Two concepts right now are something like I am nobody and nobody can be anybody. Ram Dass lovingly states we’re all God in Drag and Watts giggles God is a Joker. That’s a gross oversimplification, but not really.
The entire concept of me – isn’t really me. As a matter of fact, I’d go so far as to say – in writing, speaking, journaling, whatever – there is a difference between “I” and “me”. And beyond the I’s and me’s is something else. Watts says “when you are silent, it speaks and when you speak, it is silent”.
The notion of silence is laughable because it’s a 3ring circus inside. The notion of space, however, feels more realistic. If I have a 3 ring circus in a 2-person tent, it’s insane. If I have a 3 ring circus in the corner of an open desert, it’s different altogether. I’d say that’s actually the gift of meditation. It teaches you that you are not the thought, not the thinker, not even the observer. It teaches you that there is a space that is beyond words and everything else. The more you connect with it, the easier it is to go there. I started really meditating about 7 years ago now. I believed my first psychotic break was caused by meditation and I’d note that the second came not too long after I re-committed and began practicing in earnest. I’m writing again after a lot of self hate and meditation, ya get the drift. Old news anymore. I’ve been doing this loop for so long, it is so bo-or-or-ing
Psychosis is not fun, but it’s certainly interesting. I make no recommendations to try it for yourself, but if you resonate with me… Sorry, old chap. It’s generally why I keep going here, since I haven’t let myself delete it since the first time I lost my shit. If for no other reason than to look back and watch me do the same thing over and over, each time thinking I’m ever the pioneer. Yes, indeed, a pioneer of huffing my own farts who occasionally gets obsessed with the notion of being god until she goes certifiable. “‘Twas the fumes” she laments. “They went straight to my head!”
Nothing really gets you out of the notion of yourself quite like losing your mind. It’s a weird gift, really. You lose so much attachment to yourself because you experience days/weeks/months/years where the concept of yourself becomes sort of an open door. I could swear I’ve watched the “Agent Smith” effect happen where anything and anyone can pass on through. I can’t explain it, and what does it matter? Call me bipolar, call me schizoaffective, call me schizophrenic. I don’t care, psychology is a raft that only can get me so far. Even if the mental hospital is where I remembered to meditate in the first place.
Moreover, at least in my corner of the desert: to cling to myself is like dry humping barbed wire. To stick with my analogy, the only way I can deal with the (now) 469 ring circus in my head, I have had to reaaaaallly grow that corner of the desert. Which kind of requires a lot of un-tethering. Like a great hot air balloon of “fuck this shit” rising far, far above the horizon.
Because in all of this, I finally realized I don’t have to do anything about all the noise. I don’t have to argue with myself, I just …can let everybody state their case as I need, and let it go. Or I can do nothing. I can question it, because automatically anything that’s not “how I’d talk to my best friend” is utterly illogical and not real. It falls away or gives me perspectives I didn’t have under scrutiny. Or I can do something. It just doesn’t matter. A new feeling of “I don’t know, and I don’t care” becomes an easy answer to everything.
The most precious gift of a psychotic break is that you know, so deeply and personally, trusting the brain is a foolhardy mission.
House of Gold and Bones, Stone Sour: https://open.spotify.com/track/3GUDcoI8YXplwIjMcmyT0F?si=aTUh0QXHT6eYirb-YQF4EQ
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