Mellow dramatics

Hobble into a room with a cast on your leg, and everyone will eagerly await your tales of drunken rock-climbing. Hobble into a room because your mind is just too disoriented to process your senses, and no one will feel comfortable talking to you about your misfiring brain.

Not even you.

I’m not sure why this is, but while most people deem it acceptable to talk about and seek help for physical issues bothering them, there’s a huge stigma against bringing up problems of the mind. Perhaps, it’s because unlike obvious physical abnormalities, much of our craziness can be hidden from life’s casual observers; and people don’t see the need to talk about things that can be swept under the rug.

But screw social norms, you know I’m going to.

Can you imagine how scary it is to have your mind and eyes wake up, but not the rest of your body? When you feel awake, but paralysed as you lie there in the harsh realisation that the rest of you often functions independent of your mind. What if you’re prone to sleeping on your tummy, and you occasionally find your mind waking up, only to realise it can’t turn your head to prevent you from choking on your pillow because your body is still asleep?

Do you then shut your eyes real tight and hope that it’s just a nightmare? Can you even tell the difference? What if your memory is just a blur and you can’t always clearly tell if something you’re recalling is an event you really experienced, a dream you had, or just something you were thinking about? When desperately devoid of feeling, you concoct something and convince yourself it’s real.

And if you can’t tell the difference, is there any?

It’s ironic that the authenticity of your experiences is really a moot concern, as failing memory is one of the first signs of a faulty brain, aside from spotty hallucinations and spooky convulsions, of course. If you can’t even remember clearly over a few weeks into the past, why would you care if what you’re recollecting is real?

Alas, another thing that’s easily affected is speech patterns. Slurred, incoherent ramblings soon replace any expressive flair you might have possessed—further evidencing your dulling senses and intellect to the world. And worse, reducing the likelihood you’re going to coherently talk about what you’re going through with anyone.

Enter, stage left

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I woke up today to a message on my phone.
From my mother.
Telling me she’s going to be turning up here on Thursday.
Yes, Thursday.

Since then, I’ve begun to freak out and have frantically been attempting to sort out my dwelling environment and my life. I don’t really know why though, I’m going to fall short of her unrealistic standards anyway.

This entry was pushed through outside the regular chronology because it contains breaking news. You probably don’t know this, but the way this journal works is that everything first begins with daily tidbits on scraps of paper forming a physical journal. Under normal circumstances, portions of these scribbles are transcribed, polished upon or expanded into the entries you see here.

As you’ve realised, I haven’t been transferring anything from paper of late, and working through the regular chronology wouldn’t have allowed for this entry to show up in a timely manner.

Never to fear, there is more life news that exists on paper which will make it up here, and I don’t intend on falling from my on-average ten posts per month frequency.

Deus ex machina

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Stepping out after a long, hot shower all wrinkley and pink, I hope I can finally pen some of the thoughts that have frequented my mind over this past week. The main thing I’ve been wrestling with is this: Is changing my life really just my own fight?

Let me explain.

Talk to anyone, and more often than not, they’ll be quick to suggest that you ought to take control of your own life, take responsibility for your actions and fight your own battles. They’ll probably use different words, but this will be the general sentiment they express. They’ll say that you shouldn’t sit there blaming the world for your misfortunes, and shouldn’t expect a magical fairy to come floating down from the clouds—or wherever it is fairies call home—and solve your problems for you.

OK, I admit waiting for a magical fairy is a pretty bogus way of dealing with your life’s situations, but is your life really just your own fight to fight? Quite certainly, other people must’ve played some part in your life’s path. Haven’t they?

Take, for example, the case of these parents who raised their already socially-awkward child in three very different parts of the world. Is it any surprise that the kid has difficulty grasping where he fits in? Why is it that others can be a part of the problem but when it comes to fixing it, you ought to single-handedly arrive at a solution?

One obvious answer to that question is more of the same drivel: “It’s your life; it’s your problem, not theirs.” And this is something that leaves me unconvinced.

High as a kite

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Against the advice of most people, including my aghast parents, I resorted to Plan B. And you know what? It’s been great! These past few days have witnessed a substantial change in my outlook, and I’ve actually started to do things again. Like a couple of days ago, a friend and I drove out to a national park at the outskirts of the city and spent most of our morn hiking and talking. When was the last time you heard me do something like that? Never.

I’m not certain if the chemicals have anything to do with it, or it’s some sort of placebo effect, but I’m too busy being glad to care.

Of course, things have not been all rosy. There have been some side-effects, like the occasional twitch of the odd muscle (the kinds you get after marathon video-gaming sessions) and mental restlessness that makes it a little harder for me to go to sleep at night. Nevertheless, I feel they’re worth it right now, and these are relatively minor things I can easily contend with for what I feel I’m receiving in return.

What I guess I am saying is: It’s OK if you can’t calm down and focus, even enough to write a decent journal entry, when your mind is in fact racing with heartening thoughts—such as where you want to travel to and what genuinely needy groups you want to aid.

Clue in: Since everyone around feels entitled to harangue me about my life choices, all I have to say is this: People who don’t, won’t or can’t do anything to help my circumstance have little say in the matter.

The non-story so far

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As if it even needs to be stated, I’m an extremely negative person. Sitting outside the doctor’s office last afternoon waiting for my test results, I was envisioning one horrible scenario after the next—complete with how I intended on breaking the news in this journal. After all, so much of my blood had been taken and subjected to such broad scrutiny, surely something horrible would crop up. And when it did, I’d be ready with my truly twisted take on things for the next day’s story.

But nothing did.

As she was reading out the charts and explaining to me what was going on, every one of my numbers—each characterising one of 20–25 different tests—landed smack in the middle of acceptable ranges for humans. It’s as if someone took an average of the highs and lows for each of these parameters and reported them as my score.

Fucking great.

I’m assuming I ought to be pleased by this outcome, but I’m not. Now I can’t even blame my state on… failing kidneys or something as dire. I guess it’s time to resort to Plan B: intense, mind-altering chemicals.

Unforeseen facsimile

I’ve spent most of my day with this woman whom I can only describe as… me. Sure, she’s a woman. Sure, she’s attractive. And sure, her life path has been strikingly different from my own. But the entire time I was with her, every word that escaped her lips could just as well have emanated from mine. The similitude of our outlooks, aspirations and mannerisms was uncanny; she even pats her pockets—counting upto four each time—to make sure she’s picked up her keys and the lot every time she rises to her feet!

As amusing as it is to observe two grown people patting their bodies in tandem as they get up, the experience was not weird. (Who doesn’t enjoy hearing themselves talk?) I just found it very surprising: I’d assumed that the state of my life, and my mind, were unique to me. Or perhaps, I’d just convinced myself that things would automatically be very different if I were an elegant woman.

Then again, I figure if two kids from the same family and social fabric can differ by night and day—as most do—then a couple from half-way across the world can be spitting images of each other. It makes just as much sense.

Whatever the case, it was a blast. Sometimes, you just need to be reminded that you’re not the only one.

The dark side

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(Life news will resume when I know more. In the meantime…)

The past couple of years have witnessed my steady transition toward the dark side, and I believe that journey was completed yesterday. After voluntarily forking over wads of cash to the pimpled girl behind the counter, I picked up my new macawsex disc:

A picture of the Mac OS X Leopard box

And, since we’re talking about evil things, you might be disenchanted to hear that over the past few months, this journal (as well as its sister sites) have been entirely self-supported through advertising. (A cookie for anyone who finds one!)

Upholding principles and leading an upstanding life is only for those who are otherwise happy and contended in their lives. If you aren’t, all bets are off.

(Honestly, I have had life news. It’s just that I don’t have access to my notes as I’ve not been at home for the past couple of days; and I am in no mood to concoct solemn entries from scratch.)

Pens and needles

The pen in my hand stares nervously at me, anxiously awaiting what I have to say. Its cap bears the words “Dr. Me,” beautifully engraved in the most elegant of font-faces, and is emblematic of the love and excitement in the heart of the woman who painstakingly created it for me on the day I successfully defended my thesis. This pen, as did everything else in this room, watched aghast as I coolly shooed her away, declaring that I don’t care about anything in this world… including her. The most unfortunate thing here is that in a state such as mine, nothing really does matter; even if a part of me knows that it should.

Like the drunk finding himself alone on the street in a pool of his own vomit, it often takes hitting rock bottom to realise that it’s high time you did something about your life.

And last morn, I finally did.

I worked up the nerve to go and talk to a professional about what I’ve been like for the past few years, and how things have progressed to a stage far more serious than anything I can just “snap out of.” As you’re reading this, two large vials of my blood are being subjected to a battery of tests, aiming to implicate any physical issues that I might have, along-with or bolstering my psychological problems. Diabetes, kidney damage, anaemia, hormonal imbalances… all the usual suspects linked with this sort of affair are being carefully investigated.

Over the following days and weeks, through intense conversations and lab-work, I hope to have a better grasp of what I’m dealing with so I can begin to cope, and eventually, start caring again.

Perhaps then, this pen won’t be as nervous when I pick it up.

With the flow

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If you are expecting this entry to be some sort of misguided rant on the menstrual cycle, you’re going to be quite disappointed.

While most people imagine themselves “navigating their way through life,” I envision myself standing rather inert, allowing life to flow past me. As with a lot of other things in this world, I find it pointless to question why this is so, and instead just acknowledge that things are the way they are.

As far back as I can remember (which, arguably, isn’t very long), I cannot recall making any significant decision with any degree of surety or conviction; I seem to just lie there as eventualities take their course, and the decision is conveniently made for me. (And no, choosing just the right caffeinated beverage from the plethora of delicious choices from the nearby vending machine does not count.) Be it my academic choices, or choosing parts of the world in which to pursue them, to determining what kinds of relationships I engage in, with whom, or for that matter, even when those relationships dissolve—the sorts of decisions that ought to shape the core of my existence—I find myself more as a passive observer of events unfolding rather than an active participant in the intricate tapestry.

If you think about it though, this in itself really isn’t a bad scheme of events—as long as one’s happy with the way things evolve. And therein lies the unfortunate twist in our tale: Recently, I’ve been hating everything in the picture. And what’s worse, I seem to have gotten so used to sitting back and allowing things to “fall into place,” I’m not sure I’m even capable of weaving the fabric of my own life any more.

Bottled goodness

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I’ve been experimenting with different looks for the journal, but I’m repeatedly failing to put together something I like.

An advertisement

Imagine the possibilities if I detach myself from shades of grey; not like that’s ever going to happen.

Update: After talking to a bunch of designer people:

An advertisement

Screw the sciences

More often than not, the people around me tend to get very defensive when I point out their infractions of the rules of the English language. What they don’t realise is that I’m not aiming to berate them; I’m just trying to help them by dragging them (kicking and screaming if need be) into civility.

I wish I had known about this as a younger lad, but there are those who have turned this into a profitable enterprise. Meet the professional pompous pedant [5.5 MB, MP3]. Now that’s a real career.

Time for a visual refresh?

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I’ve been comfortable with the way things have looked around here for a couple of years now. In many ways, I still am, but here are a few ideas I’ve been toying with every now and again. I was wondering if you had any thoughts on the matter.

1. Simplicity two point oh two: Using this would be the laziest route, but I know it works well for different sorts of content. I think it needs some sort of slick header to complete it, but I know not what.

The first design option

2. Daily read: This stemmed from something I read a while ago which said “People tend to take sites that look like ‘news sites’ far more seriously than they do blogs.” And we all want to be taken seriously, don’t we? (The eagle is just a placeholder logo.)

The second design option

3. Amber lounge: The logo for this was stolen from a bar I visited while in Europe. It is the latest line of ideas I’ve been tinkering with, and the least fleshed-out.

The third design option

Perhaps the best elements from each will be amalgamated.