Eleven o’clock. I know that I’m a complete slob. The inside of my house is a pigsty, but without assistance I can’t do much about it. I can’t seem to organize my environment to make it habitable. Every therapist I’ve had has despaired and given up on me. It makes me feel so worthless and hopeless. But at least I don’t mistreat anybody. I hate cleaning and cooking chores, so I simply don’t do them. Probably I learned my behavior from observation of my mother, who always put pleasure before business when I was growing up. The older she got, the more her negligence and social withdrawal. If I had a limitless supply of money I could hire a housekeeper. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about what people will think of me. As it stands, my behavior is exactly like my mother’s. The only difference is that I don’t drink anymore, and I never have smoked cigarettes. And instead of doing crossword puzzles, I write my thoughts and post them to my blog. But the underlying principle of pleasure is the same for both of us. Would anyone want to judge me?
One twenty. The truth is that I’m disordered by the schizophrenia; I didn’t learn it anywhere. I tried to play the bass just now and it didn’t sound good to me, just a flurry of nonsense notes, noisy squirreling in the low frequencies. To play well, I really depend on the band being there for structure and organization. And forget about music composition. I couldn’t concentrate to do something like that. The illness pretty much blew away my ability to create music recordings. Yet still, in spite of this, I refuse to give up out of love for my late mother. I just need a context to plug my bass into. Nobody can live in a vacuum. We’re all symbiotic and dependent upon each other. Or maybe it’s only me who has this problem with organization and focus?