This is why I chronicle excerpts of my life in this blog, because it is great fun to go back and read things I've written and get the luxury of now being completely detatched from those feelings, rereading them on a clean slate and wondering what I was thinking and feeling at that time. Quite the head trip. For instance:
I think and feel myself into being totally overwhelmed by the inertia of life now and then, usually generated from too much introspection. This is generally a good thing as it brings self awareness and validation via dragging yourself through the indignity of being your own worst enemy, but not so good when you feel fragile and weak and low. It happens to us all, and I try very hard to look for the blessing in it and not be sucked under by the hopelessness of it, because that is very easy to do if you cannot remain vigilant and determined. Right now the blessing is that I'm not having to be anything to anyone, being that it is almost midnight on a Sunday and there's no one awake but me, so my timing for this is pretty good all things considered. I know that in some way I am still in control of my emotions and that in and of itself is reassuring to me. And yes, I am crying because the safest time for me to do this is when I am alone and there's no one around to see it and make me more uncomfortable by trying to console me or fix what might appear broken. It is so ridiculous to me, the one thing my instincts tell me to sprint into action for others is the very thing I eschew for myself. It is possibly my most hypocritical trait, and I loathe that about myself, but again - it is the truth and I see no reason to lie about it. Part of what I treasure most about myself is my ability to speak freely about my faults and insecurities
I go through these periods of looking at the good things I do for others and all of the joy that it brings me, because I truly believe it is what I am best at. There's just no balance because I don't know how to accept having the same done for me in return. It panics me into feeling out of control and makes me feel like I'm a consummate failure somehow. Like a bomb is about to go off somewhere and I have nowhere safe to hide and I cannot round up the people around me fast enough to get them to safety. It is something I've had to grow into living with. I used to cut myself until the blood would run and I'd get snapped into feeling something real and I could find focus that way, but I haven't done that in years and have zero desire to do that anymore. It doesn't wash over me in that same all-consuming way that it used to and I feel differently now that I've grown older. Part of what is so great to me about getting older is the discovery I occasionally get to make about myself where I confront a thing about me that I've spent a lifetime throwing energy at JUST to realize that the energy is wasted and I cannot reclaim any of it. It's ridiculously fruitless, and I detest wasting my energy. It is ten times more difficult getting back the energy you waste and it ends up being this vicious cycle of alternating self delusion and self indulgence, and really - what sane person wants that? Who the fuck has the TIME for it?
I may pretend otherwise every now and then, but I do get my feelings hurt on rare occaisions and it's harder to let that sort of thing go when I do because it sticks with me longer and therefore requires a longer let-go time. I'm not good at hiding my emotions, but I'm a master at covering up my hurt. I learned a long time ago out of necessity how to do that, so at this point in my life it has become second nature. I can sit at the dinner table eating my banquet of frustration without complaint, and smile at you while underneath I'm pinching myself so hard I draw blood, and even though I never do that sort of thing anymore it doesn't change the fact that I can. You can look me all over on the outside and not find a single scratch on me, but just turn me inside out once in a blue moon and I'm in pieces.
In Andalusia, one of the many delicacies they produce is called Mojama. It is dry cured loin cut of tuna, and it is something almost no one (besides those seriously into epicurean rareities) really knows about outside of Spain. It is cured in the same way, with salt and hot coastal breezes, since at least the Arab Conquest. Today, I feel like the tuna that stay tethered to their hooks in deep, cold, blue, fathomless waters, destined to be Mojama. Someone, somewhere, wants to come along sooner or later and gut me, rub salt into the exposed wounds, and leave me hanging out to dry in pieces. They want to consume me whole, make me disappear. And though I know this, know that they are going to try just because they can, I'm just tethered to this hook and cannot get away. So I wait to see just who my executioner is going to be, imagining their face and what their hands might feel like lustily slicing into my flesh. Imagining the surprise on their face when they get careless and cut themselves instead...
Some people wear their haloes too tight. I'd made a list a few years ago, and that last line made it on the list I gave to my old friend Toni who reminded me of it today. It made me think of something else It really is damn near impossible to take some folks seriously, no matter how hard they may try. Especially those who come at you smiling, knife in one hand and your throat in the other, just waiting to hang you out in the sun to dry.
I thought up a single line earlier while lying in my bed before the baby woke me up. I knew I was going to write a very long journal entry, but I wanted one line - one slice through my skin that gave a glimmer of the red ink inside to encompass it all.
So here it is. It is always the wound you cannot see that feels bigger than the one you can.
I feel it is almost impossible to achieve (let alone sustain) anything resembling joy lately. What I think is happy is really fleeting in my head - except for the things that remain a constant. I suppose I'm dissatisfied with life as it is now. Don't take it personally you-know-who, I'm not even talking about you and besides - I've already told you that you worry too much. I chalk this all up to the change of seasons and my allergies, the weather being inconsistent and downright disagreeable, and the fact that I've had painfully illustrated yet again my belief that there are no absolutes and conversely few accidents.
Today I walked down the field of memory that exists somewhere in my head, and revisited places that I remembered as the happier points of what passed for a childhood. Yeah, I know, my childhood sucked - so did yours, blah blah fucking blah... It's an old story and an even older exercise in self indulgence to glorify it. Thing is, if I spend any amount of time recalling what good things I can retrieve from my past, they get convoluted with the things that were... What were they... Twisted? Horrifying? Who can say. Sometimes I think the stuff I carry around of my past, if for no other reason than because out of habit I don't know what else to do with it, I don't keep for the juxtaposition of my happier days. I'm aware of it, but it feels like it is someone else. I'm completely disconnected, even though I'm aware of most of it. I say this having posted just this morning about what a good mood I was in. That's one of the many pluses of being bi-polar/manic depressive, though - you have one high, and you forget the low that's coming. But believe me, that bitch is in the mail somewhere. You're licking the stamp for it and you don't even know it because you're too "up" and "happy".
Man, I'd give anything to right now be sitting at a bar with no one else around, a bottle of Glenlivet scotch, a Baccarat highball glass with two cubes of ice in it, a fresh pack of Camel Wides, and a silver Zippo. And a jukebox playing nothing but the songs whose lyrics are being dissected throughout this post. I want God to be real, and I want him to come into the bar and sit next to me so I can spit in his face and then give him my bar tab so I can say "You owe me more than this, but it's a decent start." and then walk out feeling better.