Look Who's Back Again!

 It has been quite a while. The world has changed, and so have I. In some ways that are good. Medication, special treatment, therapy, and a LOT of self-reflection have all started to bring me out of the mire of depression. I'm glad that no one reads this, as the sporadic nature of my posting would be incredibly stressful. My first love had a similar issue with me. I would reach out and send a flurry of friendship and affection, and then I'd disappear. We didn't know about the intensity of my depression, so it just seemed like I didn't care enough to make consistent effort. I didn't argue. I didn't have an answer for that.

It's easy to feel that I'm in the same place even now. On disability from work, spending my days trying to manage small tasks like taking a shower, and entirely uncertain of, and possibly apathetic to, my future. But I'm watching TV with my two dogs pleasantly snoring away at the foot of the bed, and I feel something akin to contentment and gratitude. At least, that's what I think. I'm still uncertain about how to manage such unwieldy things as feelings, so I'm currently relying on a sort of mental calculation to figure out what I think is appropriate. 

Wow. Writing that out was...wild.

Anyways, the point is that I'm still trying. Resilient is the word people like to use. I don't want to be resilient. I want to be disgustingly wealthy and laze about all day and never have a care in the world. Since that's not possible, I'll take being resilient, I guess. Outwardly, I may seem just that, and it may be technically accurate, but it sure doesn't align with my feelings.

A Beginning

 Her foot sank into the slush of the swamp, sucking at her as she moved to take another step. An ever-present buzz surrounded her, the whisper of the wings of night creatures filling the air. Her toes searched for dry, solid ground, and when she found it, she stooped and set to work. Soon, a fire rose, throwing light like fairy dust onto the trunks of the stoic trees. A song started in her chest and wriggled its way up her throat like a serpent that would not be denied its freedom. And then, she sang. A dark, twisting melody, heavy with ancient magic. Her heartbeat quickened and her limbs began to move, called to life by the growing rhythm of the song. The woman's voice pulsed, ebbing and flowing as though dancing with drum beats only she could hear.

Not even here

My silence swallows me. The sterile glow of the screen does little to illuminate my inner turmoil. My feelings churn in my chest and I do my best to swallow them.

Isolation rules the moment. Inadequacy sings its siren song, and I am drawn inexorably to it. Insecurity sits like a craggy rock, peaking just above the waves of deep-seated shame. Self-loathing cracks in the night, signaling its arrival as the light of dissatisfaction splits the sky. Ever onward, I sail. Eternal sleep seems a blessed mercy, one that would deliver me from the agony of life. And yet, I hold fast. Longing for deliverance while prolonging my suffering.

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I don't remember writing this, but I like it. So, I'm publishing it.

About time I wrote something

It's about time I wrote something. Literally, anything. All of my non-existent readers have been dying for my attention. And I get it. My writing is pretty...yeah...can't even type that with a straight face.

Still, I should create something. I mean, I'm obviously not sleeping. I've just ordered a ton of boots I definitely don't need.

It's 11:11 make a wish!

ANYWAYS...

What should I write about?

Oh, I saw a fireworks show recently. I sat there, trying to be in the moment instead of yielding to the urge to take out my phone and try my best to snap a single picture that wasn't blurry. And I tried to think of new and colorful ways to describe what I saw. That transcendence of light and sound. And then I thought, "transcendence"? It's not transcendent. No one ascends to a higher plane because they have witnessed a series of chemical and physical reactions that result in a smattering of color across the night sky. No one swoons simply because the explosions of pink and purple and blue and red have touched their spirit and brought them closer to themselves. In fact, I can't even really say that most people are in awe of fireworks anymore. Awe is to grand a word. We do not experience even a scintilla of awe in reaction to what might once have been considered dragon's breath. We may aspire to marvel, yearn to wonder, even desperately attempt to adore what we see. But in reality, it is a fleeting fancy. A shiny bauble that passes the time before we move on to our next activity.

And then I saw a child in the crowd, and I wondered if I was wrong. Awe was surely what I read upon their face. Something as magical as peek-a-boo (which is far more interesting for scientific reasons than for anything else), but louder and bigger and more wondrous. In their giggle was such untainted joy. In their smile such genuine fascination. And every blast was an entirely unexpected surprise. And here I was. Sitting like an idiot. Wondering how best to capture the moment with my limited vocabulary.

Naturally, what followed was a quick spiraling into emotional and intellectual self-flagellation, but we need not discuss that now.

The Texas Renaissance Festival was a blast, no pun intended. I enjoyed the whole day, though my body is paying for it with pain. (I really should explore the wonders of stretching and regular physical activity.) We saw a man eat mud. We watched whips ablaze crack in the morning sky. There was a very brief interlude with a man and his falcon. There were many, many, many lewd jokes. Ones which I rather wish I had not heard in the presence of my mother. Mostly, I just enjoying being with my family. Just being. Not performing. Not impressing others. Not working. Just being.

And the being is probably the most remarkable occurrence of the day. In general, I dislike being. It's a natural side effect of major depression. When I am not occupied by obligations, I tend to find solace in sleep. It's difficult to be aware of your pain when you are not conscious to it. No agonizing over forcing myself to eat.  No anxiety about calling yet another person about their past due bill. No pressure to sell, Sell, SELL. No fear about the inevitability of aging and all the suffering it brings. Just blessed nothingness.

But I spent the day, an entire day, awake, alert and active. Outside. Walking around. Amongst people, of all things. People! All sorts of people in all sorts of outfits from all sorts of walks of life. You know you're not in a great place when people are surprised you can spend a weekend out of your own bed.

"I get out!" I protested.

"So you just gon' lie right to my face," she retorted.

And that was literally our conversation.






I'm thinking I should go to bed. I just waxed poetic about watching fireworks, and now I'm resorting to fragmented conversation to fill the page. Blegh.


I want to write something creative. Something to remind myself that I am a good writer. Not that I was, once upon a time, a budding bit of brilliance. (Ha! Alliteration!)


Perhaps if I attempted to tackle NaNoWriMo. I tried that once. There are authors who spend at least a month planning in advance. What would I write about? Shall I re-vamp an old story? Should I build off the broken pieces of ideas that litter this old dust bin of a blog?


(Dear Reader, I am not rambling as it is 12:21 am and I really should be asleep. Feel free to stop here.)

What if he's...normal?

What if he's normal?
What if there's no spice in his soup?
What if he calls and I can't answer to something as pure and empty as the wind?

What if he's normal?
What if his fancies aren't tickled by the same stars?
What if he looks into the sky and sees a different moon?
One that is featureless, and plain, and safe

What if he's normal?
What if he can't spell kinky and has no interest and learning how?
What if a ball and chain is nothing to him beyond marriage, and I am little more than his partner?

What if he's normal?
What if I have to play pretty for the rest of my life, just to maintain happy?
What if bland is what life requires and there is no escape?

What if he's normal?
What if there's no kink in his wire, or swag in his step?
What if my fantasies were never destined to take shape?

What if he's normal?

What if he's normal?

What if he's normal?




And I am not?

Potential

I saw a Twitter post recently, listing the things women get hooked on that lead them to hang on to unsuccessful relationships, and one really struck me. Potential. We see potential in a guy, and we cling to the dream of what he could be. What he could accomplish. If he has enough time, if he has enough money, if he has enough support... If, if, if.

And, quite frankly, I don't know what to do with that. I see potential in everyone. It's one of my probably misguided, but unshakable core beliefs. Everyone has something to contribute to the world in a way only they can do it.

So when you believe such a fanciful thing, how do you stop yourself from seeing the potential in everyone? And if clinging to that hint of potential is what brings relationships to their downfall, how do you avoid that? I will never be with a partner I do not believe is capable of great things. I also think most everyone is capable of great things. And thus, I am in a conundrum.  How do I weed out the guys who will end up complacent and unsatisfied in all things, when I can see that they are capable of more?

I don't have an answer. Because Einstein, in all his brilliance, had a wife who suffered through his inability to hold down a job. Who raised the children and helped with his theories. Who sacrificed herself on the throne of history so that her husband may one day be deemed a good man. Though I doubt that was less her motive than a socially instilled duty to stand by her husband at all costs. And where has that led her? Into the oblivion.

But some men become truly great, and perhaps it is sometimes because they have truly great women behind, or even better, beside them. But how the heck do you know who is destined for greatness, and who will end up destitute in a stranger's basement until their next "big idea" takes off?

History is littered with women who "stand by [their] man". Some end up reflecting the brilliance of stars, and some die an ignoble death in the infidelity of public opinion. And, on occasion, some are seen bathing in the imaculacy (I've now made that a word) of their own light. Without another to validate or magnify or in any way alter their greatness.

Anyways, I'm going to bed for now. This has been yet another stream of consciousness by yours truly, destined to forever be lost in the void.

Journal Entry

Despite my best efforts, this has become a journal, of sort. No one cares enough to read this. A broken collection of incomplete works by an unknown author. Though my positive affirmations say I will one day be the author of a bestselling book.

But as it stands, I am still myself. Anonymous at best, nonexistent in reality.

According to my therapist (and what decent writer doesn't need a therapist?), I am supposed to write about how I have been abandoned. Stream of consciousness. No filters. No grammatical policing. Just a free flow of thought. Well, she's got the advanced degree and I don't...yet.

___________

How I Have Been Abandoned: A Rant

I cannot help but feel that, in some way, everyone has been abandoned by their family at some point in their lives. It is how we develop ourselves as individual beings. So let's start elsewhere.

Is it possible to be abandoned by friend you never truly had? For those who had never pledged any sort of loyalty to desert you? I don't think so, but perhaps it still happened. I didn't really trust my friends in high school. And I completely distrusted my friends in middle school. But who among us can honestly be trusted for anything in middle school?

I always seemed keenly aware that I served a purpose for others, should they choose to subject themselves to my company. A homework helper, a shoulder to cry on, a fatter friend, a black acquaintance. My purpose was to fill a need and never to go beyond that.

I think I always felt that way, but its truth became starkly apparent upon the divorce of my parents. It was sharply clear who I could talk to and who I could not. And the number of people I could trust to care about my feelings and struggles was an absolute zero.

I remember thinking I could trust someone because he had told me how he was hurting too. Being older now, I cannot truly fault him for it, but at the time, when I told him about my parents' divorce and the ensuing craziness, his simple "oh" burned. It didn't matter that I knew he had placed seventh in a skating competition, or that I worried and cared that he had trouble eating because he simply didn't care. It does now, in the light of hindsight, but at the time, when I so badly wanted a lifeline, it was as though I had created a Brutus that never wanted to be such.

Perhaps we should talk about my "abusive" boyfriend. I use quotes because emotional/mental abuse does not count for so many people. It counts for me when I think of others, but it is meaningless when I consider myself.

I sat on the other side of a table while my father said it was my fault that I was here, and that he couldn't help me out of it because it wasn't a problem he made. Sure, he used different words, and my interpretation may be skewed, but that's what I heard. A problem in your life does not constitute a problem in mine. Which is fine. But it's also not fair to be hurt when you were not informed of the problem with which you would not help. It's not fair to make your claim to righteousness while your daughter cries in front of you at a fancy restaurant while the waiter awkwardly tries to ask if you want dessert.

I have been abandoned by boyfriends who wanted sex, physical pleasure, emotional satiation from someone not healthy enough to give it. I have been abandoned by a therapist who freaking FELL ASLEEP while I was talking to her about my problems.

I have been abandoned by friends who don't understand my inability to maintain contact because I can hardly get out of bed.

And I could go on and on and on. But what good does it do? I understand the abandonment in most cases. It has been well deserved, and to pretend otherwise is to play the victim and complain endlessly.

Maybe I have been abandoned, and that's why it's such a hook for me. I hear someone's been unjustly abandoned, and I am willing to sacrifice even my well-being to try to be there, to be something good for someone. It's like a trigger. And I hate it. And I hate myself.

But...what else is new?
____________________________________________________
Update: More stream of consciousness

I've been abandoned by every guy I ever liked.

The first was a sweet and kind-hearted person who felt the need to pretend for those around him.

Then, SEVERAL years later, I liked a guy who wanted me to want sex more than I could at the  moment. And in his need to be validated by having sex, he left me in the dusty cold of virginity. Not only alone, but thoroughly unwanted. Because who wants to wait for someone who a) suffers from trauma and can't accommodate you anyway and b) is interested in waiting until marriage for that final, sexual satisfaction?

In the mix have been several boys I have only liked because someone told me I was supposed to like someone at all times. 1) That one guy in high school who married the girl you'd always wanted to punch in the neck. (Not really, but maybe a little.) 2. That one guy who was partially faithful to several girls at once. And that's actually about it.

UNTIL, I fell in love with a lovely Australian boy. But I won't tell you about him because no one cares.


And now, now?

Now what? Therein lies the problem.

Invincible

It was somewhere between a heartbroken cry and a roar of anguish and rage. Panther blood forced through human veins taints more than just the instincts. Right now, she could feel her pulse split between the slow defeat her human soul felt on the horizon and the disgusted anger that beat through her hybrid heart.

Her skin showed the web of scars that stood as testament to her internal suffering. They all seemed old, despite the constant abuse her skin, the color of Savannah sand at dusk, contrasted by the striations the wind had rendered upon its surface, withstood from inhuman nails blended with blades wholly unnatural. Regeneration was as common to her bloodline as the demons that plagued the minds of those the world thought invincible.

Invincible. If only that weren't so near the truth. She could have ended her pain so many decades ago, so many fractured friendships ago, so many lost loves ago. Instead, her eyes traced the uneven surface of her bedroom ceiling while wounds an inch deep ceased to stain her satin sheets, retreating to the gentle discoloration of another ancient scar.

They had called her ancestors Wolverines, knowing little of how that same ferocity inspired anguish in the minds of those who bore its gift. They had served in wars and hidden in peace, laid open the road to new and better civilizations while slashing through the crumbling tapestry of hateful regimes better left forgotten. And now, they had culminated in her. She was a queer blend of the Wolverine and Panther bloodlines. Brown skin marking the darkness of night that pumped through her veins, both tempering and amplifying the vengeful rage upon which her Wolverine heart survived.

Her existence was no less than poetic. And every day, she hoped to end the stanza, close the piece, bring silence to whatever artistic throat uttered the destiny of her people in such pretty, and inadequate, words.

If her people were the heroes, then the antagonists would surely be the Sabretooths. The clans were not always at war, but they were locked in an eternal dance of passions that raged from the fiercest hate to the deepest love. Generations shed blood and gave birth, hunted, mated, did everything but live normally. When at peace, or even bonded by love, the two groups melded so sweetly, amplifying their strength and countering the weakness in the other. The discord of their rivalry was equally striking.
___________

I wonder where this should go...