When the Personality Gets Personal…

I’m a bit of an odd bird. In this, I’m hardly odd at all. But it makes me laugh, and that’s all that matters.
I live between a tiny nook in my mother’s utility room and my car. I’m mostly satisfied by this, save for the constant knowledge that it will not always be such. I’m always plagued by that thought. But when the time comes, I’ll find another way. It’s how I live. I’m vaguely aware that it is a rather odd way to live. I’m sort of a… mid- to long-term migrant. I do what I have to do to survive and amuse myself, because honestly, that’s about as much as I expect to get out of life. I’m disabled. I’m crazy. Very rarely do things work out for me unless they’re mostly within my own control. What’s the saying? “Get used to disappointment.”
I spend most of my time balanced between fear, obsession, and dizziness. Obsession is a more… honest way to describe my version of “happiness”. Fear is a conglomeration of many things. And dizziness? Simply the skin-numbing exhaustion of ping-ponging and synchronizing between the two prior issues. Part of my life is living with an intensity of emotion. I don’t have an off-switch (though I do short-circuit occasionally). Things I like, I always like. And ‘like’ is more of a loud, twitchy, screaming, wide-eyed bear throttling me for more attention. I flit from thing to thing in an unclear cycle, trying to sate the bear. Trying to ease the burning sensation a little. Fear is another story. If I digress too long from feeding the bear its honey, it gets mad and punts me off the side of the cliff I didn’t realize we were on. Life is a mountain, a never-ending mountain made up of cliffs and bears. Sometimes, I throw myself off, but there’s always another cliff, another bear to distract me. The mountain exists on a never-ending plane, a loop.
People often tell me they are proud of my accomplishments. I haven’t, in my mind, actually accomplished anything at all, other than survival, which is a constant thing. I’m not so proud of survival because others seem to do it just fine. It’s not something they’d notice. It’s a personal victory, a personal shame. I don’t honestly want to survive. I just do because I’m not quite sure what the alternative actually is. Writing is the same. It’s an exercise in living, for me. A time killer. I don’t consciously write. It comes out, my hands ache, and I’ll eventually read it over.
The reason my name tends to be urusai_lilania on many sites is a simple one. Lilania was my first real character created. She was a manifestation of my concept of my life. For the sake of her existence in the 2121 universe, I won’t go into detail on that. But she is, in her own way, my expression of schizophrenia. “Urusai” is a Japanese word (煩い), something I often told myself back then, something I felt about myself, something I felt others wanted to say. I tend to be rude, awkward, bungling, timid… the people I become close to dislike those things about me. But it just flies right out of me in a flash in my nervousness. I can be quite the idiot.
I lack an extensive education. Most of what I know is self-taught. I have a slight knack for understanding how things work. But I have to be told exactly what to do, because what I think should be done and what a superior thinks should be done are not the same thing. I’m more of a tool than a mechanic. And ultimately, I’m either not interested in something or too interested. There’s a lot about me that is an excuse. There’s a lot about me that is self-doubt and fear. And frankly, there’s a lot about me that just plain doesn’t understand.
Yes, I’m an adult. Yes, I have a brain. I’m supposedly intelligent. But this brain of mine tends to get more smacks than praise, truth be told. I’m told I know better. I don’t believe it. Sure, I’m probably an idiot and just ruining myself. I hear that enough. I’ve been told I drove myself crazy intentionally, by a doctor. Maybe it’s the easy way out. If it is… I don’t really want to know what those people go through. I feel like a disappointment to those people, sure. But not enough. Not enough to give in. And yet, somehow, I think that’s their point. That I am giving in. And that’s when the dizziness kicks in.
Ultimately, I end up deciding, life is easier when I’m not thinking. And that’s when I write.



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