The Light and the Dark

This is the last post for 2015.  By the time the dawn shines on January 1, 2016, I will have remained clean for a year now.

These are the fibers that only twitch.  These are the vessels that give me strength.  These are the claws that are ready to rend.  These are the bones that will not break.  This is the skin that keeps me whole.  These are the teeth that keep me fed.

This is the dance that will never end.  This is the song that calls my name.  These are the words that fill my soul.  This is the light that will not fade.  This is the dark that encompasses all.

I stumble.  I stumble.  I stand.

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The Oblong Box Has an Expiration Date

I am fearful of death but enamored with it at the same time.  My lust towards my own eventual demise is heightened, of course, during the throes of Bipolar depression, but I find that I am constantly dipping my toes into the grave just to get a taste of the nonexistence that will eventually be mine.  I do not wish to grow old; I have enough problems accepting the toll that hard living and time have on me as it is.  Every aggravation of a past back injury, every cough brought on by years of cigarette smoking, and every hair that turns gray are reminders that my best years are behind me.  Who would want to see themselves decay?  Why do we champion longevity at all costs?  I don’t want it.

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The Head and the Heart

I’ve been facing another identity crisis as of late.  Two and a half years ago, when confirmation of psychopathy was made by my psychotherapist, I thought that I had finally found insight into my inner workings and core self.  A Cluster B storm, the combination of ASPD, NPD, and BPD seemed to shed light on my callous and uncaring self that required limitless supply from others in order to function.  Fast forward to today and I am not sure that the picture is so clear anymore.  It is well documented that many psychopaths mellow as they grow older and as my hair starts to grey, I can certainly relate.  Two separate mechanisms, the head and the heart, are starting to grow closer together than they ever have, and it makes me deeply uncomfortable.  I am not uncomfortable because of the thought that I am drifting further and further away from the prototypical state of the psychopath (not that I was ever prototypical).  I am uncomfortable because I cannot reconcile the fact that my cognitive self is thawing and is in opposition to the cold person that I thought was my identity and my core.

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A Demon in the Playground of Angels

Sometimes I have to eat crow.  A mess of personality disorders, it seems that whatever lies at the core of this person often has its words drowned out by the maelstrom going on upstairs.  The comorbidity of psychopathy and Borderline Personality Disorder is well documented in the literature and results in a person that can be quite unpleasant to deal with.  Sprinkle on organic illness, manifested within myself by Bipolar Disorder, and I can be a demon in the playground of angels.  My intellectual self may often be drowned by competing disorders, but occasionally she cries out, trying to stop the madness.  I know that in order to continue my own recovery (from Borderline Personality Disorder in particular), I have to own my disorders and – gasp – take responsibility for my actions.  Personality disorders can never be an excuse for bad behavior, no matter how well they model such unappealing traits.

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The World Expects Humans, Not Demons

There was a time in which I was nothing but a caricature.  I was completely dismissive of others, abused and neglected those in my life, and lived far beyond what this body was equipped for.  I learned quickly that success in life was more probabilistic if I were to learn restraint and to be a more prosocial human being.  It may not come naturally, and the benefits may seem far more intangible, but ultimately, this is what needs to happen for me.  A life spent in constant pariah status is not a life worth living.  One day, I hope my efforts will extend to the financial realm as well, given that my impulsivity and need for stimulation still reigns supreme.  All of that said, we all have a choice with our antisocial ways.  We can let realization or diagnosis be a turning point in our lives or we can succumb to tired tropes that once defined us.  I know which I choose.

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