  Another slow mail day, save from one I was hoping to receive eventually. A response from Crumpet to my email explaining what happened the other night. Best to show your cards when the friendship is worth the effort. Interpersonal relationships are still a bit uncertain for me. Im withdrawn, guarded always mulling over my tendency to shut the door and the shades and shut down. Always retreating into thoughts put in my head by my last PhD about my borderline personality tendencies.
The behavior matches up. But do things like that always need a name, a label to circumscribe something much to complex to call a complex? I just got up from a good three hours of reading. Its for school, a preemptive attack on the load that will fall on me when the new semester begins on the 20th. Its for school, yet it seems such a selfish endeavor. Its about me.
or rather, parts are. Its in my language, speaks to my experiences. Although Im happy to say I dont have voices in my head like Virginia Woolf (since I stopped using crystal, that is), the description of her creative process mirrors my own. The validation is so satisfying. Inspiring. Yet frightening.
Again, the pairing of my inner world with the label of mentally ill is troubling to think about. I think of the mentally ill as tragic, their lives robbed from them. Theres subversion of humanity involved. The madness and the suicide rates and the difficulty in participating in the world these things burrow into my brain, thoughts like a chorus of doubt that unsettles my already unbalanced inner world. Am I this? Am I that?
Will the madness cause me the same grim ending to life like the one played out by Woolf? How much /does/ my uncles suicide play into my own propensities, my own wiring? On the other hand, the madness is seductive. Part of me wishes to court it, invite it in, lose myself in the ebb and flow like a bubble in the surf. The intensity is alluring, powerful. Being really alive, distilled.
Theres romance to the archetype of the troubled artist. Just as TB used to be romanticized in years passed, the symptoms of madness are exalted in contemporary culture. Ive bought into it. I fancy myself an artist. ive been diagnosed. What exactly does that mean, and how do I fit this information into my life?
Time will tell. But without clear observations, the path is fruitless. I need to watch closely, be careful to take care of myself along the way. Its easy to loose control. Much harder to maintain it. No ones reading my crap anymore.
My hits were down 50% last month. Few if any comments on the parallel universe sight. Which is ok, leaving me without a preconception of the audience Im writing to. Autonomy is freeing. I think Ill go back to the reading. I want to finish it by tomorrow morning. 
