I self harmed for two years. I began starting a new coping skill that has been really effective; eating. Although, I'm worried because I had a slight eating disorder before, eating might draw me back in it agaian.

Rightio, guys! Welcome to my world! It's great in here, albeit the landscapes may appear a little cerebral and neurotic sometimes. I lead the fine young life of an Irish student. Yes, student life is... well, chaotic. Effective organisation is always precluded by the necessities of student life (i.e. sleeping erratic hours, inconsistently meeting inconsistent deadlines, and an all-round simultaneous lack of planning and spontaneity). I am doing what I love (that's binge-reading on metaphysics and critical theory and writing highfalutin essays on it all), and even if it doesn't make me happy, that's okay, because I'm doing the right thing with my life right now. Clarity helps.

Happiness (whatever it is) is a thoroughly overused term these days. Why on earth should I be happy just because I have everything and my life is pretty darn good?! 'Erm... perhaps because you have everything and your life is pretty darn good...?' This is called circular reasoning, a logical fallacy. In fact, the entire pursuit of happiness in itself is both illogical and pointless. For a fact, nothing makes me happy. Ought I be stricken now by an avalanche of guilt? Not really. It's okay to feel whatever you feel and it is absolutely ridiculous to feel what someone else (or society, in fact) tells you to feel, because that's even more absurd that not feeling good, when life's good. In fact, the pursuit of happiness makes people depressed, because it's cheating logic and breaking down the faculties we rely on to make clear distinctions between things!

I like my life. I don't like my depression. I live life with depression. I do not live a depressed life. When I am really depressed I am not living my life, but this has nothing to do with my life and everything to do with my depression. It is important when I am very depressed to never wish my depression to end, because this would mean ending my life. And I like my life. It is much more likable than my depression. It only makes sense to say, then, that I like my life more than I can ever dislike my depression, because depression requires life in order to exist and wishing my life to end because it will end my depression is completely absurd, because it denies the origin of depression, which is not life, but absurdity. Yes, depression is absurd, but life is not and in order to affirm what is true and meaningful (i.e. the fact that depression is absurd) we must affirm life.

Of course, it may appear to be problematic when philosophers say that life is absurd and melancholia is a natural reaction to the absurdity of life. This may be true (and if it is it becomes difficult to distinguish depression from life), but even these philosophers find a way of affirming life, even if only in spite. For Camus, absurdity must be affirmed because our lucidity is the basis of all that we have. According to him, we must continue to push the boulder up the hill knowing it will fall back down, because acknowledging the pointlessness of this task liberates us to accept it. For Kierkegaard, it is defiance: rejection of help or escape which gives us strength to be our own and endure. For Nietzsche, life, suffering and all the tragedy in the world must be relished in order to rise above the adversity of slavery and become masters of ourselves through strength and creativity.

Quotes from an interview with psychoanalyst and writer, Adam Phillips:

"I'm not on the side of frustration exactly, so much as the idea that one has to be able to bear frustration in order for satisfaction to be realistic. I'm interested in how the culture of consumer capitalism depends on the idea that we can't bear frustration, so that every time we feel a bit restless or bored or irritable, we eat, say, or we shop.

"It's only in an initial state of privation that you can begin to have thoughts about what it is you might want, to really imagine or picture it. It's very difficult to know what we're frustrated by. In making the case for frustration I want to make it more interesting, such that people can talk or think about it in different ways."

For him, psychoanalysis is a set of stories that we tell ourselves and each other, a way of redescribing our experiences. "To begin with, one needs to understand," he says, "but I think the final project is to relieve oneself of the need for self-knowledge. It's not that it's useless – in some areas of life it's very useful – but there are lots of areas in which it isn't, and in some areas it's actually pre-emptive and defensive, and this is where psychoanalysis potentially fails people, by assuming there is an infinite project and that the best thing you can do in life is to know yourself. Well, I don't think that's true."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/jun/01/adam-phillips-life-in-writing


"I believe in what you see being most of what there is… and that life's passed on to us empty. So, while significance weighs heavy, that's the most it does. Hidden meaning is all but absent."
:: Richard Ford (from the novel 'Canada'.)

At the age of eleven, five years ago, I recall calling a voice in my head the narrator, because he would refer to my life in third person, always negatively, constantly talking, and arguing with me, To this day. As far back as I can remember I have had a want to become female, purely for physical reasons, however, this need was intermittent, usually I had the standardly accepted gender identity, I even imagine being a father- not a parent or mother, a father- and now at sixteen my gender identity feels as if it has split into two, transgendered and 'normal,' while I am now 'turned on' by material of transgendered nature at times, but usually am not. The narrator has also evolved, triggering bouts of sudden uncharacteristic anger, while I am usually calm and cheerful. I sometimes find that my face is curling into a look of anger or contempt, or that I have sudden images of badly hurting people who do something I dislike, that may have been an acceptable thing to do, but for whatever reason I just feel foreign satisfaction in imagining pain.

I began looking through myself, basically just trying to figure out what the hell is wrong, and the following are the results:

At the age of six I had a crush on a girl in my primary school class, she left that year, for other reasons. This is the most definite starting point I can place for my tgism. then, at eleven, I had my second crush, on another classmate, and she walked up to me and told me to stay away from her shortly after the two friends I told this secret to went and told everyone. My theory is that my subconscious took these rejections, and the stereotypical views on geeks and indians, and sculpted from them the idea that I was so repulsive that the only way I could ever have a girl in my life was to be a girl, and so that shard of my gender identity broke away, and from this information I called that shard Lust. Lust doesn't seem to be as conscious as the narrator (who is now named Anger), though she has on two occasions exclaimed on how 'hot' a guy was, though this may be because of nightly masturbation to the idea of being a girl, leading to lust already being expressed. Anger, however, is kept under lock and key, and so usually has a voice. There are other signs as well. I used to use electronic devices excessively, even when supposed to be sleeping, but I voluntarily stopped, and recently I've started feeling tired after 11am, as if I hadn't gotten the sleep that I obviously did. Occasionally, when writing, my hand forms a squiggle instead of a letter, and my handwriting has deteriorated, and today when trying to write while holding the pen loosely, I could only make squiggles.

There may be other voices, occasionally when playing a sport I become giddy, speaking without thinking, and really jumpy, and sometimes I hear a crowd, but that may be Anger messing with me.
There's a chance I am only imagining all of this, but I don't want to take that risk.
Help me please.

Mood: Exhausted
Listening to: Blake Shelton - Sure be cool if you did


It is one of those nights where I cannot get my mind to shut up. I am so sleepy but alas it manages to escape me. Racing thoughts and the like, This is my first time online today and it is 4:45 am so I guess that would technically mean that I was not online at all yesterday. I have not been able to focus enough on one thing to read a book. That is very stressful as reading is an outlet for me, I have my youtube playlist playing on shuffle so I don't even have to make a decision about a song cause right now my mind won't let me even think on it enough. I thought coming on here and writing for a bit would make me feel better or at least give me something to do but even now it is difficult to focus enough not to stray the subject. I love music there is rarely a time in my life that music is not playing. I listen to just about every genre I can think of with the exception of polka. Lately when I try to go to sleep paranoia takes over, it seems like the moment I become "still" the $#%^ hits the fan so to speak. Paranoia,agitation, conversations in my head with more than one voice. WTF? I moved across the country and have yet to see a therapist or mental health professional for that matter. I have been off meds since roughly June. I sometimes feel like I am watching my life play in front of me like a movie without the option to react. I mean my body is reacting but I am not, what the hell is that about? The other night I went to bed around 3 am to try to sleep but the moment I stopped listening to music and reading articles online and settled down in my bed with the lights off it got ugly. First the paranoia set in, it was extreme. I felt like I was screaming inside my mind but no sounds escaped me. It seemed endless then a soft little crying voice was in my head like a thought but not my thought. Then the weirdest thing happened.... I got this mental image of a little girl crying holding a teddy bear curled up in a corner. I don't know how I knew but the little girls name is Sophia and she is 6. I have never seen this little girl before so how would I know her in my mind? Let me say this, My name is not Sophia and I have never personally met anyone by that name. After the image of the little girl left the "screaming" in my head started back up. I don't know.... I am lost and not sure what is going on. After that night I called and made an appointment with a dr in the new town I am in. I am nervous about going to a new dr, I do not trust easily and I don't know if I can open up to them.