I finally realized why this grimacing face
Showing posts with label Clint Eastwood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Clint Eastwood. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 20, 2025
Another Accidental Resemblance
Friday, February 22, 2013
Imperturbable
Once I described myself to my therapist as 'skinless'. I meant that I felt raw and exposed, like a person whose body is a mass of unprotected nerve endings.
I wish I could be calm and composed at all times, no matter what. I wish I were able to take everything in stride and withstand all assaults upon my sensibilities with equanimity, like a hard and practiced warrior-philosopher. Or Clint Eastwood.
But I'm not. Nor does it seem I ever will be. I guess I'll always stay the "angry mouse" -- timid, easily scared and readily shamed, yet with an ironically short fuse. And I will keep on wearing my heart on my sleeve and getting angry and blowing up at people I love, only to feel guilty and apologize 15 minutes later.
Sometimes, when I lie in bed trying to go to sleep, my mind will insistently wander down desolate, terrifying crevices, and I'll need to shock myself awake with a shout and a fist to the head. I'll sit up and take in my dark, reassuringly solid surroundings, then lie back down, only to have to keep my eyes open because if I close them my mind will replay long-ago traumatic dreams and fantasies.
I've always derived particular pleasure from reading descriptions of delusions and hallucinations experienced by schizophrenics, preferably accounts written by the patients themselves -- perhaps it's in part motivated by the desire to set myself apart from them, the need to reassure myself that, despite my brittle fragility, I remain sane.
I wish I could be calm and composed at all times, no matter what. I wish I were able to take everything in stride and withstand all assaults upon my sensibilities with equanimity, like a hard and practiced warrior-philosopher. Or Clint Eastwood.
Sometimes, when I lie in bed trying to go to sleep, my mind will insistently wander down desolate, terrifying crevices, and I'll need to shock myself awake with a shout and a fist to the head. I'll sit up and take in my dark, reassuringly solid surroundings, then lie back down, only to have to keep my eyes open because if I close them my mind will replay long-ago traumatic dreams and fantasies.
I've always derived particular pleasure from reading descriptions of delusions and hallucinations experienced by schizophrenics, preferably accounts written by the patients themselves -- perhaps it's in part motivated by the desire to set myself apart from them, the need to reassure myself that, despite my brittle fragility, I remain sane.
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