I'm not identifying myself with labels/diagnoses all the time, do I? Yes, I'm obsessed with labels, I know that. I'm fascinated, interested, consolated and feel safe in being able to put myself into a label. Everytime I find a new one that I really think describes me I'm extatic. A diagnose, music interest, clothing style, religion, political view, title, condition, personality type or just a generalized interest. But do I really identify with all these labels? They're too many and change all the time, I couldn't possibly see them as of something that makes me me. I wear them as clothes, or make up. Sometimes I exagurate and hide behind them, but mostly they're just there to keep me warm and safe.
They're a part of my body, my brain, but you can't diagnose my soul. It is of pure chaos, unchangeable in constant change and its energies can't be mastered, measured or labelled. The person I am is my soul. I am not my borderline, transsexualism, asperger, interests, bisexuality, sociopathy, depressions, anxiety or phobias. That is what I became when I became human, and what I attracted along the way from there. My soul doesn't go very well into this body or the human society. I'm well aware of that most humans don't go very well into their own bodies and this society either, and I'm not saying I "win the contest of who's got the most difficult life" either. That's just stupid, and I've never thought that way. Most of you may know that, but I just want to be clear.
Almost all of my weirdnesses can be put in a diagnosis of sorts, but it's not going so well. I mean, I seem to attract mental disorders like a fly trap and the more of them I get, the less order there is in my head. What goes where and which is which? When was this and how was that? I'm aching for answers and solutions, thinking I will find them in psychiatry, but one day I will find out that I've been looking in the wrong place.
Half the time I don't even know what the hell I'm looking for when I go over a memory from a really long time ago; calculating, analysing and rip it to unrecognisable pieces over and over until I realise I've been ranting it for five hours. And I ask myself, what's the point? But I do know this is leading me somewhere. I'm not just rocking a chair, I'm understanding my memories, accepting them and appreciating them. I have an exceptional long term memory starting from the summer 1991 up until present time. I've basically moved on from the rape I endured six years ago. Just because I've ranted all my shit over and over since the day they happened. I don't know if it's common or whatever, to actually achieve something from ones rantings, that it's not at all pointless.
It's cheaper than therapy and if I turn the lights off it's almost like watching a movie or reading a book. That never ends. Sometimes I do go crazy cause I can't turn it off. I have to try and focus on other stuff while this is still going on. I don't know, but it's like trying to read while someone is commenting every word in the paper over your shoulder and someone else is talking about something else right next to you. Sometimes there's even a third layer of thoughts, so then you can imagine a third person mumbling in the next room. While you're trying to read. No one is gonna shut up no matter what you do, except maybe the third guy in the next room. Over thinking, yeah... you could say that. If my thoughts were passengers on a train, I'd be the fucking railway.
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