I know all about commitment. I commit to hiding and exaggerating my flaws, trying to make others happy and comfortable at the expense of my own happiness and comfort, supporting other people’s dreams at the expense of my own dreams, and criticizing myself and others at every turn. I commit to what I think I should be rather than committing to meeting myself where I am. I commit to seeing myself through other people’s eyes, gauging my self-worth based on their acceptance rather than witnessing my unique inner beauty and strength. I commit to being nice rather than being real. I commit to being right rather than being vulnerable. When other people in my life don’t behave in the way that I think they should I sulk and mope or worse, I get even. I justify my emotional outbursts or bad behavior based on the actions of others and in so doing; I often act in the same manner as the person who set me off in the first place. When I give others the power to push my emotional buttons, I become their slave often without realizing it. The problem is I am the one who suffers.
The feelings and thoughts, the interior monolog I have running through my brain. Some of the things I silently tell myself, otherwise: I appreciate people who are patient with me while I am sometimes distant, trying to figure myself out on an ongoing basis. I sit here, at my cluttered desk, unshaven, and disheveled. Crowded thoughts race through my head, in this wild jungle; my brain, the eye of a tornado, and I think part of it, part of what I am thinking, or trying to think, to believe, comes down to knowing for myself, perhaps, that I may be a real person. A good man hides somewhere inside this cage of my body. This part of me, or in some cases, us, often hides in the depths of all uncertainties, fears, and indecent behavior, both artistically and personally. I am not perfect by any means, I treat many people including my hundreds of readers, to whom I [repeated word: I ... I ... I...] I am a fully-fledged narcissist lacking self-esteem or self-worth. But I should show appreciation, but instead, I provoke them. I provoke you. I know that my intentions are favorable. My heart and my soul, so to speak, are pure, and I love hard, painfully and intensely with everything I've got, though it often does not show. It is because of these things that I know somewhere way deep down inside that I am worth it, as sad, lonely, desperate, sordid and colorless and as pathetic as my life has become. I have always held love in my heart, and that will never change no matter how inappropriate or inadequate or wrongly I express love, gratitude, appreciation in experiencing a valuable life, I don’t know the value of things. I just can’t grasp value. I don’t know. It is just really hard for me to find much joy or peace of mind or any elation in my life, though I am aware there are apparently many things of which to be joyful. I just can't see it, find it, or know it as my severely mentally ill, volatile mind deteriorates. Blah, blah, blah. Fuck it; none of this makes any sense whatsoever. That’s all for now.
— Jonathan Harnisch
I am a troubled man with feelings. I am not good, but I know how to be good. I burn bridges and build better ones. I can’t make my mind up because my mental landscape is full of wondrous things! I can love, and I am learning to be in love with myself. I don't know how to trust, but I trust I am alive. I make more mistakes than I should so I am continually learning. I am always sorry, and I always forgive myself. I never change and yet I feel changes. I am afraid of letting anyone else in my life too close and yet I find I'm not running away because I am curious. The door to my life is open because I am genuine and authentic and real. People will come and go, and I am blessed that I have known them. The door is too big for it to be blocked by anything that wants to flow free, and the current of life that goes through it pulls with it all its uncertainty.
-- Jonathan Harnisch
Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you may never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. And even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are only here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but it doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope that something good will come along. Something to make you feel connected, something to make you feel whole, something to make you feel loved. And the truth is I feel so angry, and the truth is I feel so fucking sad, and the truth is I've felt so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long I've been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.
-- Charlie Kaufman
I know my posts no longer inspire but have been fueled with negativity. The spectrum of mental and physical health conditions I have been presented with have a phase or phases where progression takes place. As more of my life experiences reveal themselves in that more and more of my life is and has been simply one hallucination after another, more delusional that I could have ever imagined. It is just hard and extremely complicated. Every synapse in my brain misfires, every single thought much less behavior, action, etc. And I want to grab schizophrenia, or my mind, by the neck and strangle it to death but I cannot. I understand in moments of some clarity like now I'd like to apologize. I know I should not have to apologize for the symptoms of my illness, but you should all know I do feel sorry. Having less and less insight into the complexities of schizophrenia makes the decline in cognitive function, losing my mind, more comfortable than it might seem, at times. But overall I just want it to stop. To end. For the schizophrenia to die. This illness is a real beast. The progression in my case scientifically as told by my medical team and some research I have done on my own doesn't have much hope. In other words, it is likely to get worse and worse until complete oblivion. Part of me just wants to get to that state now and get it over with to live in a dream rather a nightmare. Never mind. That is all on this post. Back to la la land. Fuck. I'm sorry. Facebook seems to be a good outlet, the social network stuff. Not knowing what is real and what is not, though as my therapist tries unsuccessfully to remind me, it's more complicated than that, it gives me little care. I try to find a basis as to WHY. WHY am I like this? WHY do I feel this way? It might be the wrong question for me to be asking over and over again. I mean, everything I have ever written, the 13 or so 1,200 to 2,800-page novels on Amazon, the 36 unpublished "Alibis," this penetrating need to explain myself has been all, on which I focus. I can't control this thing. Blah. Blah. Blah. Enough. Thank you.
Schizophrenia is a chronic and severe mental disorder that affects how a person thinks, feels, and behaves. People with schizophrenia may seem like they have lost touch with reality. Although schizophrenia is not as common as other mental disorders, the symptoms can be very disabling.
Fuck schizophrenia, severe mental illness and disability and more than anything fuck life. There is no silver lining to my life. It is not just debilitating. It is more complicated than that. I am sorry I fucked up again. Every single day I lose more and more of my mind as it deteriorates. I am treatment resistant. I am a burden, and I hate myself for being schizophrenia. I am this bitch of a disease, which is not a mental illness. Schizophrenia is a physical illness because it is a brain disease. I fucking hate it more than anything. My whole world becomes a delusional nightmare.
-- Jonathan Harnisch
EARLY MORNING WRITING SESSION | THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 2016: Disability abuse occurs when those with disabilities are abused physically, financially, verbally or mentally due to the person having a disability. As many disabilities are not visible (for example, asthma, learning disabilities) some abusers cannot rationalize the non-physical disability with a need for understanding, support, and so on. Scattered Addition To This Post [Unedited]: Carol M. commented publically below. I feel a response garners an opportune time and as a topic to run with suiting well as my morning writing session, which I have done most days if not every day for 25 some odd years, a great deal of which keeps me going, alive, and thriving the best I am able. I seldom if ever get writer's block but I'd like to reply though tossing and turning in various random directions but within this now-edited addition to the original post regarding the definition of disability abuse. It has taken me over an hour to write and without my editor, and I would endeavor to think my reply might suit to attach to this post. I believe disability abuse runs rampant in al parts of the world. It is a shame, and almost inevitable. In advance, a note that one of my eyes has become blind recently and tardive dyskinesia in my fingers leave me little ability to type or think straight. I apologize for typos. I have recently been copying and pasting archived posts, old and new (book reviews, etc.,) or just keeping my posts short and sweet, as if on Twitter … But, same here. Disability abuse seems impossible to prove. Having schizophrenia and, therefore, delusional thoughts make it impossible for anybody, from doctors, family, to lawyers (those who matter most) to believe our truths. Having schizophrenia, bipolar disorder (schizoaffective), borderline personality disorder, and PTSD primarily makes me unreliable, in many ways, or, at least, seem to. Nobody believes our truths. I detail this in some of my literature but nonetheless, that is the bottom line. I can't say much more due to this being a public page but I believe we are, or rather I'll speak for myself, that I am alone in this disability abuse, a victim of it, by many, if not most in my life here in "real" life. It becomes a never-ending hell if you will. Thank you for writing in recently Carol. To all of you who do so for that matter. I learn so much from you. I see a mirror or reflection of myself, sometimes with or without mental illness necessarily being involved. Universally, I believe we sail the same ship. Mental illness brings our human vulnerabilities, on another level. I'm compelled to mention this month's best-selling book by a landslide, Lover in the Nobody, the psycho-sexual thriller, and though not on Amazon, but in the literary magazines, the standalone novel has been reviewed again, by far my most well-written and praised work or the written word. It was the only novel I had outlined. The rest of the literature I write. I do not usually define the outer edges of my writing prior, as one reviewer of The Brutal Truth noted on February 10th, 2016, that all thoughts remain in print, therefore in his words "dazzling," unique, etc. Wishing more and more of you might read what I write professionally. It is quite difficult to sell the heavy duty literature I tend to write, often challenging reading, confusing and explicitly sexual, but not to promote my writing as much all of which one can be find by a simple Google search, or on http://www.Alibiography.com. After all, as I bring up now and then this page is by its description and intention an author site. It has just turned into something greater, better. At the same time, of course, I'd like to sell my books though it becomes uncomfortable at times to promote my work. One last note on this flight of idea and stream of thought part that I wish I could post directly from y books further but one of my primary occupations and source of income is as an author and, of course, I would like to sell my work, have it read, and gain exposure. I believe that I am reasonable. I can excerpt parts here and there but cannot publish what is otherwise already online as to my contracts for the 13 novels I have written since 2014 averaging 1,200 pages each, 2,500 pages in manuscript format. And Carol, or any of you, had you written, or do any of you, correctly that you, too, if I recall struggle with schizophrenia? Forgive me if I am mistaken or if you wish your diagnosis remain private. Please forgive me as I cannot write back or respond to everybody here on this page. Many messages come through each day. I would like to talk, or chat with so many of you, for the most part, although I not at liberty to keep a thought together much less communicate effectively, especially during the difficult times I endure lately, mainly interpersonally. I appreciate everyone's comments and communication. I tend not to be much of a people person, and might I add, I would think my writing reads clearer than my speech, pressured and flighty and remains difficult for me to chat candidly back and forth, I laugh, but without an editor. In other words, it is incredibly difficult for me to put my thoughts together. Thank you once again. My psychiatrist is considering once again hospitalizing me. I have got to admit it has been hell here where I live. But I move ahead the best I can as usual. It can become so severe, especially with a rather unattractive prognosis, meaning the symptoms of my schizophrenia have become treatment resistant, and I am not a candidate for Clozaril. This illness or a combination of them has been incredibly difficult as time goes on, and I understand it not easy for anybody involved even those who I feel abuse me. Mental illness, though I may laugh at it sometimes to cope, it does remain especially interpersonally extremely challenging, for all involved. I do, I feel so alone, not to seek pity or that I should "look to God, or Jesus," as so many write me, it is just a beast. I write a bit of a long session be it that it reads while written in haste, frustration, and agitation, for I have to get to work (online, overseas) my psychiatrist is under the overall impression and belief that my entire life is a delusion, one hallucination after another. Thus, the 800+ page Alibiography I wrote in 2014. I'd better leave it at that. But I had not yet written out my morning writing session yet, so this may suffice as such. Somebody commented that we "should all talk to one another to not feel so alone." I agree, perhaps it just gets confusing since I suppose with schizophrenia, every synapse in the brain misfires, and stress, lack of sleep, and so forth exacerbate everything. My thesis in this though perhaps not all too clear is that as my therapist and I try twice a week, with little result but some, interpersonal relationships become beyond chaotic. I treat others badly. I have rage attacks. It makes me violent. I have never hurt any person or animal, etc., in my life. My personal items primarily electronics I own (I can laugh at this currently because I do not believe this right now) ... I occasionally become under the impression that "demons" infest my cell phone and computers, etc., ugh, my apologies for writing this out certainly scattered the early morning, but at least, I could put some word on paper. I wish I had the capacity to write more essays on this page, but my illness prevents me. A scattered thought again, I know, but again schizophrenia to me equals chaos without much opportunity for help. We all have just to do our best and conform to conventional reality and people's "reasonable" beliefs, and roll with the reality to which we or I don not even subscribe. That is all for now. I likely need a bit of a break, and rest, also, sleep. My apologies for my diatribe, but it sure felt good to get out, as I have so many thought sin my head competing with one another causing an overload. So I pause, take a break, and begin again. Big day for me, later on, with a tremendous amount of stressful interactions I am trying to avoid, as I have liked myself in my office for a week now, with doors locked and curtains closed paranoia? Sure, a safety mechanism. Ugh. Does any of this resonate? I feel so off my game. I have got to vent for a second: Just for right now, I hate my life. Right now, I maintain zero appreciation for it. Postscript: We are not alone. I can see that now, for some odd reason! Hope you enjoy the day!
-- Jonathan Harnisch
I feel guilt and shame, sick and tired of having to apologize to those in my personal life for having the symptoms of schizophrenia. My symptoms of losing cognition and increased paranoia are drastically exacerbating each and every day. Everyone in my life is losing me to this disease. I just don't care about a thing, anymore, and I have in fact lost all hope as I have said. I am just surviving, that is all. I have lost most of my interests and don’t do much anymore, just lying down to nap or sleep it off, only to awaken with the reminder that I still have schizophrenia. I’ve learned I am alone however other people share similar experiences and feelings; this helps when I feel completely isolated and like a failure. I’ve learned that depression lies. I’ve learned that when I’m not affected by my fucked-up brain chemistry, I can see that my brain is not to be trusted. I write to myself when I am having one of my better days. It is a reminder that I’ll be okay again soon. I am aware of the importance of appreciating the good and the joy when it comes. I let myself be sad when I need to be. I often create a mental boundary around my body when I feel overwhelmed by other people. I call the suicide hotline when things become too challenging. I reach out on the Internet because I can find friends to talk to or to inspire me who understand when I’m too afraid to pick up a phone. I ask a family member to help when I need extra supervision so as not to end my life though so often I would like to. I thank people who help save me, however far too often I am my hero. I hide in my closet in the fetal position with my two cats. I share what helps. I learn from others. I don’t want it to get any worse though it likely will. I just want to live.
-- Jonathan Harnisch