Not breaking down, breaking out

I’ve realized the transformation that I required of myself at what I considered the beginning of the end of my life has taken full effect. I remember deciding that a change was necessary and setting a date, but I don’t recall actively switching things up. It entered my mind that perhaps after so many such occasions where I decided who/what I was (sometimes out of preference, sometimes necessity), it has become almost automated. At first, this idea gave me a slight swelling of pride. I always did enjoy the fact that I chose who I was since I was little and in my typical cynical elitist nature of thought, was mostly disgusted with those too weak to do likewise. I learned, as I aged, to appreaciate people for their weaknesses too (to a certain extent, of course). However, my pride was quickly replaced with that new feeling that started popping up ever since I had an unpleasant dealing with literally not feeling any emotions for a period of time (which was years ago). Maybe it was caused by overworking chemical productions. I don’t know much about that, but I know what I felt, or rather, didn’t feel. A similar concern was felt here, because if major changes were made subconsciously, then I didn’t actually have control.

I decided after a bit of thought that this was not the case, and that the change merely required little action, but moreso a certain extra amount of giving up. The decision I made was this: that it was no longer in my best interest to feel a value for my time or experience. This would effectively, for lack of a better description, “break my will.” This, in turn would make it easier to do the things I needed to do to get the fuck out of living where I am. I’m not sure why that’s such a high priority, I doubt my constant hate will ebb elsewhere, but it sounds good for now.

I notice that I don’t even think about work assigned to me, or take the time to think to complain. It’s just something to do. This gives a false appearance of “good work ethic,” which couldn’t be further from the truth.

I think I must be, by worldly standards, a very selfish person. This doesn’t bother me, I feel justified in my actions, and certainly don’t have a need to feel good or moral in any way. Honorable is the closest I get. Honestly, I think things would work much smoother if everyone was this way. It sounds bad, but it’s more complex than I care to go into here and now.

At the suggestion of one of my friends, I began meditating to try and give myself brief breaks from the hateful restlessness that hangs around like a ball and chain all the time. It mostly involves focusing your mind and observing its thought. I had to sift through some new age bullshit to get to anything useful, but it has helped, somewhat. Being able to relax and sleep has been a welcome relief from many nights of frustrating sleeplessness. I see and understand, though, that it is only masking the symptom and certainly not addressing the main problem (and I’m still not entirely sure of what exactly that problem is). I’ve been led to believe, as I may have mentioned before, that there is something inherently wrong with me. There’s no reason why that couldn’t be possible.

I wouldn’t say I’m doing better, but I’m still getting along, even though the intensity has continued to increase. I would describe the rate of increase as steady (not exponential, thankfully), but I’m not really sure something such as that can be quantitized in order to make such an observation.

Often I feel as I’d imagine a pilot would feel if he had zero visibilty and malfunctioning equipment.