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Due to exigent circumstances, I will have to cease my daily visits to the Cleveland Park Library for the foreseeable future. Since I write my blog posts at the library, this means I will cease blogging for about the next two months, except when I am especially inspired.
You can still follow me on Twitter.
I have a schizoid personality disorder. I feel torn up inside. But it’s really difficult for me to describe how I feel. I feel lonely, but fulfilled. I would like friends, but then I’m happy being alone too. When I’m with people I wish I was alone. When I’m alone I wish I had a friend. Sometimes I create imaginary relationships with people. I pick out a certain person and imagine that he or she is my friend. And in my mind we hold imaginary conversations and just hang out together. Mostly, I feel I’m not getting anything out of life. I see other people who do things in their lives and I wonder how they do it. I’m stuck in an imaginary world of my own creation.
The neglect early in my life of the most basic emotional needs left me a child frozen within myself. The isolation in my childhood became internalized into intrapsychic isolation.
The schizoid patient experiences a terrifying emptiness, a nameless dread,
an inner landscape unpopulated by human figures. I frequently turn to
endless dreams and fantasies, which may be rich, symbolic, and mesmerizing.
I may find solace in a well-developed intellect and develop an
internal crystal palace in which I live alone, safe but frozen. However,
I may also end up in dangerous depths, unpredictability, and deadly horrors.
A schizoid child tends to be out of touch with his body and his affects, as well as his capacity to take action in the world.
The schizoid person lacks a connection to his body as container, a bodily
felt experience. It is as if the schizoid person lives in a body that is asleep, or
a body that has not yet come alive. His body tends to be well formed, yet
stiff and unresponsive. He may have an aversion to touch. He may be alert
to the point of hypervigilance, and easily overwhelmed.
Archetypally, people who regularly employ the withdrawing relational
pattern have a great facility with mind and image. This realm can allow,
invite, and even capture the withdrawing person into its imaginal richness
and pull them out of participation in the challenging and complex realm of
embodied, affectively charged human experience and relationships. People
with a schizoid character structure are often at the mercy of their internal
world. Possessed by the awesome power of the mental and imaginal aspect
of the unconscious, the person has relatively little capacity to interact with
others sensitively and intimately, as well as little capacity to stand up for
themselves. As they attempt to maintain a protective personal space, they
may appear aloof or removed. By resistance to social expectations and
embracing eccentricity, they may cultivate an exaggerated uniqueness that
further separates them from the world. At the same time internally, they
may be rigorously self-critical and desperately alone.
Had it all been just a terrible dream? Was he really gone?
Certainly there were moments, though fleeting, when it felt as if it had never happened. I would awaken in the morning and, for just a few seconds, everything in my life seemed fine. But then a bleakness would begin to set in, and in no time it would all come back to me: Yes, it had happened. He was gone. Why him? Why not someone else? Was there anything I could have done, should have done? Perhaps I could have contacted President Bush in June 1991 and asked him to nominate someone else to the Ambassadorial position. Perhaps. And then I would cry, sometimes just a few tears, but often racking sobs. It had been that way for years, and I feared it would remain so for as long as I would draw breath. Of course, sometimes I would have good days, but the bad days were just awful. I wasn’t even thirty-seven yet when he withdrew from the partnership of Akin, Gump, Strauss, Hauer & Feld. Was this to be my fate? Would I ever recover? Indeed, these thoughts still consume me in 2012, more than 20 years after the appointment of Robert Schwarz Strauss to the post of Ambassador to the Soviet Union.
June 25, 1934 – August 5, 2003
The summer of 1968 I was 14 years old. That was the summer the Russians invaded Czechoslovakia. The summer that anti-War activists protesting the mess in Viet Nam at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago got their asses kicked by Mayor Daley’s thugs.
I spent the summer with my buddies at the Jersey shore. We smoked weed and screwed girls. That summer would be the envy of any 14 year old kid.