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Time for a writin’! Been wantin’ 2 write 4 3 days now, always puttin’ it off 4 paid work$! Which r necessary, but u know, so is emotional health.

What’s the diff btw emotional health and mental health? When I started writin’ the FSB agin, a couple weeks ago, I realized that all the work I was doing was not really healthy: I might have been pullin’ in the Cashes, but my heart – it fucking hurt like hell! I realized that I had neglected my emotional health and that if I did that, all the Money in the world was not going to make my life what I wanted it to be: secure, free, happy and valuable. And I finally understood Andy Warhol’s comment that he was most thankful for his health – he actually wasn’t being sardonic!

But what is the diff btw emotional and mental health? Is there a diff? I wonder if emotional health is necessary for mental health? (And then I have to wonder what kind of people are running the world and where they are taking us.) Could it be that if you neglect emotional health, it will eventually start effecting how you think, and make you mentally ill? I wonder if you can have emotional health but not mental health – is that possible? Is that low IQ sort of stuff?

What happens to people who have really high IQ’s who are emotionally ill? Are they like my Mom, using their intelligence in short sighted ways, fearful and pleading helplessness continually? Are they psychopathic? Sociopathic?

I have a confession to make: I’m pretty sure that I am psycho/socio pathic. I have few friends, tend to view them with a “what use are they to me” mentality and frankly, prefer to have as few humans in my life as I can manage. I am intimately aware of humans as animals and for the most part, find it completely ridiculous that we praise writers who say things like that we are different than other animals because we have consciences and/or morals. WTF?!

Look what we are doing; look at what we work for – how can anyone, even a Christian, say that humans are more moral than cats, or worms? This is a thread I want to get back to later, but let me backtrack right now to my original purpose, a writing session that will restore, if not happiness, balance (happiness will have to come later). I have lots of Paid Werkz that NEEDS attention today. And even if I'm a miserable cunt, I have great clients. Friends r those who feed u, no? Happiness now, or happiness later?

When I first started university at age eighteen, I did not want any friends. I basically lived in the library. Because I could not be a good Christian, as described by my mother, I assumed I was Evil. I wanted to kill myself, but aside from that being a mortal sin, I was afraid to do it. The best thing I could do, I reasoned, was to stay as far from other humans as possible. I would communicate via writing, and keep my evil self far, far removed from where I could do damage to other peeps.

Well, as you might imagine, I got pretty crazy. I was sooooooooooooo loooooonnnnneeeelllllyyyyy – after about six months of this, I absolutely had to have some interaction with humans besides in class. I had no choice but to admit that humans need socialization, if it’s around; ie. a human may survive all by themselves, with other animals in a bush, if that’s their only option, but that if there are other people around, they will be compelled to work with them; compelled to interact and to admit that they need them – and if they don’t, they’ll get pretty nuts.

For me, going to class and asking questions about books we were reading (I was one of those damnable, humourless English majors) and/or stating my views about these books in class and/or to colleagues, was not enough socialization. The crux was calling someone up socially – admitting that I actually needed companionship to someone, outside the intellectual/work sphere.

I wish I could show you (without you having to feel, except perhaps temporarily, or with the knowledge that what you were feeling was not what you really needed to feel, and that you could just stop it, with a turn of your head, perhaps) those minutes when I made that necessary phone call to S, another crazy person at McMaster University in 1982. The twisting, contracting, squeezing, coiling, beating of my heart and organs. My shaking hands that could not maneuver my index finger to the holes in the telephone’s dialing ring without several “practice" runs. The terror; terror of loneliness and terror of what another human being could do to my – emotional and mental health? – because I’d let myself get so sick that the tiniest cut might be something that pushed recovery into impossibility. I had not only gone to the edge, I’d made micro movements to the exact balancing point btw falling off and falling back onto solid ground, and I’d balanced there, like some perverse yogi, forgetting that at some point my mind would not triumph over my physical (emotional?) self. HELP, S, HELP!

In the end, S. could not help me. He had a date. But you know who did help me? Me: going through the motions, making that phone call. Tipped me back towards solid ground and though I would spend many more years balancing on the cliff btw Nothing and Everything, I never again pushed myself to that limit. I made a few running jumps, and dangled myself off the cliff with precarious footholds on rocks and ledges several times, later on, but it was never quite the same as actively trying to live without human companionship.

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