A Complicated Reality for a Simple Condition

When I mucked up my heart with drug use, the complications dictated that I take heart medicine for the rest of my days.  When my rampant jams due to a then-unnamed mental disorder threatened my life and my freedom, I turned to therapy for the long haul.  My life is complicated.  For that, I am grateful.  If I was a simpler creature without the (slight) impulse control that I possess, my life could be much different – if I were still alive to this point.  I am not a caricature.  I refuse to embrace the caricatures that so many associate with psychopathy and ASPD.  I realize that a non-trivial number are, however, and they are truly lost.  Not I.

I suppose that I have internal consistency with those that I meet.  Each person has a facet of me tailored to them, even if the external consistency – that is, consistency between individuals – is rare.  Some know me as a callous and hardened individual.  Some know me as a concerned and cautious individual.  Some know me as both.  Many know me as neither.  None of these personas are necessarily false, nor are they necessarily true.  I am amorphous and without reflection.

I don’t know where life will take me.  I’m frustrated with the perception that I’m spinning my wheels, but when I cannot define a consistent sense of self, the odds are against me.  I don’t know that I’m doomed to the tired stereotypical behavior that I once engaged in.  I don’t know that I’m not.  I don’t know if I’ll feel possession of another.  I don’t know that I won’t.  Will my impulsivity ruin me or will I find total restraint?  Complications will always remain even if the root cause has been treated.  I don’t want to be the stereotypically disordered even if that is where I come from.

My Life is not Your Pornography
Should Mental Illness be Blamed for Tragedy?

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