Dissociation

Today I watched Momento. What a fascinating movie. Of course, I couldn't help but feel that his condition was familiar.

I often wander around without a thought in my head.

I had some lamb curry in a pita pocket. It was delicious. I went down to the lobby and had a nap and pondered 3d math a bit. I drew a girl who was very thin but was wearing an interesting dress. It was difficult and I thought I would like to give her a sandwich.

I did a bit of programming for work and a bit of GL programming. The work they have planned for this sprint, unlike the last one, is not hard at all. I think I deserve a bit of time off, but I can't get it, so I just fucked around instead. And fucking around doing interesting programming is far and away preferable to fucking around doing something useless.

On Monday I stayed at work until 9:00 and then I got caught up in a BART computer problem.

Maybe one of the more terrible things about my childhood, at least with respect to actually getting help, was that it wasn't terrible in the way people normally think of. Isn't it bizarre that a human brain can produce the staggering wonders we see around us every day, but we think, somehow, that when that same brain has a problem, we think it's somehow not real? That we privilege physical pain over mental pain, when, in fact, all pain is mental?

So, when I tell people about how I feel, they respond with things like:

"You don't know what pain is."

"You should volunteer somewhere and see people who have it really bad."

"Your parents stayed together."

"You're not depressed. Just look at how much money you make/how well you do in school/etc."

"Your problem is that you haven't found God yet."

Which is exactly like the kind of shit that my mother used to say, in addition to:

"You must not love me enough."

"We give you everything."

One that made me laugh the other day was the one about appreciating people who are worse off. It's equivalent to a bully saying, "Sure, I beat you up, but you should see what other bullies do." It's not really comforting to tell someone how lucky they are to only suffer the amount of abuse you give them.

The problem, in essence, is that if I had been abused worse, or in a more privileged fashion, it would have been easier to escape. As it was, however, I just had to suffer, living with a mad torturer whom everyone told me loved me more than anything in the world and who I was lucky to have.

Yeah, right.