i recently found myself in a heart pounding nervous conversation with the absolute recollection of guilt. we talked about the eccentricity of most artists, which brought me back to Dostoevsky’s passage in the idiot where the writer explains his theory as to why intelligent people; genuinely original with genius-type brilliance are leaps beyond sadness in any day to day sense than average people could be. they are not only darkened by the heaviness of their own situations or the weight of understanding the complicated sorrow of the world but rather, are fueled by their own self-doubt beyond depression - to the point of never ending madness and extreme mental and emotional anguish. this is why the most intelligent, generally, endure greater suffering as a steady constant through out their lives. this thought i griped my mind around tightly because i can relate. i’d be a liar if i were modest enough to say i don’t consider myself intelligent. however, i am modest enough to doubt myself, my thoughts, my skills in sharp bitter bouts through out my days - to the point of severe self-influenced pain. at some points to self-loathing humility. the only person who has witnessed this kind of weakness in me assures that it isn’t so.
my subconscious has been torturing me with reoccurring nightmares of a certain kind… for three years this june. and with a fragile mental state chipped bare from constant bouts of self doubt and minimal self worth, these images have burried me alive in my own fears. my mind is my enemy. i’ve been known to wake up crying or calling out at the end of each - always ending in half excruciating ache and half relief. (usually, eventually able to be calmed and comforted into realizing the waking world is different.) i woke up from the last one a few weeks ago -(having just dealt with a recent one before that a few days earlier which i had to snap myself out of…) i woke up quietly and suddenly this last time, peering straight ahead into darkness with this kind of calm fear on me. i felt as thought shaking but could barely move. extreme agitation followed. i could hear every sound, my eyes wide as if i never had slept. this shock lasted about a minute until i could turn and seek comfort in the arms of the man i adore. he sometimes talks in his sleep - usually grunts or muffled ridiculous words. but as i nuzzled my head between his arms and burried my face in his chest - i could have sworn right then and there that i heard him say something clear as day that surprised and shocked me all the more. i asked a question, inquired further hoping for a specific response and did not get it.
my mind, (as was just stated), had been playing cruel games on me in my dreams for years and had pushed me to the point of paranoia - searching for connections and reasons to believe in my greatest fears. i was broken. if i’d ever accused myself of mental breakdowns before - i was severely wrong until this point. it occurred to me only the next day while quietly and sadly reflecting why i heard what i heard - if it wasn’t what i thought than why were those the words i chose to hear? is my own mind and mental state not to be trusted? why do i dream of these situations when i know they wouldn’t happen in real life as rational thinking cannot permit? as well as my trust in others? can i not trust others because i know i can’t trust myself? why am i so human? is this a test? from who? myself? somehow, it is so. that even in the heartiest trusts built on people so deserving - it is not them that i doubt - but myself. i do not doubt that the people who hold my heart are worthy of it but rather i doubt that my heart is worth the hand who holds it. and if i can see it so clearly what stops them from seeing it too?
and i will close with expressing that these are my feelings, i do not apologize for them, i am not ashamed of them nor do i seek pity. i simply wish to share myself as stupid as the idea seems at times. i am an absolute pessimistic idealist. i feel crooked in mind and body and serve to say that i hope to speak, even if it is to myself.