"The mark of an immature man is that he would die knobly for a cause. The mark of a mature man is that he would live humbly for one" - Catcher in the Rye -WARNING WRITER SPELLING CHALLENGED! But Sometimes you have to say "what the fuck!"

Monday, August 16, 2004

There’s someone in my head but it’s not me. –Pink Floyd, “Brain Damage”

Misery loves company.
Vader admits to being an attention whore, but I wish attention could cure my depression. Most days I don’t want to wake up, I would rather sleep the day away. I wish a hug, or an I love you would make me feel better. I do appreciate support and love, but I can only help myself out of this Bell Jar life. My sky is falling…..I’m grasping for support but it all slips away…. I’m left alone, cold, dark, with nothing but my own madness.

I have collected quotes from soul mate crazies, and through their words… I find a glimmer of light.


Lunatics, lovers, and poets are part of an imagination all combined.William Shakespeare, “Midsummer’s Night Dream”

…the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”Jack Kerouac, On the Road

What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

–Theodore Roethke, “In a Dark Time”

Only when all our hold on life
is troubled,
Only in spiritual terror can
the truth
Come through the broken mind—

—WB Yeats, “The Hour-Glass”

Melancholy men, of all others, are the most witty. –Aristotle

When you are insane, you are busy being insane—all the time…when I was crazy, that was all I was. –Sylvia Plath

Dear Doctor: I am feeling very sick. I have a heart in my stomach which throbs and mocks. Suddenly the simple rituals of the day balk like a stubborn horse. It gets impossible to look people in the eye: corruption may break out again? Who knows. Small talk becomes desperate.
Hostility grows, too. That dangerous, deadly venom which comes from a sick heart. Sick mind, too. The image of identity we must daily fight to impress on the neutral, or hostile, world collapses inward: we feel crushed.
Sylvia Plath, in a journal entry

My world falls apart, crumbles, “The center cannot hold.” There is no integrating force, only the naked fear, the urge of self-preservation. I am afraid. I am not solid, but hollow. I feel behind my eyes a numb, paralyzed cavern, a pit of hell, a mimicking nothingness. I never thought. I never wrote, I never suffered. I want to kill myself, to escape from responsibility, to crawl back abjectly into the womb. I do not know who I am, where I am going—and I am the one who has to decide the answers to these hideous questions. I long for a noble escape from freedom—I am weak, tired, in revolt from the strong constructive humanitarian faith which presupposes a healthy, active intellect and will. There is nowhere to go… –Sylvia Plath, writing about her depression in her journal

Now I sit here, crying almost, afraid, seeing the finger writing my hollow futility on the wall, damning me—God, where is the integrating force going to come from? My life up till now seems messy, inconclusive, disorganized: I arranged my courses wrong, played my strategy without unifying rules—got excited at my own potentialities, yet amputated some to serve others. I am drowning in negativism, self-hate, doubt, madness... I go plodding on, afraid that the blank hell in back of my eyes will break through, spewing forth like a dark pestilence, afraid that the disease which eats away the pith of m y body with merciless impersonality will break forth in obvious sores and warts, screaming “Traitor, sinner, imposter.” –Sylvia Plath, in her journal

I am a conglomerate garbage heap of loose ends—selfish, scared, contemplating... going...anywhere, anywhere, where the burden, the terrifying hellish weight of self-responsibility and ultimate self-judgment is lifted. I can see ahead only into dark, sordid alleys, where the dregs, the sludge, the filth of my life lies, unglorified, unchanged—transfigured by nothing: no nobility, not even the illusion of a dream. Reality is what I make it. That is what I have said I believed. Then I look at the hell I am wallowing in, nerves paralyzed, action nullified—fear, envy, hate: all the corrosive emotions of insecurity biting away at my sensitive guts. Time, experience: the colossal wave, sweeping tidal over me, drowning, drowning. How can I ever find that permanence, that continuity with past and future, that communication with other human beings that I crave? Can I ever honestly accept an artificial imposed solution? How can I justify, how can I rationalize the rest of my life away- Sylvia Plath, writing about her depression in her journal

Whom can I talk to? Get advice from? No one. A psychiatrist is the god of our age. But they cost money. And I won’t take advice, even if I want it. I’ll kill myself. I am beyond help. No one here has time to probe, to aid me in understanding myself...so many others are worse off than I. How can I selfishly demand help, solace, guidance? No, it is my own mess, and even if now I have lost my sense of perspective, thereby my creative sense of humor, I will not let myself get sick, go mad, or retreat like a child into blubbering on someone else’s shoulder. –ditto
Someday, god knows when, I will stop this absurd, self-pitying, idle, futile despair. I will begin to think again, and to act according to the way I think. ––
Sylvia Plath, writing about her depression in her journal

Tomorrow I will curse the dawn, but there will be other, earlier nights, and the dawns will be no longer hell laid out in alarms and raw bells and sirens. –Sylvia Plath, writing about her depression in her journal

I keep wanting to crawl back into the womb... Sylvia Plath, writing about her depression in her journal

Right now you are sick in your head...You fool—you are afraid of being alone with your own mind. You just better learn to know yourself, to make sure decisions before it is too late.Sylvia Plath, writing about her depression in her journal

...you looked around and saw everybody either married or busy and happy and thinking and being creative, and you felt scared, sick, lethargic, worst of all, not wanting to cope. You saw visions of yourself in a straightjacket, and a drain on the family, murdering your mother in actuality, killing the edifice of love and respect built up over the years in the hearts of other people. Sylvia Plath, writing about her depression in her journal

I wondered if I was just the sum of my brain scan, little dots clustered in my frontal lobe. Is that where the poems came from? The desire to destroy myself? This last depression had scared me. It had come on so quickly, not like the gradual woolgathering in my brain I had known before. –Betsy Lerner, Food and Loathing

Maybe people are more like the earth than we know. Maybe they have fault lines that sooner or later are going to split open under pressure.Rebecca Wells, Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat. “We’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat. “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

–Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Each sporadic burst of work, each minor success and disappointment, each moment of calm and relaxation, seemed merely a temporary halt on my steady descent through layer after layer of depression, like an elevator stopping for a moment on the way down to the basement. –A. Alvarez, The Savage God

Maybe I’m needy, neurotic, paranoid. Under the circumstances, of course, if I weren’t needy, neurotic, and paranoid, I’d obviously be psychotic. –Dean Koontz, Seize the Night

I cling to nowhere ’til I fall - the crash of Nothing... Emily Dickinson, “More than the Grave is Closed to Me” [this always reminded me of a nervous breakdown]

Insane people are always sure that they are fine. It is only the sane people who are willing to admit that they are crazy.Nora Ephron

And all that weirdness isn’t just going on outside. It’s in you too, right now, growing in the dark like magic mushrooms. Call it the Thing in the Cellar. Call it the Blow Lunch Factor. Call it the Loony Tunes File. I think of it as my private dinosaur, huge, slimy, and mindless, stumbling around in the stinking swamp of my subconscious, never finding a tar pit big enough to hold it.Stephen King, “Rage”

He realized now that a lot of the problem had been his own mind, which was usually moving at a speed ten or twenty times that of his classmates. They had thought him strange, weird, or even suicidal, depending on the escapade in question, but maybe it had been a simple case of mental overdrive—if anything about being in constant mental overdrive was simple. Anyway, it was the sort of thing you got under control after a while—you got it under control or you found outlets for it…Stephen King, It

You need a touch of madness, just enough that you don’t become stupid!Robin Williams

Our society is run by insane people for insane objectives. …I think we’re being run by maniacs for maniacal ends…and I think I’m liable to be put away as insane for expressing that. That’s what’s insane about it.John Lennon

Paranoia is just a kind of awareness, and awareness is just another form of love. –Charles Manson

…now I was safe, now I was really crazy, and nobody could take me out of there. –Susanna Kaysen, Girl, Interrupted

I have gone insane. I won’t be talking with you for a while. –Jennifer Lynch, The Secret Diary of Laura Palmer

One trembles to think of that mysterious thing in the soul, which seems to acknowledge no human jurisdiction, but in spite of the individual’s own innocence self, will still dream horrid dreams, and mutter unmentionable thoughts. –Herman Melville

When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams—this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.Don Quioxite, The Man of La Mancha

Men have called me mad, but the question is not yet settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence—whether much that is glorious—whether all that is profound—does not spring from disease of thought, from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. –Edgar Allen Poe

Insight is often mistaken for madness.Sir George Hutchinson, in “Dr. Who”
Anybody remotely interesting is mad, in some way or another.the doctor, in “Dr. Who”

...in one way or another all men are mad. Many are mad for money...Love is a madness...it can grow to a frenzy of despair ... All the whole list of desires, predilections, aversions, ambitions, passions, cares, griefs, regrets, remorses, are incipience madness, and ready to grow, spread and consume, when the occasion comes. There are no healthy minds, and nothing saves any man but accident—the accident of not having his malady put to the supreme test.
One of the commonest forms of madness is the desire to be noticed, the pleasure derived from being noticed. Perhaps it is not merely common, but universal.
Mark Twain, The Memorable Assassination

I am crying because whatever my gifts, the pieces of good buried inside and under so much that I feel is bad, is wrong, is twisted, are less clear than the ability to hit a ball with a bat and break the scoreboard or do a triple pirouette in the air on ice. My gifts are for life itself, for an unfortunately astute understanding of all the cruelty and pain in the world. My gifts are unspecific. I am an artist manqué, someone full of crazy ideas and grandiloquent needs and even a little bit of happiness, but with no way to express it. – Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

I’m a happy-go-lucky manic-depressive. It does get very deep and dark for me, and it gets scary at times when I feel I can’t pull out of it. But I don’t consider myself negative-negative. I’m positive-negative.Tim Burton

What happens to the wide-eyed observer when the window between reality and unreality breaks and the glass begins to fly?Stephen King

Why is it that all those who have become eminent in philosophy, politics, poetry, or the arts are clearly of an atrabilious temperament and some of them to such an extent as to be affected by diseases caused by black bile?Aristotle, on insanity

How is it
People fear the dark?
Not me, I’m reconciled.
as every day I see
the blackness grow,
I’ve come to terms with it,
it knows I know.

Rod McKuen, Alone

When you look directly at an insane man all you see is a reflection of your own knowledge that he’s insane, which is not to see him at all. –Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Just because you’re paranoid
don’t mean they’re not after you.

–Nirvana, “Territorial Pissings”

Among writers, if you don’t have a therapist, it’s like saying you don’t keep a journal or use the thesaurus. It’s a natural accompaniment. –Amy Tan

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Dozer said...

sheesh, I thought only I felt that way.

Tricia said...

Thanks for 'talking me down' last night, you're a an angel and my hero.
Big wet sloppy kisses all over your sexy ass!

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Anonymous said...

Thank you for sharing I wish I could go somwhere.


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