When thinking about the universe mathematically, I've recently been told, it's unphysical and too great of a limitation to think only inside the realm of real numbers.
But, we want to.
To me at first, it seems more unphysical to think of things like space and time evolving perpendicular to one another instead of in parallel; especially when we're hit with the glaring reality that those two enigmas are intimately connected. But if we introduce into our mathematical interpretation the set of imaginary numbers and an imaginary axis to our geometrical model of space and time, what we've actually done is given ourselves extra degrees of freedom that allow the universe to behave mathematically congruently to the ways by which we perceive it to evolve physically. And that's a complex plane with some complex implications.
But on days during which I'm feeling particularly batshit, it helps me out to think about how the universe has both real and imaginary parts.
I have such a hard time believing that I am a real person, or that my instabilities can manifest as a real illness; rather, a real hardship. If I have time to reflect on any crimes against my heart, I dismiss them as logical behavior towards a thing that is not actually a real person. And I let myself live this way, think this way. I'm not really here. I'm not really real. Nothing matters, really.
Obviously, I extend the illusion. I have very little grace for my periodic seasons of mental instability, although I expect them to come and go as they do. What if this is how everybody feels about everything, and I'm just too weak to deal with my life properly? What if it isn't real; just a specter I've invented from observation or idealization? Thankfully when I ask these questions, the level bit of my brain speaks up.
But it was real enough for you to leave school, which you love with your whole heart, masochistically or not. It was real enough to make everything feel like an attack. It was real enough for you to dissociate. It was real enough for you to lose time and memory. It was real enough for you to do things like crash your car and doubt your ability to not wander onto the railroad tracks when you knew a train was coming. It was real enough for you to feel strangled by t-shirt necklines and imprisoned by your own ribcage. If it were any more real, it would have taken your life. Is that "real" enough for you?
And at the minute, I very much am grateful that I survived these dark times, but I'm not in a terribly celebratory mood. My life is unsustainable, and it has to be this way in order to avoid going into further amounts of debt, but it really can't go on like this. And I'm tired of being in situations, mental or physical, that are unsustainable. It's easy to pin it all on me, to make it my fault that I apparently refuse to entitle myself to sustainability. But the resources aren't there. They're not. They're fucking not. I drink too much coffee because I'm tired of tea and coffee is cheaper, anyway. It buys me time to use internet, which I use to work, so that I can get out of this mess that has been wonderful and terrible. And people are happy for me and proud of me and sometimes it makes no sense. I've said it before: this is not me being brave. You are not seeing a beautiful display of survival. You are seeing a pathetic display of the long-term results of periodic nervous breakdowns that will absolutely repeat themselves because the resources required to stop this are not accessible. You are seeing a person who does not believe she is a person. You are seeing a person who does not feel entitled to live anywhere besides her car, which doesn't even actually belong to her. You are seeing a fundamentally self-destructive human, who is very good at making her self-destruction look like survival, art.
Some days it is an artistic survival. But maybe, it's just another breakdown.