In Blackest Night – Existential Crisis

The below thoughts are from about two weeks ago.

Is this real?  It certainly doesn’t feel real.

I cut myself shaving the other morning and I know it should have hurt, but the sting that should have been there was replaced by the dull realisation I just cut myself.  The water hitting my skin felt more like what it feels like when you imagine it as opposed to it actually happening.

My back ache and stomach pain don’t even feel as prominent as usual; as if it’s not me within my own body.

I thought of Descartes‘ cogito ergo sum but then my mind deviated and the notion of uncertainty washed over me.  How do I know I’m actually thinking?  If I’m not really thinking does that mean I don’t really exist?

Something doesn’t feel right and I can’t quite place it.  My own sense of feeling is being brought into question which further fuels the idea that none of this is real.  How do I break free from this seemingly torturous quandary?

Am I even experiencing this torturous thought process or is this mere fantasy?  My mind was once my weapon – a keen problem solving ability with highly active processes that allowed me the opportunity to problem solve without much effort.  Has this weapon diminished or, quite possibly, turned against me?

I eat and drink but I’m not sure if this is through the autonomous process of survival or because it seems like something one should do.  I feel no nourishment nor quenched thirst – is this because the fabric, my fabric, of reality is somewhat stretched or non-existent in the first place?

Are these thoughts and musings even my own?  I’m loathe to use the word feel as that is the very thing I seem to undefine but I feel as though my mind has no physical attachment to what I once believed was the physical embodiment of me.

How do I know that I even means me?  You can’t define something using the same noun or pronoun as to what you are defining so by saying “I am me” makes no sense at all.
So if I am not me then who am I?  What am I?  How do I find my sense of self when I cannot seem to trust any of my senses and because in order to feel I must have a sense of self in the first place?

The aforementioned thoughts plagued me for days and, I wrote it all bar the first paragraph, this paragraph and what follows across the days these notions tormented me.  A lot of the thoughts have visited me before but this latest flirtation was very poignant.  I began to question everything.

My job requires me to talk to people and to see people every day.  I hate people.  I hate being around others and I hate having to feign interest in order to do my job.  My condition(s) affect me on a multitude of levels that no one seems to get.  “You don’t sound upbeat /energetic”.  Hello!  That’s what I struggle with on a daily basis.  No one, unless they suffer similar symptoms to myself, realises exactly how exhausting this facade is.  The mental and physical strain it has on me is huge.

Every day, it feels as though the traits of my condition(s) are used as weapons against me.  Perhaps it’s some twisted sense of superiority or, more likely, the blissful ignorance of others.  I’m sorry (genuinely, I am) that you don’t feel the vibrant energy or enthusiasm you want from me – but, let’s be fair, I don’t really give a fuck if you feel/see/sense it – it’s me and the ones I care for that should feel/see/sense it.  Telling me how non-upbeat and energetic I am is like telling me it gets dark at night – I fucking know and there’s not a single thing I can do about it but to let it run its course.

On the one hand I question the very reality of what I see, touch and hear before me.  On the other, I have the numerous Captain Obvious’ (Or should that be Oblivious’?) pointing things out as if they’re the pioneers of those observations.  Do me a favour, fuck off.

 amazon_ad_tag =”theforgottenr-21″; amazon_ad_width =”600″; amazon_ad_height =”520″; http://ir-uk.amazon-adsystem.com/s/ads.js