Sunday, November 29, 2015
Thursday, November 12, 2015
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
[This post was never finished and from some time ago. After rereading it so many times, I know it serves the purpose it was intended to.]
i am beginning to understand something about myself. something that is in my blood. something that was passed down to me through stories, genes and social conditioning in general. It was the reason i played a lot of competitively physical sports growing up. It was the reason i began, an continue to, have an unhealthy relationship with substances. It has defined my dysphoria with masculinity. It is still a part of me. It is something that I will never quite get rid of, but hopefully I can learn to live with it better.
Imagine the classic scene of the person strapped down to a chair in some evil lair. Their eye's clamped open forcing them to see what it in front of them, a wall of screens. Images flicker between split second static transitions. short videos and images reflect of the pupils of the person, as they can't help but bear witness to this barbarism.
I close my eyes sometimes, and see those screens, flashing violence and pain. Some days, I can turn this down until I go the whole day without seeing it. Other days are not so nice. The static fills my brain until the only thing left are the images, the thoughts, the feelings. Violent Painful Rage. It lives in my heart and occupies a space in my thoughts that I have tried, and failed, to quiet.
I first tried to indulge these instincts with sports, and with fighting. As a child me and my brother fought a lot. I played soccer all year round for 6 years, and another 5 years of soccer alternated with tennis, then lacrosse. When I was able to, I played football and wrestled, the most violent sports I could find. I would lose myself in moments that felt like life or death. Regularly going up against people a foot taller than me, and much heavier. The euphoria of the fight still haunts me, I know no bliss more pure, more intense, than reversing a headlock in the 5th minute of a match against someone 3 years older and 40 pounds heavier than you. Just writing this, my palms are sweating and my heart is beginning to beat faster.
ultimately, this didn't actually help satiate my urges. Sure, during the seasons I was playing the sports I was usually too tired to feel angry, or do much of anything else to be honest. During the off seasons, or during my dreams, or in painful moments, those images still came to me. Even stronger now that they tasted the sweet nectar of rage. These moments were especially profound when I remembered back on the events my freshman year of high school. Where I was publicly humiliated for getting caught smoking weed. That's a story for another time, but it certainly didn't help me feel like the community I lived in wanted me there.
I dropped sports, suddenly and without much remorse. Not only was it not good for my mental health individually, but the culture of the teams I was on were pretty disgusting. I never paid it much mind, as I never was close to the kids on the teams who were loud, well-liked, and horrible human beings.
Next I tried to silence these instincts with drugs. First weed, then alcohol, then cigarettes, then harder stuff. They would work, but never quite like I wanted.
[To be continued when something new works]