Chemical incarceration in the psychotic social construct of disenchantment.

I knew it wasn’t the mental ward’s job to make me into a functioning member of society. I knew that was no one’s job but my own, what I didn’t know was how I was supposed to accomplish this given the current circumstances and treatment options.

I was still at a point where the weirdness inside me still wanted to be killed or separated. My obsession with the book Fight Club carried on. I hadn’t magically accepted it and didn’t know if it was possible. But I knew one thing, I was going to have to make peace with it, if I ever wanted some semblance of something.

Things were going to be weird. My path was and would always be different, no matter how much I wanted the ground to be traversed. This wasn’t an easy solution as I found myself surrounded by people walking paved paths. And eventually I had to stop looking at theirs and focus on chopping the weeds with my hatchet. I knew if I kept looking over, everything around me would grow and I would be encapsulated in vines, tied down, undone by my own undoing.

The men in white coats give me the pills, I take them for a few weeks, sometimes months, and then I take myself off them. I don’t recommend this. I fill in the gaps with yoga or meditation. This works temporarily, until the cycle comes back into frame and we are back to the purgatory of perpetually starting over.

Years of psychotherapy landed me in several “diagnosis” and pharmaceutical drug experimentation. Medication zombified me but kept me alive, but just keeping me breathing was never enough. I was disenchanted. I had been disenchanted for a very long time, not just in this lifetime but my lineage, my ancestors for generations and generations back. The cost of disenchantment is high, in fact, in-affordable. Depression has taken a chuck of my soul, and in exchange, this seeking has left me with more questions than answers. I don’t think being a natural existentialist helps much, but here we are.

Sure, there is a clinical definition of depression. But so many become cogs in the clinical wheel, they are therapy lifers, perpetually regurgitating trauma. After I was diagnosed with my pathologies, I too felt destined for a life of therapy. I pictured it as central as the sun, and I would revolve around it, slowly over time getting better and better, a little more light shining in.

Alanis Morrissette got me through my twenties better than any happy pill I was prescribed with lines like, “and all I need now is intellectual intercourse, a soul to make the hole much deeper.” But I kept getting told depression, the kind of depression I struggle with, was only fixable with pills because it was a chemical imbalance. My brain was whacked and taking these pills would balance out the whack. And finally, I would arrive. I am still unclear about where I arrive, but the arrival itself seemed more important than the what was waiting on the other side.

Maybe neoliberalism is and of itself, a form of mass cultural trauma. This mass production producing fucked up people who demand to be coddled as victims as they bind and conquer nature in all its forms. I was one of them. I was manifest destiny’s little bitch. But the most disturbing thing, was how very much I loved being entangled in this ideology. This orgasmic american summit even played out in my lucid dreams.

My mother was cruel, and my father was emotionally inept, and right when things were supposed to arrive, they died. They died, and I was left with a choice. I could say fuck all this unfair bullshit (which I did for a long time) or I could turn and face the shadows. But, this choice was not suspended in scientific or clock time, this choice was suspended in Bergson’s concept of duration. This choice was suspended in my self-hood, and duration in self-hood doesn’t give a fuck about linearism. That’s why you can time travel with journals, you can phenomenologically drive the DeLorean into whatever page you want, descending into your own memory. This choice we make is perpetual. We have to make it over and over and over and over, as the parts of ourselves are reintegrated, for as long as we breathe in and out.

There are endless twists and turns to navigate when we decide to heal in a sick society. The wounded healer’s scars are never immune from being ripped back open. We are always in a liminal space, on the brink between two worlds, traveling. The healer’s responsibility is to re-enchant humans, bringing spirit over from one world to reconnect people to the parts of their souls previously lost. No one would ever choose the path of the healer, and that is precisely why they must.

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FlyingMoonBear

Welcome to the other side of waking, to an exploration of life through dreams, anthropology, psychology, and a little anecdotal bullshit.