trying to handle this but i’m not handling it well and i have trouble facing you when i'm thinking, doing, and being so stupid. i know i’m ruining things and my mind just rolls over and i do it anyways. my best advice is to get out. just run away. this isn’t going to be easy and it isn’t going to make sense and i’m going to fuck up and i just have to live with this and try to figure it out; but there will be debris. run away. one day everyone will wake up and i will be dead.

 when you’ve accepted death, at some point, you become a little apathetic to thee idea ov it @ all. thee shock that others would experience at your death starts to seem strange and foreign to you, ‘why would you care if one day you woke up and i had died?’ it would be difficult for me to care very much about my own death. but i would care about yours. this is paradoxical and hypocritical and all those other things. especially because i tell myself that i would be able to accept it, that i understand and know fully that suicide is potentially thee single most selfish thing but that i believe we are all entitled to being selfish some ov thee time, and that i believe everyone should be willing to choose how they go out bcoz it’s only fair as we didn’t ask to come in. i tell myself i accept it and even though i cry when i think ov my friends potentially dying; my solution seem to reply-via-death or to accept that they maybe knew what was best. because what if they did? what if i do? if i know what is best for me? but then who? does thee Self know? 808? yeezus? laika? who knows best, which one?

 i would reckon thee Self. but i don’t know when he’ll be back, so i have to wait to find something to do in thee meantime. im failing. i know that i am failing. what do i say or do? i can’t tell you, i don’t know. all i know is i will be trapped in my own body and at thee edge ov my bones for as long as this continues, this exhaustion. i don’t know if it will ever end, and i don’t know if i will ever truly recover. trying to raise a teenager and take care ov my mother under these mental conditions, ontop ov chronic pain issues, make me even more exhausted. suddenly my tiredness is lethargic and my lethargy is fatigued. i have to rest more than other people do, i get tired earlier, i have more on my hands. a household to maintain, a brother to raise, animals to care for, work to go to, medication to take, a mother to monitor, an ugly truth i live with. 

 i suppose maybe thee ugliest truth is thee mundanity ov sadness. it is not a large monolith which freezes us all in its shadow; it is just a weak 22y/o who isn’t as capable as you may have been when you were my age. i wish it was easier to speak to people. i am an incredibly sociable person if i’m in a good mood, if Thee Self is operating well, and will speak to anyone with ease and enjoy it. i try not to speak unless i mean what i say, that way everyone i speak to feels considered seriously. what i mean to say i guess is that i wish communication still felt real and viable, it doesn’t anymore, to me. i try to reach out to people and either they’re never there or they have automated responses which come from some strange algorithmic talking tree in their heads. sometimes it feels as though i am having a political debate while simply trying to bond and get to know someone; they run down thee talking point tree in an automated manner and i’m trying to engage with something which isn’t going to budge. it will not go. i end up feeling hollow, something i should be used to by now. my emptiness feels character defining, i am always alone somehow. i am also a hypocrite. self disgust is self obsession. i have to find a way to want to live for my cats and for my brother. it is against my will, i don’t want to do it. i’m exhausted, we’re all exhausted. we’re all tired. it’s no excuse. 

mostly, i feel i am being sucked up into thee bursting ov a star — about to be collapsed inside a black hole. i’m hugging myself and taking deep breaths. my cat guards me. i am tired. i am weary. i could sleep for a thousand years.