I've been having trouble sleeping. I can tell, my brain chemistry is different somehow. It's a little like LSD, not hallucinations, but that feeling of intensity. Somewhat like a stimulant, but more cerebral. I wonder what hormones or neurotransmitters I've been awash in, as I try to weather emotions I'm not terribly familiar with. Isn't there some way to get the stimulant effect, without being miserable? Laser focused day after fucking day and it's completely useless.
Sometimes the worse I feel, the more I want to keep writing. I've been in therapy a lot, I've learned to just talk things out myself. I'm not sure which has been more useless. The trick though, is imagining different sorts of people reading it. Critiques and impressions of people who may or may not actually exist. It helps me critique myself, and works best after I've posted something and started worrying about what others might think.
I'll then edit the post accordingly. Sometimes the additional perspective helps me realize it's entirely founded in bullshit, and I just delete it. When I'm having trouble moving on from a particular subject, it can make more sense to edit the same post over and over, rather than post after post on the same thing. I am having trouble moving on here. My emotions, blindsiding. What the fuck is this. I'm not entirely sure what's going on with me.
The catch is that I have to be honest, publicly, knowing full well that some of what I write might not be exactly flattering. It might not be interesting. It might be a particular cognitive loop I'm stuck in, trying to argue my way out of with all these imaginary actors. This can get repetitive. Some of these arguments have been going on for a very long time, but at least my writing has evolved.
When I was a kid, I kept a journal that no one else was supposed to read. I was eleven years old, and page one was about wanting to experience love. The first time I kissed a girl, we were only four or five years old, but if I remember correctly, there was even talk of getting married. I didn't see her for years, during which time my pituitary imploded. When I saw her again, we were in fifth grade, and it was awkward. She'd grown a whole lot more than I had. It was not meant to be, after all.
Why am I writing about this now. Yeah, I don't know if I should be that honest, but my mind keeps going in circles. My instincts keep telling me that this means I have more to say, and that I shouldn't say anything. I'm not being honest enough. My biggest fear though is that it doesn't even matter. I'm afraid I've lost my best friend no matter what I do. The mind fixates, and moving on is extraordinarily difficult when I can't care about anything else. I walked my cousin's dog like I was supposed to, but then it was right back to this. Not like I wasn't all weepy picking up dog shit too.
Maybe beer would help. I haven't even been drinking occasionally, all concerned with my brain health and the like, but fuck if that matters to me right now. My prefrontal cortex has just been pissing me off anyhow.