Psychoanalysis

So I have this need right now, this desire, to write and write and write and pin down the world like a butterfly on a corkboard, because that's what I feel like, butterflydust, that's my username because butterflies can't fly without the dust on their wings, and I feel like I have all that dust but I don't have the wings. The world is so complicated and mostly I don't understand it, or anything it stands for, but I want to.
And I get these impulses, these needs to write, so I will. This is my third blog- the others have failed... maybe they make me too naked, like a bug under a microscope, suffocating under a glass coverslip, the edges too sharp, the dye smeared like blood. This time though I've told nobody about this blog. I want people to read it, I think, to try to understand with me what is so wrong with the world, but I don't want any of my friends to.
Becasue I am left with this vague, constant interpretation of life, mainly that it is wrong somehow, distorted, like Picasso's cubist paintings where the surface areas and the angles are all out of proportion.
And I've been thinking a lot about society, and about the truth. What is truth, anyway? We rely on it to be a concrete concept, something we can fall back on. But looking back at my life, at my house and all the abuse that's occurred in it, I don't know the truth. The truth is mainly an assortment, a collage of individual memories. The problem with memory is that it's such a fickle thing... emotions and impulses and the surreal get caught up in it, and twist it around. So in my past, the truth is simply an overlap of individual memories, as it is, I think, in most people's lives.
So what society deems as "truth" is not actually what physically occurred. Nobody can be sure, when emotions are so distorting, what is the real truth. So we accept that we cannot know what the real truth is, that we can only guess, draw sketchy lines of best fit. But how is that concrete? I could make myself believe something today, and it would be true for me. How can society call me sane or insane? If society voted tomorrow that the sky was green, would that make the sky green? We'd have to accept it, as we accept most general rules of society, most majority wills, but does accepting it as the truth actually make it true?
If you think about it, the only truth comes from expensive investigations that deal only with the physical, like forensics. But we cannot use forensics on our lives in a daily basis... and human fluids and living tissues die over time and become impossible to medically analyze. Science can only do so much for truth. Truth can only do so much for science.
And how terrifying, that is, to realize that what we most rely on and depend on to be concrete is actually malleable, actually incorrect the majority of the time and never 100% accurate.
I'm going to keep writing, I think, because I'm onto something here. Something that may be the only real truth in life. If there is no such thing as physical truth, then there can only be emotional and non-physical truth. But that differs for every individual. Yet again we are brought to the unsatisfying conclusion that truth is simply an individual concept, like heroism.
My English teacher defined heroism as "Giving ones life for a cause greater than oneself". I don't think my English teacher knows what she's talking about, or has even thought about the implications of such an abusive definition. For instance, consider the Homeric hero. I asked her if Homer's creations (Achilles, Aneus or however you spell that) were heros. She said they are. But are they heros by that definition? No. Homeric heros may have given their life for what society thought was a cause greater than themselves, but in the end what is their real motive? Rewards in the afterlife. "Greater than oneself" implies selflessness. Homeric heros gave their lives for the most selfish cause imaginable: eternal bliss and life, confined only to their individual self. Therefore, what society has called heros cannot possibly fit that definition. Very few "heros" have died for something selfless at it's core. Maybe I'm bordering on objectivism here, but in my opinion people are born innately selfish, and most people remain that way. Therefor what I think of as a hero is different than what you think of as a hero. Are we both wrong? According to that definition, yes, but I think that definition is crap. Hero is an individual concept, no matter how we try to force it into the laws and definitions of society. So is truth.
Anyway... moving on to my next issue of self actualization. (The main goal of this blog is to make me self-confident and have self-esteem. Is that possible to achieve through a thorough psychoanalysis of myself? I guess I'll find out).
My friend Mallory said that growing up hurts. I, of course, agree. It hurts some more than others... it's put me through Hell. Biblically, we are expected to become better people because of our challenges. I seem to be becoming steadily worse. Maybe not in the respect of helping other people. My life is solely utilitarian. If it weren't for the people around me, I'd kill myself. But I recognize the need to live for a more selfish cause. Some Christians would like you to believe that selflessness is necessary to salvation. I disagree. God wants us to love ourselves. God is all about love. Love of God and love of self are not mutually exclusive. They can coexist. God said we should love God and ourselves more than all other people. Only if we love these two main entities can we truly love others.
In my opinion, this has proved true. People that do not love themselves have a hard time accepting the love of others or giving it. This has become apparent in my own life.
Moving onto my last issue... that of sex. Maybe I will be smitten down for mentioning something as carnal as sex and as divine as Godly love in the same journal entry. But God has said sex is sacred. I can't see how. When I had sex, it was all about pain and sweat and everything I strive not to be. It was simply an equation of human hormoines and desires and I was so young and I hated it. I guess the fact that it was incest could have something to do with that, but it is sex all the same. When you are engaged in sexual intercourse, does it matter to you whether it's your brother, your cousin, or an actual lover? No. You can be hating it with every cell of your psychological being, but your body, being the horrid creation that it is, will still love it to an extent. The chemicals of desire still lie unbidden in you. So... in reference to my past. I didn't actually want to have sex with my brother or cousin when I was very young. It was rape, I suppose. BUT... the hormoines and chemicals of desire and flesh still existed within me. I was only like five, but a part of me still felt the stimulating effect of it. So the main question I am posing is this: I didn't consent to it verbally. But my body consented to it physically. Does that make it cease to be rape?
I know that yet again I am simply finding another facet of that same old guilt, another way to blame myself for what people continually tell me was not my fault. But if you think about it... even if it was unintentional, isn't that spark of human pleasure that existed inside of me on those bedroom floors a sort of permission?
I don't know. I don't want to excuse them for what they did to me... ultimately, they have paid for it. But I am still unconvinced that I didn't in some way allow it to happen. Even at three, four, five and six I was intellegent enough to realize that even though my body craved it, my mind knew it was wrong. Nobody had ever told me it was... in fact I didn't even know what sex was, or that that was what I was engaging in on a daily basis. But I knew two things: 1. I instinctively physically loved it even thought it hurt and 2. I instinctively psychologically hated it. Why did I accept the first one to be of more merit than the second one? How can I say that it wasn't in some way my fault that I let it go on for so long?
I can't.
And now I am led to believe that my experiences, no matter how young I was, were still sexual and carnal. What happened to me was horrible. It was all about chemicals nad endorphins and pleasure and the heavy feeling of someone with you and pain and sweat and blood and everything carnal. How can something so incredibly flesh-based as sex be sacred? I believe God in most respects, but I cannot see any good in sex. It is a horrible tool, a tool with which we hurt eachother.
Oh... and the fact remains that I am a masochist, I think. I actually want to get raped again. I actually want my mother to start hitting me again. Why? Because I need it to function. And now that I don't have it I have simply turned to self-destruction. Which is better? Does it make me a bad person that I require pain to survive?
Mallory said this: "It makes me feel like going and having sex with as many people as I can, to hurt them."
And I say the exact same means, but with a different end: "It makes me feel like going and having sex with as many people as I can, to hurt myself."
Okay I'm done now.
I actually do feel a bit more enlightened than when I started.