Ramblings of the mentally unwell

At the end of the year, as we are all apt to do, I retrospect.

This year (and bits of the one before) was an eventful one. I'm writing a post here, a platform a new friend suggested, listening to music from a video game another new friend suggested, talking to a friend I refer to in a different way than before.

Introspection and retrospection have a habit of reminding me of a dialogue in Assassin's Creed II. In the prologue of the game, before Ezio Auditore da Firenze's family gets framed and executed in front of him, setting him on a lifelong course of discovery, violence, conspiracy and travel to distant lands, he has the following conversation with his older brother, Federico:

Federico: "It is a good life we lead, brother."

Ezio: "The best. May it never change."

"And may it never change us."

(Scene in question in the video below)

Now that's an obvious way of foreshadowing the plot, but it still is a very powerful scene on its own. It always mesmerised me, and I'm not even sure why. If I had to guess, then maybe it is because I can't comprehend those wishes. Could someone really be so content in their life that their wish is for it to stay as it is forevermore? Can someone really be so confident in themselves that they believe they have found who they are; that they wish to stay the same, as anything else would be an unwelcome intrusion? And, even if the answer to all these is "yes", is it a wise or "normal" wish to have? Do I not understand that wish because I have never felt that content with my life or because the wish for it all to stay unchanging is meaningless or because that kind of arrogance is beyond me?

Truly, I think I'll never know.

That's what it is, utterly unfair. The desire for a partner, the desire to be understood, the belief that it will be a panacea, it's unfair. Do you have the slightest idea how much weight will be on the shoulders of my first partner? I doubt they'd ask for any of it, but they're getting it anyway. Do you think I want to place the objects of my lust on pedestals, corrupt my senses because of said pedestals? Do you think I want to hurt those around me like I did, do and will do? Do you think I chose to be such a fuckup?

I just wanted to make it out alive. I had to lean somewhere, so I did. And now EVERYONE'S paying the price! Why was I forced into this corner? I JUST WANTED TO SURVIVE! Friendships I corrupted, now unbalanced and on unsteady ground. A slave I became to desire, manipulable, malleable and submissive. So deep I dug the grave I'm in I will never escape it without hurting another. I've gone too far to be able to contain the pain to just me, now I'm forced to anxiously wait to see how I deal it out to the one I will care about most. Now all I can hope for is that fate will match me with a mirror image, that we would deal the pain in equal measure and keep it contained to ourselves by proxy. What a fool's errand, don't I know that there is no being on this earth as completely, thoroughly, absolutely fucked in the head as me and in this hyper-specific way to be able to put this plan in motion? No, the damage will be dealt to an innocent, because the last thing I needed was blood on my hands.

The thought of letting my losses be cut with my wrists is tempting, but how am I to explain that decision? How do I explain to the plant whose vines I'm still tangled in that it might have prevented it if it wasn't who it is? How do I explain to the person I so diligently tried to present myself as someone in the same boat as him, as a source of inspiration that things could get better, that I couldn't take it? What's gonna happen to the fog if she isn't anchored to me; who's gonna figure out her story? What will the people who so eagerly threw their ropes down to help me up think when I sever the ties?

I can see it, I'm helping people. But it's not enough, it'll never be enough. No achievement will ever be enough because of this perversion. None of it will ever be enough, all because I needed a fantasy to lull me to sleep. None of it will ever be enough, all because I needed to make it out alive.

Call me generic but there's no better metaphor for something concerning/altering the self than blood. Gashing lacerations as the trauma makes your self pour out of your body and disappear into the floor, blood pacts showing that that level of trust requires pain to form, it's perfect.

And, of course, my best work using said metaphor: When I was intoxicated with the euphoria of feeling understood by a person just as broken as me, my mind conjured an image I turned into a small poem. (I'd later come to find out I was, unbeknownst to me, writing a love letter).

Two people, beaten to the point of spitting blood, unintentionally forming a blood pact with each other by kissing. They just hoped for a taste of another person in what could be their final moments, but through that taste they formed a now unbreakable bond. A bond they can no longer back out of, they mixed their blood with the other's. A bond explicitly forged by the beatings they received. It could not be done without them.

I should revisit that work, now that I know its true meaning. It's a nice metaphor, it deserves to be used by someone who understands it. And love's among my fav things to write about, anyway.

But she isn't even close to the world's best fraudster, for everyone can see who he is. No matter how many efforts to conceal the fact, those who gaze upon this being look at a composite of failures. The performance was cute, but it cannot hide such absolute dysfunctionality. He fails at what he's good at, he fails at what he's bad at. At what they're average at, they trip on their own feet. At what matters little, they want and fail to give their all. At what matters most, she sabotages. He wants to dive into the trap and misses. They are saved the title of fool only because their incompetence doesn't allow them to do a fool's feats.

But why a fraudster? What do they gain? What does he steal? What does she destroy?

Because they use a deceptive first impression to gain access to people's minds and hearts. The illusion of importance. Attention, expectations, praise. Burnt to the ground lie connections, prospects, potential, resources that could be used to fuel those that actually had the will to do what they set out to do. To fuel those that at least had the will to attempt to do what they set out to do.

So you take the fraudster, grab 'em by the collar and pin them to wall, and you ask "how". How is it that so many people are blind to their antics? And you ask "why". Why are they such a failure? Why aren't they like he promised to be? And you ask "who". Who is it that lies behind that web of failure and feint? Who produced such a being in the first place? And they don't answer.

So you try to beat it out of them. You bash their head against the wall and howl your demands for answers. And again. And again. And you drive knives into their veins and twist. And again. And again. Until their arteries surround the knife like spaghetti to a fork. And they don't answer.

So you poison them. Toxins to weaken them, truth serums to peel back the veil, depressants, stimulants, psychedelics, tranquilizers. You drive them mad, so that they would stop their conning and speak truth, for once. And they don't answer.

And you drive dread and desire deeper into their soul. You shatter him, little by little, you flaunt in front of him what he will never have. You punish her for her transgressions. She was born an illusion so you send illusions to assault her very being. And they writhe in pain, but they don't answer.

And you leave them be. They were broken enough as is, your torture made little impact. But now you understand that you were barking up the wrong tree. For they are as much a victim of their scams as those around them.

And you can only ask yourself:

Many times, life changes us. As much as it is feared, change tends to be a good thing. But how are we to gauge which pressures moulded us into better people, and which shattered what we hoped to be? Sword and scrap metal alike look to the hammer when in need of answers about why they are how they are. Yet, they cannot know how they were built nor whether their manufacturing was satisfactory for the purpose they are meant to serve. Would scrap metal used as a shiv not think itself a sword of elegant design? Would a sword used for ceremony not think that it is nothing more than a useless chunk of metal, paraded around for its unusual forging errors?

Yet it is obvious that if a mismatch in design and use is present; problems arise. Swords of ceremony, used in combat, will shatter and betray the trust of their wielder. The blacksmith's failures, if treated as successes, will bring destruction. All metal, then, must assume itself a success and find where it is meant to be used. Pommels too heavy to be attached to swords will become doorknobs, blades too dull to cut will be used to train the swordsmen of tomorrow.

But not all metalwork can be salvaged, can it? Some are so erroneous the only purpose they can serve is to be melted and fill another mould. Its destruction, an abandonment of hope it will serve a purpose at all. Does the metal fear this fate? Does it embrace it, happy that it will finally serve a purpose?

What of the metal that can't be used for what they were built for, but aren't lucky enough to be melted down? Who will save them from their despair? What are they meant to feel? Those who have tried with all the might their creator imbued in them to be of use and failed, what are we to do? Built to produce successes, we failed. And so, a search for new purpose. The metal shall be an instrument of love. Not swords, but canes, prosthetics, armor. And again, I failed. Another purpose, then. Reinforcement. I will place myself in the fire, hoping to meld with metal better suited for its purpose. I will make it stronger, and through that strength, I will have found my use.

That idea might actually hold some merit, yet it is as pointless as the rest. The metal cannot afford to consider the possibility it will completely melt itself into an unusable goop before it can hope to reinforce another nor that melting into a successful design can worsen it. Coat a knife in liquid metal and it will not even be able to cut bread. But what else can I hope for, other than to merge myself with another, that we might possibly be more than the sum of our parts? That is the purpose of scrap metal, is it not?

It's a sin. We all know that. But how am I supposed to not feel sad at not being able to obtain that which I have desired for years, knowing others managed it in a matter of hours? How am I supposed to see it in front of me, in quite literally more than all the glory I'd first seen it in, in the stunning sight and not curse the gods above for forbidding me that pleasure. I try to be pure of heart, but this is one corruption I can't see myself ever getting rid of. I am grateful to have always known that it was always unattainable, it lessens the impact a lot, but it still hurts.

A thorn-shaped void in my side, born from the beauty of a rose made of flesh. The dreams of holding the rose, of having its thorns complete me, never left my mind. And, as it grows, it spreads its petals further, becoming more beautiful every time the sun meets it. Yet I cannot hold it. I take great pride, pleasure and fulfilment from tending to it, but knowing I will never grasp it hurts me; more than its thorns ever could? I will never know, for my hand will never reach them.

Worst of all, I think I've gotten my leg tangled in its long-reaching roots. I am stuck here, and it will be quite a surprise if I ever manage to reach a different flower, let alone one of equal beauty. It didn't deceive me and, truth be told, it probably doesn't want me wriggling its roots about as I move but it trapped me here; through no fault of its own.

Lust led me to it, greed drew my leg to its roots, wrath made me think of disregarding all our wishes and plucking it to keep for myself, envy made me curse the bees that pass by it and touch it. For I am, at my core, a sinner. For I could never be satisfied with just the sight of it. For I am a man. For I am broken.

From the dead he sends his message, a little gift from the abyss. An old habit; once lost, now regained. A breath from the breathless.

My father, my son, he has returned to me. From his journey he bears gifts, the inheritance I begged and begged and begged to access.

I'm sorry you have to wander through oblivion, son. I'm sorry I didn't prepare you for what you had to face. Know that, though it took a lot for me to realize, I now gently weep over your corpse; counting one by one the wounds you were dealt, while you stride through the land of the dead. You were done a great injustice and you didn't even realize. I do not understand the world that deemed it fair to deal such blows to my little boy. You were flawed because you were young, you deserved forgiveness and compassion. This I give to you now; if only I could do so when it wasn't too late.

Thank you, father, for these great gifts. I longed for more than a year to see them in my hands, to wield the blades you forged as you had in your life, to enjoy what brought you so much joy and was temporarily lost with your death. May they be the last thing I need to shield myself from the corruption that made me and makes me and would make me a worse person than my environment deserves.

Seems like a dumb question for me to ask, what with me having friends that have responded to my wails and whatnot. And yet, I still cannot do just about anything that needs to be done. I stubbornly refuse to see a professional, all my requests for aid are veiled (poorly) by irony, humour and half-truth, I don't take any steps to improve myself and I'm actively trying to become a substance abuser 'cause, for some fucked up reason, I think it easier than the above and an improvement over who I am.

What part of myself do I need to chip away to do what I want to do? How much more penance need I do to myself to begin to try to be a semi-functional person?

When will I be able to share all I want to show to another person? Do I need to have our bodies unite before it? Must it be manipulated out of me with those disgusting tactics shrinks use? Must I keep rolling the dice of inebriation 'til I land that oh so important Nat 20?

You, who witness my repeated failings, it might be wise to take up arms against me and force me onto the path. It is clear to all that I won't be a threat, just a somewhat persistent punching bag. At this point, what else can save me? Forgive me, noble souls, for I cannot command myself to action. Forgive me; for there is no way for me to produce a success, not even an attempt at success.

What sacrifice must be done, with what being must I make a Faustian bargain with? I have died and risen multiple times, each time losing a bit of my self. A continuous, downwards spiral into sloth, failure, non-personhood.

I felt real happiness as a kid. Happiness without the bitter aftertaste of depression, happiness that tasted nice and left behind it an even tastier feeling. I was content.

It didn't occur to me til now, how desperately I'm searching for that feeling. That hunt defines most of my actions. It's that hunt that can explain why I only feel like I'm who I want to be when I'm 3 drinks in, staring at the bottom of the glass. It's that hunt that explains why it only takes one show of warmth and a compatible body for me to fall in love, blinded by being so close to that feeling that I don't see the strain I put on my friendships.

In my life, I've been starved without knowing it. Lost an integral part of what it means to live. The starvation made me apathetic, cynical, disgusting. Unable to talk in absolutes, even if they soothe. Cynical enough to never let a sentence out of my mouth without implanting in it room for error and clauses to parry responsibility.

I've now had a taste of the forbidden, life-saving fruit. Way more than a taste, I've devoured any in my way with great fervour and devotion. It is a different self than the one before it, not free of the dead man's burdens, but aware of them. It is a great effort to me to recite something as absolute as what I want to say; it fills me with great fear to be aware of the extent of the lie this would be were my future self to become an oathbreaker. It feels wrong in every possible way. Yet I think it best I do this.

So here I am, with what can only be described as my found family, in my friend's house. It's been a while since we've performed this ritual, this indirect prayer to Dionysus. I, being a decently selfish prick, was hoping to dive into the void in my torso, trying to meet that which has been plaguing me for oh so long.

I was first to the house, along with the host. The host's phone rings: our friend's at the door. I haven't seen him in the flesh for a little less than a week, but it feels like it's been ages. He enters the house, we practically shout our greetings from excitement. I did, anyway. I missed him a lot. I hug him right there at the door connecting the living room to the main hallway. Can't say there wasn't a part of me that wanted that hug to last forever, but I knew we had a ritual to tend to; one that would be leagues more impactful than this hug could ever be. We go to the living room, where he and my other friend fill me in on what I missed out on this week due to illness, waiting for the last priest to join us. Some chitchat later, she arrives. Armed with some alcohol, leftovers from the last ritual as well as fresh bottles, we at some point begin the ritual.

A weird ritual, this one; you can't really know with precision when it starts. We were just chatting with booze in hand and all of a sudden we were already in the later verses of the prayer. The usual motions of the ritual are already being performed; everyone's cuddling, giggling, throwing compliments at one another, setting the stage, preparing the proverbial magic circle. A magic circle hoping to achieve what? Well, the answer's up to the interpretation of the cultist answering, but to me... it's a magic circle drawn with the intent of ascending our friendship to the next level, to reinforce the ties that bind us to one another; infuse them with the mana we released through our drinks: love. A force great enough to keep jealousy at bay, to make me see the two people I've been interested in for a whole damn year kissing each other (platonically, ofc) and just say "Awww" 'cause, well, they're both cute and cuteness scales logarithmically; going from 1 to 2 is pretty early in the chain of changes so it's a great difference. Truly I could elect no better power to strengthen these bonds.

Frank Herbert's Dune's pretty fresh in my mind, so I drew parallels to the way the Fremen of Tabr sietch use the Water of Life, modified through the body of a Reverend Mother, in their orgies. A way to connect to one another by viewing their whole person. Now, we had no such miracle drug in our possession, nor a Reverend Mother and Shai-Hulud to create it. And yet, that night, I understood what the Fremen must have felt. As I could the previous time we went through these motions, albeit to a lesser degree. And the time before it, though even less than the one after it. That can only mean we're getting better at our attempts to reach that implicit goal. We don't need convincing to try again, thankfully. Every ritual feels better than the last, almost reaching the intoxicating feeling that the Water of Life is claimed to provide.

It's now early morning, and I turn my head to see the two priests who were kissing before now sleeping soundly in each others arms. A sight so adorable it forces the soul to warm itself, jealousy and loneliness be damned. Unfortunately my appreciation of such a sight is tainted by a splitting headache, but only a little. One of them pulls away, sometime a little before dawn; and I'm freezing so I go to squeeze between them and soak in the heat of their bodies. And DEAR GOD, THIS GIRL RADIATES HEAT. I restrain myself from grabbing on to her for dear life since she's sleeping and I could never dream to disturb her sleep nor make her uncomfortable by doing such an action when she can't state her wish for or against the state I'd put us in, so I just bring myself close to her and bask in the warmth. I swear this girl pulls a new trick from her sleeve every time I meet her, making me more attracted to her than I was before. Such a shame we could never be, but, considering god put me here with friends like these, I trust him to have made this decision for our own good. Still stings a bit, though.

I haven't entirely forgotten my mission, the goal I had before the ritual. The need to tap into the void and stare into the abyss. But after the ritual, I understood the inherent error of such a desire. What I wanted was, in its essence, to perform a Water of Life orgy with myself, to view my whole person. To hold that "soul" in my hands, that I may shatter it and rebuild it in a way that allows me to not be a being that is ashamed of what it is. I see now that to want something like this is both selfish and foolish, though I'll admit that I don't know how I'm supposed to improve without that assumption.

I love my friends, more than I ever thought I could love a person.

Arch Priest, messiah of this great religion, I thank you for allowing the ritual to take place in your home. You were, as always, a delightful host and an even better friend. Your greatness is bound to be revealed to the world, that I know without doubt; and your intelligence would be frightening, were it not in such an approachable package.

Arch Priest, you who have proven yourself so adept in the ways of the heart you might as well be a Bene Gesserit, may your sails be forever full, for we learn much about ourselves just by witnessing your masterful sailing. I have no other hope than to be a good enough sailor to match you and be by your side.

To the priest who had by far the most fun in this, I thank you dearly for showing wisdom where I wouldn't. I don't think I would have regretted it, but it might have turned into a complication I don't have the experience to solve. Let's follow our dear friend's advice and give our answers sober. It was one of my deepest regrets that I hadn't gotten to know you well. I'm grateful that I've improved in that front and hope to do so further still.