From a psychological diagnosis, my habit of writing excessively would be classified as either a symptom of schizophrenia or bipolar, or perhaps a severe case of Obsessive-Compulsive disorder; the writing being, of course a debilitating obsession in order to combat irrational compulsions, such as the need to provide relief due to the inability to connect with ordinary people of a rather extraordinary world.
What assures me completely of my 'excessive writing' as being nothing more than a bad habit, rather than a symptom of a severe kind of mental disorder is that despite the nonsense I produce at times; the so-called nonsense appears to people around me as a brilliant sophistication of the particular topic I passionately and most uncontrollably ramble upon. What is more scary, is that sometimes it makes such perfect sense to me, that I find myself immersed, or rather, magically pulled into the complicated puddle of thoughts I had so verbosely brought forth.
These reassurances, however, are not completely reassuring, because in my scenario, the love for writing causes my mind to constantly whir like a working vending machine, and in times of general stress and anxiety, the need to write becomes all the more hazardous to my personal health. In earlier times, being a selfish conceited person, I was able to handle the pressure quite easily, since my writing had more of an entertainment purpose than a professional one, and was therefore of a lighthearted sort.
So, impulsive as my need to write has always been, the move towards a more complicated socio-academic life brought forth an excessive drain on my mental faculties as a whole. For example, as Mathematics became more complex, my detestation for numbers and complex formula increased as well, and that caused me to find solace in words and words alone. To me, Math was always something undefined and disproportionate, because its quantitative nature seemed to reduce the world's magnificence into a worn-out case of a scientific calculator, so to speak.
If there is one response by my Math teachers that irked me more than anything, it was this:
"Stop questioning the logic behind the formula! It's something that shall be further explored in your higher classes."
Well, bully me then my good teachers, because obsessive as I was to uncover all that lay unexplained around me, waiting patiently as if for a damsel in need of saving wasn't something I felt deeply motivated to do. Similarly, my interest in natural sciences also dwindled, because again I found both specified primary and secondary school textbooks as quite unappetizing for my often dissatisfied stomach.
If that wasn't bad enough, I was already a victim of bullying in my secondary school, and this had been simply because of the fact that I had come from another country, where apparently the social norms set for academic life to function upon were quite different from the one I had been placed hitherto.
There are several interesting incidences that ensured my being labeled as an oddball in the aforementioned place, and these shall be mused upon in later posts. What is essential to extract from my duration as an oddball over there is that I spent most of my time in the library and it took me quite some years to finally make myself amiable in the set surroundings.
Some would suggest that social deprivation could be a sole reason for making me obsessive about writing for perhaps the rest of my life. To be honest, I am uncertain and therefore, I shall try moving in a chronological order, so as to identify the reason that binds all the stages which can be blamed for causing the formation of this irremovable habit of mine.
However, if there is one lesson I shall try pointing out here, it's that when a person is ignored by the society, and when society is less inclined to help the misfit understand the means of getting their acceptance; the said individual may then likely head towards delusions of all kinds which would tempt him to see the world from a completely different view and create all sorts of misunderstandings in his dealings with the people around him.
Well, in my case that view is that I am the most amazing person on Earth and the rest are mere cornflakes bobbing sheepishly in a bowl full of milk that has gone awry. Oh, it's not a bad thing, mind you! In fact, most people tend to adopt the view in times of serious self-esteem issues.
Don't worry though, I can assure you that I am not the type who would end up to be a serial killer or something. For one thing, I am too lazy to carry out killing sprees, and for another, I am more interested in understanding humanity instead of attempting it to destroy it.
What assures me completely of my 'excessive writing' as being nothing more than a bad habit, rather than a symptom of a severe kind of mental disorder is that despite the nonsense I produce at times; the so-called nonsense appears to people around me as a brilliant sophistication of the particular topic I passionately and most uncontrollably ramble upon. What is more scary, is that sometimes it makes such perfect sense to me, that I find myself immersed, or rather, magically pulled into the complicated puddle of thoughts I had so verbosely brought forth.
These reassurances, however, are not completely reassuring, because in my scenario, the love for writing causes my mind to constantly whir like a working vending machine, and in times of general stress and anxiety, the need to write becomes all the more hazardous to my personal health. In earlier times, being a selfish conceited person, I was able to handle the pressure quite easily, since my writing had more of an entertainment purpose than a professional one, and was therefore of a lighthearted sort.
So, impulsive as my need to write has always been, the move towards a more complicated socio-academic life brought forth an excessive drain on my mental faculties as a whole. For example, as Mathematics became more complex, my detestation for numbers and complex formula increased as well, and that caused me to find solace in words and words alone. To me, Math was always something undefined and disproportionate, because its quantitative nature seemed to reduce the world's magnificence into a worn-out case of a scientific calculator, so to speak.
If there is one response by my Math teachers that irked me more than anything, it was this:
"Stop questioning the logic behind the formula! It's something that shall be further explored in your higher classes."
Well, bully me then my good teachers, because obsessive as I was to uncover all that lay unexplained around me, waiting patiently as if for a damsel in need of saving wasn't something I felt deeply motivated to do. Similarly, my interest in natural sciences also dwindled, because again I found both specified primary and secondary school textbooks as quite unappetizing for my often dissatisfied stomach.
If that wasn't bad enough, I was already a victim of bullying in my secondary school, and this had been simply because of the fact that I had come from another country, where apparently the social norms set for academic life to function upon were quite different from the one I had been placed hitherto.
There are several interesting incidences that ensured my being labeled as an oddball in the aforementioned place, and these shall be mused upon in later posts. What is essential to extract from my duration as an oddball over there is that I spent most of my time in the library and it took me quite some years to finally make myself amiable in the set surroundings.
Some would suggest that social deprivation could be a sole reason for making me obsessive about writing for perhaps the rest of my life. To be honest, I am uncertain and therefore, I shall try moving in a chronological order, so as to identify the reason that binds all the stages which can be blamed for causing the formation of this irremovable habit of mine.
However, if there is one lesson I shall try pointing out here, it's that when a person is ignored by the society, and when society is less inclined to help the misfit understand the means of getting their acceptance; the said individual may then likely head towards delusions of all kinds which would tempt him to see the world from a completely different view and create all sorts of misunderstandings in his dealings with the people around him.
Well, in my case that view is that I am the most amazing person on Earth and the rest are mere cornflakes bobbing sheepishly in a bowl full of milk that has gone awry. Oh, it's not a bad thing, mind you! In fact, most people tend to adopt the view in times of serious self-esteem issues.
Don't worry though, I can assure you that I am not the type who would end up to be a serial killer or something. For one thing, I am too lazy to carry out killing sprees, and for another, I am more interested in understanding humanity instead of attempting it to destroy it.
