EYES DOWN! "The Falsehood of A Future You" Mild Milestones, Further Musings & Irrational Existential Reckonings..x
23 JUNE 2024 - Personal Newsletter Gatherings With Chasey Delaney!! x
“THE FALSEHOOD OF A FUTURE YOU”
Sometimes I find that no matter what version of me is presented to the world that by the time I notice who I am or what I’m about there’s still a part of me scratching my barnet and wondering:
Is this me who I should have always been?
Am I the best self? My most authentic?
Why do I still not like me?
I’m not happy with the past or present and feel dependent or reliant on the falsehood of a future self.
Will I ever appreciate myself?
What if I get worse?
Should I revert back to an older version?
What about an amalgamation?
Should I be making conscientious changes?
Can’t I just have a pick-n-mix?
Shelf Help in Cuckoo Land
I have books on self help, buying them makes me feel more in control of things, but reading them might be a start to making myself better, even as they present to me now as Shelf Help peering at me from under a layer of thick dust and cobwebs with yellowing pages forever unread, the idea of reading them doesn’t scream at me the answers I need. I don’t have all the tools to complete the kit and no matter what I do read I treat every single novel as my very own
Build-Your-Own-Personality handbook? Needless to say my copy of Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas has a lot to answer for but for now has been put into retirement. I am afraid that one day my go-to handbook might end up being something as unreliable and tedious as a cloth-bound copy of a dubiously titled ‘Find The Fisherman in You!’ ;)
Is this even acceptable?
Creatures, Comfort & Cottages:
I am OBSESSED with holiday hunting and I have a horrible rash on my hand which I am investigating, so far here are the possible explanations:
—-- localised prickly heat (cos sun)
—-- allergic reaction (cos disinfectant spray)
—-- bites (cos spiders, moths, midges, UFOs)
—-- meningitis (cos I haven’t checked with a glass)
My skin and hand tattoo feels like a porn magazine printed in braille with loads of moaning noises like oooohh arrhhhh ummmm mooooooorrre more. No Chase. It feels like a cheap crocodile skin effect. Loads of little dots (like pin pricks) red rash and dry patches. It’s really really bothering me and my ocd type tendencies. I have a little ritual now. I spray all my sores, lumps, bumps, bites, scratches, scars - all with heavy doses of alcohol based cheap perfumes and body mists, so that I can trick my brain into believing that the *STING* is ‘’the wounds healing’’ that old adage; it only hurts because it is working. I keep complaining about it and that starts giving me the creeps like my skin is literally burning on fire by mind over matter.
It’s all psychosomatic because I think things are crawling on and all the fuck over me. It was only early today where I had to explain to a fellow ‘schizophrenic’ (we are not our illnesses, I prefer to say person with schizophrenia but since the term person of colour was coined (which I also hate the sound of) it made me rethink the initial terminology. So, by sticking schizophrenic in air quotes just means, or is supposed to show, that I am not trying to be or accidentally being disrespectful. I have schizophrenia and so does a guy who lives near me. We couldn’t be any different from one another. Not only in colour (he has a thing with people he doesn’t know - he speaks to every stranger very kindly and openly but he thinks ‘white folk’ are against him because he is black), he likes me I think.
He always looks out for me. Always has my back emotionally (I have derived this information from his inquisitive questions, his caring demeanour and unusual interest in me, the time he gives to me whenever we bump into each other in the street and because he told me loads of advice to help ‘cheer me up’’) . He is always concerned that I look unhappy and stressed when he sees me, but there must be a new bit of a spring in my step recently because, as always he grips hold of my hand (and like clockwork tells me not to take notice of his skin colour - (it is upsetting to hear but it is his thing) I always hold his hand tighter and try to explain that I love the colour, the softness and the texture of all skin colours.
I tell him that, if he can handle my pebble-dashed, wrinkled old Casper colour skin than he deserves a medal. (It wasn’t until later that day when I thought, I must has flinched when he grabbed my hand BUT only because of that fucking rash I didn’t want him to see or feel!). I was also edging backwards a little because I had my partner’s jogging jacket on which I thought (only by being out in the fresh air) was actually fucking stinking like wrinkled stockings! Which was mortifying that I would smell horrible in a coat that so desperately needed washing.
Anyway, the schizophrenic lad was complimenting me on how well I was looking but he was curious (and/or worrying) why I always rushed about with my head down everywhere I went. Me being so very comfortable in his company and trusting him 100% I tend to always open up and tell the truth to him, still being as fast as I can and hoping to get home soon. I told him about the speed in which I travel is half annoyance that I am outside in public, fueled by irrational anxiety and the reason I keep my eyes to the ground is because I don’t want to know what’s going on around me, I don’t want to see people looking at me.
I hear people laughing and are convinced its at me or sometimes worse; that they can hear everything I am thinking and I always think mean things out of the blue when I see other people. It’s like the judgemental parts of me that I banish to the subconscious like to hound me and present as intrusive thoughts whenever I am distracted by the task of getting there and back from A-to-B-to-A again.
They smack into my head and I blush dark red. Things like; “her arse is much fatter than mine and she’s wearing that!” I get nice intrusive thoughts about other women too - but they only make me feel like some sort of pervert: “oooh nipples, she’s older than me, oh, loads of makeup, suits her, bet her fanny is gorgeous, don’t look, don’t let her look at you looking at her tits” and so on and so on. I didn’t go into as much detail as this with the lad. I just said I get paranoid that people hear what I am thinking and left it at that.
Meanwhile, because I will be saving £100s at the least in the upcoming months, and my relationship is improving, finally - at last. I want to treat us both to a change of scenery. So, from now up until January at best or May at the latest, I will be Holiday hunting on the AirBnB website (which I have completely scoped out in less than three days and now).
I keep going round and round in circles showing the same properties. I played around with my requirements to confuse the system by saying I wanted a cottage with a swimming pool and they gave me 15 fucking choices !! I can’t stop searching. I have discovered I love the planning and organising of such things. Maybe, my true vocation should have been Travel Agent or something. That’s how I feel whenever I find anything there worth adding to my wishlist. Boom!
I did loads of cleaning and got rid of some of my shoe boxes that I hate keeping but can’t ever let them go without convincing myself they might come in handy. I’ve had about six of them for a month now and they were still empty. It’s pointless junk. It’s as useful as having a big bag full of bags. It might encourage me to keep more shit than I already do.
So I took them to the front door and went to dump them in the paper recycle bin; alas it t’was not that easy. I had to shred them until they would all fit in. I ripped them to pieces with my bare hands and fought of ridiculous thoughts from my brain telling me that each slice of cardboard would make a great fucking bookmark!! I binned them all in the end and strutted back through my front door no longer a dickhead but a fully fledged adult. Let’s hope this continues through to the payment day for me jollies.
