The Madness of the Masquerade

I can fake my way through the day, the month, the year.  I have been doing it my whole life.  I hide every part of me that is real, revealing flashes only in a dance of veils.  Just a whisper of skin… a hint of calf here, a shoulder there, sometimes unwittingly, sometimes perhaps in a silent plea for help.  So quick that its easily missed and if the observer does chance to catch a glimpse in periphery, they question what they saw… discounting by nature.  Recreating and reformatting the information to make it graspable, to be able to accept it and move on without rocking the landscape of their knowable universe to its foundations.

I am not real.

I write today from a deep and cavernous chasm of sadness.  Days of depression are an unpredictable and sickening carnival ride.  I have never liked carnivals. Or rides. 

Kinetosis is a maddening bitch.

 I don’t seem to be able to identify a pattern or set of circumstances that trigger me…

I wake up and I feel as though the weight of my comforter is too daunting and I must remain in bed.  So I do.

I wake up and I feel ok. A few hours later I begin to feel defeated and contemplate driving my car off the nearest embankment.  (I have thought about this in various scenarios since I was a child and I have theories about it which don’t stem from any suicidal tendencies so please don’t harp on that most tiresome and hackneyed topic simply because it is the assumed conclusion that requires the least amount of effort.  That will annoy me and I may use my unholy powers to reach through the digital matrix and bitch slap you,  more on driving off the road in a later post)

I wake up and I feel strong.  I feel certain that I blink my eyes and the day is gone. I feel a great rending within; a physical agony that precludes function.

I get up only because I know I should.  Because somewhere in this viscous nightmare is a girl who is desperate to get well.

The concept of therapy hovers in my mind as something suspicious and potentially dangerous.  What is the draw? Are we simply seeking validation and a path to justify or explain away our poor choices, or is it something more? Is it truly an opportunity for personal enlightenment and healing?  Do I simply want to pay $135.00 an hour to have someone’s undivided attention?

Thoughts like this, while constantly present, aren’t currently preventing me from seeking treatment for my psychosis though they are fueling my already skeptical neurotic inner sub-letter’s monotonous stream of condescension.

On the topic of endless condescension, I find it baffling when my fellow humans (and even more baffling when I do it) create personas for me based solely on “things as seen from the omnipotent perspective of [insert name of the most exasperating ass-clown in your acquaintance here- I’m using me… ] CB the Destroyer.”   Perhaps not baffling as much as so infuriating that I would gladly trade a limb or possibly even an organ for the ability to set something [someone?] on fire with my mind.  Coming from a person who is, albeit attempting reformation, an admitted and outstanding counterfeit of such enormity that she has frequently been victim to her own magnificence, I certainly cannot do anything but stare in slack-jawed drooly wonder at someone who thinks they have some cockle-brained insight into someone else’s persona beyond the most shallow and superficial. 

SIDE NOTE: If you identified with, or even understood, that last paragraph’s mobius strip of slop trough floating flotsam crazy then you may want to consider some immediate and lasting therapy of your own. It is 2 am, after all, and I refuse to hold myself to an unrealistic height of explosive genius expectation at this hour.

In all reality, I do think it a bit more than egotistical to presume to know another person better than they know themselves.  While we may not want to, or in some cases be able to, admit or understand everything about ourselves on a conscious level, no one knows all our secrets and thus cannot know us better than we do.  Perhaps cannot truly know us at all.

Frankly, I am undecided as to who does more damage to my timid attempts at repair, the sub-letter or the crushing press of my fellow “humans”.

3 thoughts on “The Madness of the Masquerade

  1. I’ve been there. Postpartum on my end. Years of ‘self help’ books, medication that made me numb, and faking fantastic for family and friends. Prayers sent your way. I’m hosting 8 weeks to Happy, Healthy Holidays (life really) starting this saturday. Here’s more info if you think it might help (from someone who’s been there) About halfway through I start talking about the Tele-Course. Message me if you have any questions or just need someone to talk to!

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