/lit/ - Literature

I think I am a crazy person with no understanding of actual emotional faculty but through the inconsistent cycles of hyperarousal I witness in myself from time to time. This occurred recently and I lost sleep. I revisit the stimulus to understand its power is illusory and it is not preferred, and return to the idea that all is interpretation, that I am merely practicing an unproductive narrative. I am unaware of the exact external influence that generates such hyperarousal, whether that be momentary feelings of unwarranted but deep inferiority, or an inability to deal with even brief bouts of failure. And I am posting on a forum of mostly well-read but unsympathetic individuals for insight. I believe psychotherapy is in essence an unqualified individual paid for their impersonal opinions. I believe resilience and detachments are the proper course. I do not know what to do when my interpretations disrupt the life I am attempting to build, creating withdrawal and apathy. Is it force? Is it a granularity I will never see? I doubt I will ever find out. I think I am crazy for using a silly outdated heuristic at my age. Is this preventable? I think something truly horrible needs to happen for me to see the light, like getting into a horrific car accident.

I find myself in the void realm of intuitive childhood confusion again. I left my mask at the door and allowed whatever my child wished to commence, for his super-indulgence to replace my mind. And now it rings hollow. I have no fetish, I have no consistent need, I simply attempt to understand obsessive thought through continuous repetition of self-immolating behaviors. I find myself again turning toward the same realization, that externals need not rule one's life, that one is not bound by the past or that one must repeat. I have wasted another week on defectiveness coping behaviors... I am an amputee at thirteen, a craven shell at thirty. I have accepted time and time again that I must remain unwavering in my judgment, yet another cycle has come and gone, and I am left in the same state from which it began.
The object of obsession is nothing more than negative emotion which demands some prioritized action on my part; it is nothing more than some task undone which has been formed through external experience, then converted symbolically and dopaminergically into illusory emotional reasoning. Christ, I want to stop.