Reading a debunking of psychotherapy as fabric of illusions. A misunderstanding. A glitch. Illusions are a psychotherapeutic fabric. A psychosomatic/////////cutting///////////somatic////////////////somatic///////////////soma/////////////////////a rendering of flesh wrapped warm around a wound of insubstantiality. I took the knife to my arm and sliced through to see the blood and I burned the skin with the cigarette ends so I could be sure I was there and in the first place it was about teaching a lesson and///////////////////somatic///////////////////////////somatisation<<<<<<<<<<what does this word mean?
“What should any of us say to our loved ones who ask for direction?”
not loved ones. strangers. i make my money this way. rubbing up effortless against the misery of others. who does this? chooses this? when i grow up I want to stand and watch the others collapse and inject themselves with adulterated heroin and I want pour out their methadone and i want to measure the measures [how dilated are you’re eyes///////////////////piloerection and subjective reports of yes yes yes yes I need the fucking shit so put it in me] and I ask about suicide and I ask about rape and I listen about torture and sometimes it’s amazing how detached and insulated you are and other days you want to cry or hold someone or tear cut the skin of the world and have it bleed its blood all into our mouths and faces like a mother bird’s regurgitation except there is no blood and nothing under its skin. the world is as skin deep. who plugs themselves willingly into this and what essential or platonic psychopathology patterns the pattern of what is felt as need desire need desire satisfaction enjoyment need desire///////////////////////somatomechanical//////////////////////////////and maybe the answer is that it isn’t him or her in front of me with the benzodiazipine pushing the neuronal-behavioural repetitions commonly known as whatever their name is and however often their father beat them mother ignored them brother died in their arms in a knife attack and their face is marked with the slash wounds but its shrugged off and the fear of the bastards she stole the money from the heroin from the cocaine from gets passed off chalked up marked down out of her own mouth as paranoia because we’ve got you now in our little system and you’ll speak our language and spin out wheels so we can feel very important and as if we’ve got the first fucking//////////////////somatosensory cortex///////////////////////hold on what is and isn’t going on around here.
i think i know my answer and you know yours and we experience ourselves swaying slightly seasick at the thought of it and yes the meat suffers and somehow electrochemical pulsation/activation/synchronisation and the organization of the patterns of the connections of the little lumps of protein that hold it together fit it together build it up like soft wet edible lego brick you can’t even see are able to feeeeeeeeeeeeeeel that suffering and screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeam out about that suffering and i am the one of those ones who hears that scream and instead of doing the sane thing doesn’t turn away but approaches and gets down to the floor and look you in the eye and say yes yes yes the meat suffers and we call this empathy or compassion or the moral senti///////////ment and it is on its way out and its on its way to the graveyard of history as elimination jumps from the books into the happy delirium of our technologies…………………i bear witness…i cry with….i care about…..i…i…..i…….i…..
is it that simple? your suffering is my fix? it hits me somewhere. makes me feel real good because i’m such a fucking hero.
it isn’t an abstract question. i sit there. on the other side of the room. on the other side of the phone. across facebook. what do i say? sometimes you are crying when you call/come in. it’s harder on the phone. its harder when there are no faces and no gestures. no touching.
relay/reconstruction:
yes. it’s shit. life is shit. it’s horrible and its painful and it ends and then its nothing. i won’t sugar coat it for you because you’ve told me you want to die. i can’t offer you something to live for. the truth is there isn’t anything.
and ten minutes later
you’ve got kids? shit..how old are they?
and thirty minutes later
mate, i told her the sex was boring in front of everyone. i swear to god she hated me. don’t drink man. it’s evil.
the voice on the other end of the phone is laughing now.
i am a junkie. i’m a pain-junkie. a misery-junkie. i’m a sadness-junkie. i shoot-up your corroded hopes and cook up in your resentments.
what can i tell you about why you shouldn’t die?
sometimes i am reduced to combative methodologies: identify an enemy: don’t give them the fucking satisfaction. but the ultimate enemy is existence and existence don’t give a fuck don’t get high off your pain or low from your happiness don’t give a fuck what happens as long as something is going on.
maybe this is how i should answer then: don’t kill yourself. i can’t go with you. i’m not ready. i’m still to attached to this place. and i need one more hit. i’m chasing the oblivion of heroism. if you survive i survive- although its not like you the service user is ever going to run out as long as babies keep getting blasted out the great vast nothing into this open asylum. i should answer like this: don’t leave….i’m lonely…and can’t leave on my own.
this is the first principle of negative psychotherapy: i’m not here and neither are you and the me that isn’t here isn’t doing this for isn’t here you.
synthetic zerØ 
Reblogged this on catastrophic edge and commented:
I’m just cross-posting everything everywhere whilst spinning my 6am washed out brain with all kind of problems with truth. I am first and foremost about the question “how and why do we cope?” but I’m also drawn to debates on truth between scientific realism and instrumentalism. In this post I’m wearing the sardonic guise of an uncomfortable fit between these epistemic frames. So here is a thing about using nihilism as a way of coping with nihilism.
in psyche-therapeia (as opposed to counseling, CBT, etc) one doesn’t give reasons but rather pays attention to, attends to, curates, even amplifies, whatever phenomena the analysand brings to bear.
Selection, amplification, curation as a practice…it’s all an aesthetics/ .
well in an existential-phenomenological sort of way, but yes homo-rhetoricus
From Frank B. Farrell’s “Zadie Smith on Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland“:
“[Smith] accuses O’Neill of believing in an ideology committed to the essential fullness, continuity, and beautiful plenitude of the self, the ideology, as she has it, of Lyrical Realism. Here, again, she is taking her cue from postmodern academics who have attributed this straw-man position to their humanist opponents. Yet what connection is there, or has there been, between taking the space of the aesthetic seriously, with its attention to form and style, and believing in some metaphysically inflated conception of the self? In fact, the connection has often been a very different one. Greek tragedy shows us, whether in the character of Orestes or in that of Pentheus, the strong Hellenic sense that individuation and form emerge as extremely fragile accomplishments against an overwhelming oceanic universe that would dissolve them easily. Form and style are important precisely because the fear of dismemberment and fragmentation is close and strong (there is nothing here of Smith‟s “essential fullness” of the self). Aesthetic form, we might say, is often ritual enactment of the self’s project of sustaining its rhythms and shape and style of selfhood against the strong gravitational pull of de-individuating forces.”
thanks will have to track that down, I would characterize the “gravitational pull of de-individuating forces” as being relatively weak, often takes real trauma (of the I can’t imagine sort) to introduce more than a fleeting sense-impression of the uncanny.