Memoirs of an anti-social

It's been a couple of years since that thing happened. As a rule I am not allowed to say it by name. I won't break the rule since I have followed and gotten used to following  a lifestyle vividly enumerated with rules to get into an framework of mind accepted by majority.

From hindsight of sufferings incidental to the thing, I have observed the fact that your mind goes through certain phases after you have gotten rid of a chronic/recurring/cussed suffering - 1) an overcoming sense of respite as the suffering has recently subsided 2) when you have gotten used to absence of that suffering, a fear of recurrence, 3) in absence of recurrence, a feeling of confidence that you are finally done away with the suffering for good.
Currently I am at the cusp of phase two and three. Those sinusoidal phases seem to have damped down to levels too subtle to raise any suspicion. The routine of those recurring visions and sounds is also disbanded.

But the habits remain-
I still keep my hands inside pockets while outdoors even though they do not twitch involuntarily any more.
I still tend to have a firm grip of anything I clutch;  for instance when I am shaking hands with someone or holding bar in a train or reading a book or writing with a pen.
My eyes still lose their focus while I am groggy or half asleep.
Waking up after long siestas still makes me slightly depressed and frightened, more so when I wake up in the evenings.
Waking up after long siestas when it's dark or twilight still gives me those sounds and visions, though heavily blurred.
I still prefer to maintain some rather unsual physical distance from people around me.

Certain things like winds, darkness, distanct flickering lights still trigger my exhilaration. But that is nothing as compared to the torrid rush of hormones in my veins on account of same triggers. People say I am cured :-)

While I still have visits from such vicarious ramblings of my life in maniac phases, those depressive phases seem to be like distant memories I don't like to discuss much.


I am holding my journal in my hand, with a conscious loose, casual grip. Since the thing has gone, I no longer need to update it with quotidian details. Basking under the warm sun, as I riffle backwards through the journal I recall some marked events during the phase.

"xx Sep 19xx: My last entry was two months back. Then came the manic phase but now the coin has flipped again." 
I mostly used to write in my dark phases only. Otherwise, life became too awesome to jot down its details for the sake of others. People around me seem happy that those sporadic variations have gone but that means that I, most of the time, stay in a huffish state. I know it won't become any worse, but I also know it won't grow any better.

"xx Feb 200X: Two hours and I still can't sleep. Read my first entry. Visions and sounds are back."
There have been days in my life when in the middle of my sleep I have gotten out of bed out of sheer excitement without any apparent reason. I have felt frission tingling my nerves, heart throbbing without any physical exertion and a vehement restive vibrance controlling my body. I have silently strolled for hours on windy nights. I have enjoyed every moment of lack of social interception that I have spent in pitch darkness.

"xx Nov 199X:  Sounds: Of winds, whispers, ladies, welcoming into their world, things relating to that night again"
That night is scribbled down as my firt entry. I was no exception to the obligatory appurtenance of youth - an infatuation. But it actually turned out to be more than just a passing fad I can't get rid of which till date.
About calf love: I surmise it all began at around the age of 13-14. Concomitant with other feelings of maniac exhilaration, this was the only feeling I found a strong expression of in people around me. With time and tide, the details have hazed. But when the vibes are right, I still have those hallucinations. 

Page xx : "xx June 20XX - The amount of drugs has had its effect, and everybody knows this thing is hopefully going to end. This means this is one of the last posts I would be writing in this journal..."
At the end of it I feel absolute loss of fear - fear of any kind, fearlessness to levels that it almost has proven risky at times.



My first entry: I remember the day I sat to make my first entry in the newly bought diary. Those were one of the grey days when life lost its meaning for me. I would have scribbled some unsavoury prose debunking the social lifesytle et al, but I wanted to begin with something pleasant. I recalled my first trigger - my first conscious trigger and jotted down:

XX Oct, 19XX
"It was a cool, dark night. Mellow buffets of wind pleasingly tingled skin deep. I was alone walking alongside the road. A car came by, and then a face flitted across the window. There she was, a pretty lovely face casting an ingenuous look at me. My steps stopped, the faces stared each other until it vanished away…"  
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The end.