I want to write a hate post on my hypersensitivity. Here goes: I’ve been quite happy in December. I’ve recovered very well and fully from my depression of three months. The stress I’ve had is quite vanished too. Not having any stress to deal with or any active unpleasantness, I have felt very confident and capable, a slightly changed person. Sometimes I don’t sleep so well, because I’m too glowing or unwilling to let an hour of the present good state go. I am a little stupid too. I’ve felt full of spring and ready to take on new difficulties. Example: I wanted to start a new school, with the first one not fully finished yet and fresh memories of how I hate school intact: driving school. The thought of being able to drive around in summer and discover beautiful natural spots was quite powerfully alluring. I planned to do it in as little time as I possibly could too, to minimize the misery months. I felt quite restless but I forced myself not to do it just yet and rest until March/April. So far all was excellent and future looked bright ahead.
But today I get an anxiety attack. In a mental health state like this, it felt like a right slap in the face. There is me feeling so capable and confident as I haven’t felt in forever, and then my nervous system acts up! Whatever I do, however good things get, my biology will always betray me. And there’s not a thing I could do about it. How can I live like this?
To live, just to live at all and have some kind of an enjoyable life, I need to have an iron will to pull myself through it, to transcend biology. People have pointed out to me lately that most of my role models are males and my taste in films is “male”. Fiddle dee dee to that of course, but it’s quite simple really. Male heroes are my crutches. Jean Valjean, sea captains, gladiators and Wild West fortune hunters. They help me keep up the will and the fight. And they are suitably imperfect. With fictional females, I always feel that they are far to good for me, I could never be this good, or that they are far too degenerate and low in idealism to admire. But mostly I’ve turned towards what I needed more. I needed to balance my hyperfemininity and to become an even better fighter.
But alas, today. It was a trivial anxiety episode that’s mostly faded. I got it because I was trying to buy a concert ticket to Finland. I’ve never been there and I haven’t been to a big concert in a decade, so there’s some fair enough justifications. On the other hand, I’ve been through these emotions months ago. It was a formality and I was feeling so capable. But then my biology ruins the blissful hope that I could actually recover and live an easier, happier life. No, it’s forever going to be a gigantic battle to have any kind of positive life experience. If I failed now, now in this state of equilibrium, what hope is there in less blissful states?
Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate.
The hope is that my speedy recovery is illusory. While I may feel very calm and good, months of depression and a preceding month of high stress would have left their mark. While I may feel all good, nervous system underneath it isn’t yet and overreacts. I tend to not be cautious enough either. And it’s not just this phase, there’s years of it. My last little hope really is: what would happen if I got a full year of calm and joyfulness?
Otherwise though, I’m stuck with my hypersensitivity and the various vulnerabilities that come with it. I’m not even convinced daring and bravery makes one stronger. I feel I just get weaker by forcing myself through things I’m terrified of, but I don’t really see an alternative either if I want to live and do things I want to do. It’s always going to be a feat of will.