So if all behavior is reinforced via consequences in the environment around the organism, how much of our personalities are based off the consequences in the environment around ourselves as we grow up?
As an ENFP, HSP, yadda yadda, how many of my ENFP - personality traits stem from repetitive incidents of reinforcement given most frequently when I displayed those traits? How much of it is "superstitious" reinforcement of behavior? How much is something beyond behavioral definition?
Ooh hoo hoo, what a strange sensation...to feel your brain making new neural connections!!! Like little highways of energy flowing through my brain, surges shooting up and back across my giri...mysterious bodies undulating beneath a silken surface...
Is the picture of innocence necessarily the most innocent within? Do I immediately get associated with stupidity? With lack of experience? I can't tell. I'm still unsure how others actually see me. Do I attempt to compensate for my looks by saying smart sounding words? Am I too focused on my looks? Not because I think I'm beautiful, or even that I want to think I'm beautiful... but because I want to know who I am. Every part of me, including the physical side? Do I want that? Should I want that? What is right? All I want to know is what is the truth. Truth. What is? Something must be objective, yes, or why would we even have that concept??? If nothing were objective.... I don't know. Where does that leave me? In a world full of shadows you can't see, upside down, no gravity, no air but no need to breathe, no thoughts, no feelings, no material, ugh, ugh, ugh, my brain is screaming at me. Too much to even think about!! Terrifying....
Thursday, November 20, 2014
Monday, November 17, 2014
Monday, November 10, 2014
Transmarginal Inhibition (aka know your own limits)
What is worse, to know I'm stupid for crying, or for still crying, even though I know its stupid?
An extroverted HSP.
30% of all HSPs are extroverted.
20% of the world population is HSP.
That leaves six percent.
Lovely. I take no comfort in being unique. It is horrible. It is the last thing I have ever actually wanted. I am so tired of it. So, so tired of it. Why must I feel everything so deeply? Why must I sit here and feel everything going on around me all at once, even without consciously thinking about it? Why must I brood upon future possibilities that I or others may or may not ever encounter? How come I feel so compelled to psychoanalyze the subtlest movements of an eyelash against someone's cheek? It doesn't matter. It doesn't help me function in the present moment, and it never will. All it is is a huge encumbrance. Its so hard to just stay focused on one thing at a time...it feels Crazy, so Crazy, so Crazy... I just wish there was someone who could understand. Someone who could hold my emotions for me, comfort me and tell me it will be ok, they know what its like, they know what to do... But where are they? They must be there somewhere, I just can't find them...I can't rely on anyone else with this...
Every tiny action I attempt feels weak, chaotic, and uncertain. I have no idea what I've been doing, what to do, or what I'm doing presently. Frazzled doesn't do it justice. Depressed doesn't do it justice. Dazed, disorganized, and feeble fail to do it justice.
At least writing this out seems to help process a little bit...someday the tears will stop again, I will recover myself a little bit, and plow forward again. Or end up in an institution. Only time will tell. Oh, how simple these words are! Simple and straightforward, just as I wish to be, and yet, I can't be. No matter how hard I try. The immensity of life overwhelms me so...it always has, I have just found ways to dissociate from it from time to time...focusing on others instead, focusing on nothing at all...
An extroverted HSP.
30% of all HSPs are extroverted.
20% of the world population is HSP.
That leaves six percent.
Lovely. I take no comfort in being unique. It is horrible. It is the last thing I have ever actually wanted. I am so tired of it. So, so tired of it. Why must I feel everything so deeply? Why must I sit here and feel everything going on around me all at once, even without consciously thinking about it? Why must I brood upon future possibilities that I or others may or may not ever encounter? How come I feel so compelled to psychoanalyze the subtlest movements of an eyelash against someone's cheek? It doesn't matter. It doesn't help me function in the present moment, and it never will. All it is is a huge encumbrance. Its so hard to just stay focused on one thing at a time...it feels Crazy, so Crazy, so Crazy... I just wish there was someone who could understand. Someone who could hold my emotions for me, comfort me and tell me it will be ok, they know what its like, they know what to do... But where are they? They must be there somewhere, I just can't find them...I can't rely on anyone else with this...
Every tiny action I attempt feels weak, chaotic, and uncertain. I have no idea what I've been doing, what to do, or what I'm doing presently. Frazzled doesn't do it justice. Depressed doesn't do it justice. Dazed, disorganized, and feeble fail to do it justice.
At least writing this out seems to help process a little bit...someday the tears will stop again, I will recover myself a little bit, and plow forward again. Or end up in an institution. Only time will tell. Oh, how simple these words are! Simple and straightforward, just as I wish to be, and yet, I can't be. No matter how hard I try. The immensity of life overwhelms me so...it always has, I have just found ways to dissociate from it from time to time...focusing on others instead, focusing on nothing at all...
Friday, October 31, 2014
adulthood?
Drab, gray streets filled with dreary gray people walking in lines. Thoughts sit melting in the background of their minds, their eyes consumed only with what they see around them.
How do people live like this? LIVE, I mean? What a typical day for someone staring over the edge of childhood.
I sit on some cold, cheerless steps, squeezing my legs tight to my chest, the brilliant blue of my coat fading around the edges where it touches the colorless pavement.
Maybe this is what it takes... takes to what?
Live, I mean LIVE, in a different way...
If only I could see it that way...
How do people live like this? LIVE, I mean? What a typical day for someone staring over the edge of childhood.
I sit on some cold, cheerless steps, squeezing my legs tight to my chest, the brilliant blue of my coat fading around the edges where it touches the colorless pavement.
Maybe this is what it takes... takes to what?
Live, I mean LIVE, in a different way...
If only I could see it that way...
Thursday, October 30, 2014
What is depression?
Depression is not simply "deep sadness." Depression is like having your heart cut out. Once its gone you lose your feelings about everything.
It is like staring at a kitchen cupboard for 10 minutes, with no motivation to look away or to even make a decision. Everything is meaningless.
Where your life is just one big, dark hole.
Of course, somehow, almost mechanically, I still take care of others needs. Even if I can hardly feel anything at all, those motions are so familiar to me...
Depression is like feeling your soul taking up less and less space inside your body. Some kind of huge, immovable force crushes it, causing the soul to shriek in pain, feeling death.
---
We are all insane. The most insane thing about us all is that we believe what we think is right.
It is like staring at a kitchen cupboard for 10 minutes, with no motivation to look away or to even make a decision. Everything is meaningless.
Where your life is just one big, dark hole.
Of course, somehow, almost mechanically, I still take care of others needs. Even if I can hardly feel anything at all, those motions are so familiar to me...
Depression is like feeling your soul taking up less and less space inside your body. Some kind of huge, immovable force crushes it, causing the soul to shriek in pain, feeling death.
---
We are all insane. The most insane thing about us all is that we believe what we think is right.
Monday, October 27, 2014
What is being alive?
When we get high, we die a little. When we truly pray, we die. When we die, the only thing we lose is our "selves." We die to our "self" - ego - self separation. It does make sense. God makes perfect sense. It all makes perfect sense. He died to him Self too?
Self is the part of God that didn't work. Self is being cleansed from the system......
Self is the part of God that didn't work. Self is being cleansed from the system......
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Action expresses priorities.
First day at a new school, and it's finals week. Why would they have me start in the middle of finals week?
I wander away from the two people trying to comfort me and show me around, walk into an unused section of the student center. There is a big water exhibit interspersed around and between the greek columns within. Swampy with reeds sticking up here and there, the water is divided by narrow stone walkways crisscrossing back and forth across the square pond. I walk to the back desk, but no one is there. I whimsically decide to walk across the pond, clumsily steering myself along one of the stone paths. Up ahead, a crocodile rears his head up from beneath the murky water. I turn around and head back towards the side I entered from, trying not to lose my footing on the slippery stones beneath my feet. There is a moment where I feel myself falling, but somehow I make it. I fling myself away from the pond just in time for the crocodile to spring up, mouth gaping, at the edge of the pond. My feet are just far enough away to escape his jaws as they snap shut, water splashing over the edge and soaking my legs.
I wander away from the two people trying to comfort me and show me around, walk into an unused section of the student center. There is a big water exhibit interspersed around and between the greek columns within. Swampy with reeds sticking up here and there, the water is divided by narrow stone walkways crisscrossing back and forth across the square pond. I walk to the back desk, but no one is there. I whimsically decide to walk across the pond, clumsily steering myself along one of the stone paths. Up ahead, a crocodile rears his head up from beneath the murky water. I turn around and head back towards the side I entered from, trying not to lose my footing on the slippery stones beneath my feet. There is a moment where I feel myself falling, but somehow I make it. I fling myself away from the pond just in time for the crocodile to spring up, mouth gaping, at the edge of the pond. My feet are just far enough away to escape his jaws as they snap shut, water splashing over the edge and soaking my legs.
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