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"Switching Personalities"

I will feign no man in my worries. I have been told I am insane, that the way my mind works, while not necessarily wrong, has made me ill. The reason I listen is because I agree.

If you had the chance, the ability, would you erase parts of your life? Cover it up, change the details, change what you believed happened? To change something that hurt you. To control it, capture it, and put it aside until you're strong enough to cope. Forced amnesia.

There is no life to fool but your own. To argue that the past doesn't matter would define that very thought. To argue anything shows weakness, shows that whatever that -something- is, affects you.

But the past affects us all, it's true. But what if it affected you too much, and pushed you past the edge? Perhaps then blame could be made on those memories, something that may haunt you.

And to survive, as all creatures do, they must battle. Apparently wars are fought for peace, but perhaps they are fought for comfort. For the knowledge that no-one can challenge you, not to unite the world. Perhaps that is my failing, but my failing is not mine to see.

The blissful thought of a simple life with simple memories.

Think back to your earliest memory. Try and remember your first kiss, perhaps your favourite memory. Remember when you played sports in school, something rude you did, something extroverted.

Now imagine all you remembered, all you believe, was lies. It never happened and you made it all up. How does that make you feel?

I cannot trust my past. I will swear blind I have done things that have never occured. But now it doesn't matter. It's of no use to me.

Because a memory is a memory. It's a fragment of the past, something that was. To say the past doesn't affect me is like saying the future doesn't terrify me. But for all the peace I try to muster, I always find myself at war between these two. As much as I desperately try to hold onto something set in stone, it slips away.

Tomorrow morning I won't remember writing this. I would expect that tomorrow morning, I would not have the mental capability to write these words, and form these sentences. Trying to do so would confuse me, but I know for a fact that I would write in a way that would make more people believe they understood, if I tried to describe myself.

No, I do not understand myself. I can not calculate my actions, my thoughts and the changes between them. I cannot tell you why I cannot love constantly, why I can hate and later forget even how to hate, how I can be so passionately locked in one position, only to find myself in the opposite at the blink of an eye.

I cannot concentrate, design. The things that mean so much to mean turn to nothing, to objects, and I wonder where my passion vanishes to. I hate all that I am, that I cannot love in the way that I want to, that I cannot create the things I desire the most because they pale away. The beauty vanishes and by the time it returns it's too late.

But it won't matter because I'll forget it all. It'll vanish in the blink of an eye. Perhaps I don't let myself concentrate to help me forget. Perhaps I let all I see bounce straight back off.

And I can blame myself because it is unfortunately the truth. I fail now, I fall at what I try to accomplish because I failed so long ago.

When I decided that I wasn't strong enough to face whatever trauma was thrown at me. When I decided that I would change myself, that all the bad things weren't happening to me, but to someone else. And when that time came, I would lock that person in the back of my mind and there he would stay. And I still don't even know what I was so scared of. I don't even know what the trauma is.

Every day I have to look into my parents eyes and trust that they've done nothing to me. I have to love my family without question because they are my family, they look after me, and that is what's done.

I have a secret that terrified me so much, I killed all that I was and pretended I was someone else. I managed to concentrate so much, that I hypnotised myself into forgetting it, and maybe to cover it up with something else.

Every happy memory is a curse. Any time I might have been happy, I may have made up to hide some traumatic experience. I've discovered one already and it's not the greatest of fun to do, I'm afraid.

In the meantime I'm trying my best to keep my identities altogether, to try and merge their personalities so I can perhaps be in control again. Perhaps the root of all mental illness comes down to trying to control the mind, and of course, the fear of losing it.

Unfortunately I take comfort in the knowledge that I'll forget about all this again. That it'll vanish just as always, and it'll resurface again when I feel like working some more. And I'll go on, drunk-happy, trying my best to write stories and fall in love, eventually realising that seemingly deep down, I'm not always the same person.

I want to be one, desperately. I hate this range, this absolute curse. It makes me lonely and it makes me alone. And tomorrow I'll just laugh it off and say it's all nonsense. And I can't help that at all.

How on Earth I've managed to stay alive this long I have no idea. People remark at me and tell me I'll be alright because I always pull myself through. It scares me, because I don't know what they're talking about, I don't know what I've done to have to pull myself through.

But I do have hope, at least some, that I can be set right. That I'll be able to be one mind, to lift the confusion and most of all for me, help me to see my desires, my loves, my ideas and joys. They visit nowhere near often enough and unfortunately it's pushing me closer to suicide, unfortunately quite seriously.

You can tell me to hold on if you don't know what else to write and if it makes you feel better, if you like. I've left you a essay of confusion to trundle through, don't feel bad if you don't know what to say.

I'm just without hope at the moment. It'll come back, it always does, I just hate these inbetween parts.

If you didn't notice my personalities switched during the last few lines. :) The one who started this never hangs around much anymore. When he goes, my hopes and dreams are much easier to see.

I'd love to write a book, it's one of the things I wish I could do. I wish I could be able to write with all that I am.

I want to get an old van, tour Europe and America with my friends. Stop in places, anywhere, take photos and drink on a hilltop, then drive into the night, see the city lights, that sort of thing. And God to fall in love again, soppy as hell, sure, but sometimes you can just look in someone's eyes and know that everything's not that bad after all.

Half an hour ago that meant nothing to me, but now it's the world. My strength changes like the bloody wind. It's a bit of an inconvienence.

I know nobody on here is that close to me, but it's important that if I ever say that there's nothing wrong with me, and that I'm making it all up that you slap me silly. Just er, flame me or something.

I would say I'm glad to get all that out but er, I can't actually remember writing half of it. This must appear so odd.

Um, thanks for reading? I'd write more but this is far too long and it'll be a miracle if you read this far. I just read it myself, and er, sorry. :)

mmm bop's

Wisdom comes from the strangest places - a line in the game Max Payne 2 :

"If you were to go back and change the parts of your life you didn't like, it wouldn't be you who was looking back at it any more. It'd be a different person with different regrets, the person you are now would cease to exist ..."

Well, erm, what can I say. Makes some things that I worry about seem pointless really. I don’t really feel worthy to comment, very thought provoking, so I'll leave it there.

I read it.

And I wouldnt call you insane, I would call you human. Because you have been and always will be.

Well, another post from Grix that I can't even pretend I can relate to in any way.

What can I say? I watch your progress with much the same morbid curiousity that attracts people to a particularly nasty car crash. You've crossed the border where I classified you as 'wildly eccentric' over to the regions of 'mildly insane'. Although truth be told I'd have classified you as mad years ago, without recourse to a full psychological examination ;)

So, I shall continue in my merry way. I could pretend to offer support I can't give to a person it won't help and perhaps feel better about myself, but I won't.

Best of luck then (whatever that would entail), and do keep us informed. I'd hate so see the series cut short :)

I read it and it was the most emotive thing I've read in a long time. It began like fiction but, unless your penmanship is unsurpassed by anyone, ever, then I'm going to say it was real.

I can't relate to a lot of what you said but I can emphaphise with it and the thought alone scares me to death. Not being fully aware of your own actions must be a terrible thing to go though and anyone who pulls it off and lives a semi-ordinary life deserves some sort of medal.

Relating to the 'love thing' - I can relate more to what you said here. I've never been in love, although I've so badly wanted to be. People will say "you're only young, you've got your whole life ahead of you", most people will accept this and humbly trundle along waiting for love to find them. I, however, feel suffocated by the fact I've got, if I am very lucky, 60, maybe 65 years left to live. The fear that I'll never be in love doesn't stop me getting into relationships with girls who I know arent "the one" or in any way right for me. I think more than anything I fear being alone, I think it is a human instinct.

I wish at this point I could provide a quote or offer some personal advice that would make everything seem as if there's hope or definite chance of finding happiness in life. It would really be useful right about now.

I will feign no man in my worries. I have been told I am insane, that the way my mind works, while not necessarily wrong, has made me ill. The reason I listen is because I agree.

If you had the chance, the ability, would you erase parts of your life? Cover it up, change the details, change what you believed happened? To change something that hurt you. To control it, capture it, and put it aside until you're strong enough to cope. Forced amnesia.

There is no life to fool but your own. To argue that the past doesn't matter would define that very thought. To argue anything shows weakness, shows that whatever that -something- is, affects you.

But the past affects us all, it's true. But what if it affected you too much, and pushed you past the edge? Perhaps then blame could be made on those memories, something that may haunt you.

And to survive, as all creatures do, they must battle. Apparently wars are fought for peace, but perhaps they are fought for comfort. For the knowledge that no-one can challenge you, not to unite the world. Perhaps that is my failing, but my failing is not mine to see.

The blissful thought of a simple life with simple memories.

Think back to your earliest memory. Try and remember your first kiss, perhaps your favourite memory. Remember when you played sports in school, something rude you did, something extroverted.

Now imagine all you remembered, all you believe, was lies. It never happened and you made it all up. How does that make you feel?

I cannot trust my past. I will swear blind I have done things that have never occured. But now it doesn't matter. It's of no use to me.

Because a memory is a memory. It's a fragment of the past, something that was. To say the past doesn't affect me is like saying the future doesn't terrify me. But for all the peace I try to muster, I always find myself at war between these two. As much as I desperately try to hold onto something set in stone, it slips away.

Tomorrow morning I won't remember writing this. I would expect that tomorrow morning, I would not have the mental capability to write these words, and form these sentences. Trying to do so would confuse me, but I know for a fact that I would write in a way that would make more people believe they understood, if I tried to describe myself.

No, I do not understand myself. I can not calculate my actions, my thoughts and the changes between them. I cannot tell you why I cannot love constantly, why I can hate and later forget even how to hate, how I can be so passionately locked in one position, only to find myself in the opposite at the blink of an eye.

I cannot concentrate, design. The things that mean so much to mean turn to nothing, to objects, and I wonder where my passion vanishes to. I hate all that I am, that I cannot love in the way that I want to, that I cannot create the things I desire the most because they pale away. The beauty vanishes and by the time it returns it's too late.

But it won't matter because I'll forget it all. It'll vanish in the blink of an eye. Perhaps I don't let myself concentrate to help me forget. Perhaps I let all I see bounce straight back off.

And I can blame myself because it is unfortunately the truth. I fail now, I fall at what I try to accomplish because I failed so long ago.

When I decided that I wasn't strong enough to face whatever trauma was thrown at me. When I decided that I would change myself, that all the bad things weren't happening to me, but to someone else. And when that time came, I would lock that person in the back of my mind and there he would stay. And I still don't even know what I was so scared of. I don't even know what the trauma is.

Every day I have to look into my parents eyes and trust that they've done nothing to me. I have to love my family without question because they are my family, they look after me, and that is what's done.

I have a secret that terrified me so much, I killed all that I was and pretended I was someone else. I managed to concentrate so much, that I hypnotised myself into forgetting it, and maybe to cover it up with something else.

Every happy memory is a curse. Any time I might have been happy, I may have made up to hide some traumatic experience. I've discovered one already and it's not the greatest of fun to do, I'm afraid.

In the meantime I'm trying my best to keep my identities altogether, to try and merge their personalities so I can perhaps be in control again. Perhaps the root of all mental illness comes down to trying to control the mind, and of course, the fear of losing it.

Unfortunately I take comfort in the knowledge that I'll forget about all this again. That it'll vanish just as always, and it'll resurface again when I feel like working some more. And I'll go on, drunk-happy, trying my best to write stories and fall in love, eventually realising that seemingly deep down, I'm not always the same person.

I want to be one, desperately. I hate this range, this absolute curse. It makes me lonely and it makes me alone. And tomorrow I'll just laugh it off and say it's all nonsense. And I can't help that at all.

How on Earth I've managed to stay alive this long I have no idea. People remark at me and tell me I'll be alright because I always pull myself through. It scares me, because I don't know what they're talking about, I don't know what I've done to have to pull myself through.

But I do have hope, at least some, that I can be set right. That I'll be able to be one mind, to lift the confusion and most of all for me, help me to see my desires, my loves, my ideas and joys. They visit nowhere near often enough and unfortunately it's pushing me closer to suicide, unfortunately quite seriously.

You can tell me to hold on if you don't know what else to write and if it makes you feel better, if you like. I've left you a essay of confusion to trundle through, don't feel bad if you don't know what to say.

I'm just without hope at the moment. It'll come back, it always does, I just hate these inbetween parts.

If you didn't notice my personalities switched during the last few lines. :) The one who started this never hangs around much anymore. When he goes, my hopes and dreams are much easier to see.

I'd love to write a book, it's one of the things I wish I could do. I wish I could be able to write with all that I am.

I want to get an old van, tour Europe and America with my friends. Stop in places, anywhere, take photos and drink on a hilltop, then drive into the night, see the city lights, that sort of thing. And God to fall in love again, soppy as hell, sure, but sometimes you can just look in someone's eyes and know that everything's not that bad after all.

Half an hour ago that meant nothing to me, but now it's the world. My strength changes like the bloody wind. It's a bit of an inconvienence.

I know nobody on here is that close to me, but it's important that if I ever say that there's nothing wrong with me, and that I'm making it all up that you slap me silly. Just er, flame me or something.

I would say I'm glad to get all that out but er, I can't actually remember writing half of it. This must appear so odd.

Um, thanks for reading? I'd write more but this is far too long and it'll be a miracle if you read this far. I just read it myself, and er, sorry. :)