I saw my psychiatrist briefly yesterday and we discussed the concept of failure. This is what I told him:-
At the moment I feel much like a failure – my inflated pride, carefully structured fantasies about my future and cruel, chaotic, reality’s subsequent deflations of said projected future. My own (failed) romances serve as the perfect mirror – manic, expensive, propelled by my estimations of said lover’s practical, sexual and social value to me, and beneath that not an ounce of affection, only affectations. I am infinitely thankful, nonetheless, that my friendships are so much more successful, caring and less intimately selfish.
I swing between optimistically seeing my current psychological struggles as a necessary, strengthening low-point – an interlude in a unique, upwards journey – a life being fulfilled, and the opposite – a life not being fulfilled – a cruel refutation of fate. Patchy and scrappy. A failure.
My previous mechanisms against my hallucinations, my doppelgänger and the suicidal thoughts were to lose myself in the arts I love most – music, literature, art and architecture. By slipping away into an admittedly wonderful exercise of dissolving into an aesthetic / artistic narrative I could escape from the present, escape from the critical eye (my father, my ex-girlfriend, my late grand-mama), escape from time – as does happen in the case of those rare works that are both convincing and entertaining. By preventing that unity I, paradoxically perhaps, maintain the thoughtful extrapolating eye and can more effectively reflect on myself, but perhaps I am missing the point.
Sometimes I only think about how nice it would be to escapade around London, Buenos Aires or Paris with friends sampling fine wine, fine cuisine and fine women and not be stuck with this aggressive, dreadfully-boring, horrific doppelgänger in my head who insists on using me as his target practice for verbal and physical abuse. I do not have a name for him, and I sure as hell will not give him that satisfaction.