I suppose the way I am seeing this is an example of the 'all-or-nothing', 'black and white' thinking that my counsellor keeps banging on about. I see the need to change myself, so immediately amplify it, take it to the max, and have the urge to destroy those parts of my life that identified, defined me, and the things I use as crutches. Particularly music. I find it to be such a powerful art, and so directly emotional, and music has helped me through so much. I won't share my musical taste in detail, suffice it to say that I listen to and try to play music of an - ahem- abrasive nature, and find it expresses what's going on inside me, and can become a cleansing. Then again, an (ex-) friend told me '...no wonder you're depressed, with that horrible music you listen to...'. With that kind of insight, no wonder he's an ex-friend. But, I ask myself, should I suppress my-self to such an extent that I rely on the creations of others, people I don't know, people sometimes 20, 25 years younger than me, to express and release my churning negative anger-energies.
Maybe just chuck it all out, and have the courage to meet myself with no smokescreens. That sounds great, but is it that ole black demon self-hatred fooling me, saying '...you're worthless, Pete, you're degenerate, your taste is awful, you've built your empty life on nothings, destroy it all, you don't deserve pleasure or relaxation or entertainment or stimulation, you're a lazy slug, why can't you DO something, DO something, DO something useful?....'
I ramble, I digress, I'm scattered this morning, I'm frustrated with how poorly I express myself. I'm a bit confused - I've had one doctor increase my meds a few weeks ago, and another reduce them again, I'm signed up for some group counselling sessions but don't know when they start and don't know if I'll be able to get the time off work to attend anyway. I have times when I feel like I'm walking on air, blossoming forth like the proverbial psychedelic butterfly, but it only takes a small setback or irritation to plunge me into a black mood for hours and send me skulking to my bed, gazing from my covers at the same piece of empty space.
So, maybe when I'm this up and down, this knife-edgy, I shouldn't do anything rash, shouldn't expunge my identity.
Wow. What a fractured and inarticulate post. Tiresome Pete at it again. But still in here and fighting at least.