Wednesday Musings

I guess I wish that I had more to say. Something more profound or relate-able. I wish I could take this moment and paint a beautiful picture. Maybe not famous, but definitely seen. I want to be seen. I want to be a special snowflake and want to not need to feel special. What if I just was? Just am. Somehow I believe that inability to be special equates to inability to prove worth. What must I be worth? A damn. Somehow maybe I'm not enough or never have been or will be. It's troubling to accept thoughts as they are, but what else can we trust? Trust requires confidence and confidence in much of anything feels distant. Confidence in death and taxes, perhaps.

Cracks and Daunting Tasks

I often wonder if I am destined to be alone for the rest of my days. Relationships feel complicated in a way I don't understand and have yet to garner skills necessary for ultimate success. Alone in all my messy sickness and cracks. I shall not have children and even pets feel a stretch, I barely engage my cat and it feels awful. Still, he loves me and that feels enough for now. Once I lived in a studio and though, at times, I recall feelings of loneliness, I also remember being at peace. It is, however, saddening to truly believe that the only means for peace might involve catering my environment to only myself. Perhaps these feelings evolved after a life of being taught to best meet the needs of others, sometimes I believe now is a time for myself. For a bit or maybe forever, either way would not be bad. I do not necessarily wish to be defined by damages up to this point in life, but rewriting the pathways in our brains seems a most daunting task. I am not contented with the current status, but often feel overwhelmed by perceived pressures to mend myself sooner and not later. The knowledge that I could be hurting others and even myself presents as unsettling. I do not like it. For now, I just sit with it.

Wisdom of Trees and Imperfections

More than anything, perhaps, I want to be seen. We all wish to be seen. As alive. As humanly. As worth a damn. To have some larger purpose. Or even a smaller purpose, any purpose that feels like anything. Feeling like I'm going through the motions of living, just trying to grasp for even a moment of joy. I think I used to know joy. I think I used to write more eloquently or perhaps, not at all. Reflections on the past are a tainted means for gauging the present and future, I realize. Still, my brain seems bent upon reliance of past experience.

All the days off work have blended together and though I've done things, I could not tell you much of what has happened. I envy those who find ways of enveloping their pain into creative productions. At least there is some visibility of existence. I'm worried I'll fade into nothing, though we all do this some day. Dust to dust or something.

I'm sitting in the new extra room we rent and remember I hate this couch I'm sitting on. The cushion smashes down unevenly and sloppily under my weight. I like the visible filament of the light bulb, but the output of direct lumens agitates my eyes and by extension, my brain. Everything feels like a damn agitation and I feel exhausted by my own self.

This is only but a moment, but it's all I can gauge. It's difficult to trust my perceptions of anything, even of myself. I wish that life could flow through me a bit more simply, for as of now each minute can range from complete agony to moderate tolerance.

Yesterday I biked outside among the trees and didn't think of much of anything beyond what was in front of me. I long for more moments such as those, and for now I focus on the gratitude of that experience. It's a reminder of what could be and has been. Good things, even within a soul that feels like chaos.

I aim to be operational within imperfection. This writing, perhaps, just is. Not perfect and maybe not anything beyond a capture of my brain space in this exact second. Imperfectly perfect, I've read it to be called. Here I sit, agitated by the lights and sounds and business of my mind.  I sit.

Am

I am a somebody, even when I feel like a nobody. Like nobody special, nobody recognizable. I work on trying not to label my existence, so just remember that "I am."

I am a person.
I exist.
I breathe.

Not sure that I know much else beyond that.

Rebel Hearts Do Exist

Such an infrequence of things to say. This brain seems to function this way. Now, at least.
Perhaps the usage of medication stifled the spirit, rendered this heart a bit less rebellious. And yet, coming off the medication for which I'd essentially utilized to sedate myself into submission, I feel the spirit alive and well. The struggle has been learning to sit through the madness and intensity of passionate awareness. Life feels good and I am attempting to avoid taking rash action. Important, perhaps, to maintain a roof over my head.

Jobs are odd things. I wish my job didn't feel like work. I do not mind putting in effort or hours when it feels seen and appreciated and feeds the soul, but that is not this reality. I miss the dedication and optimism of being a freshly minted employee. Miss believing in what we stood for and all the walls we would crush. Now the only thing that feels crushed is my drive.

Realize I do now this job is proportionate to being in an abusive relationship. "Why don't you just quit?" they ask. And truly it feels like the rationale so many find infuriating when trying to understand the cycle of domestic violence. For me, quitting or leaving would be akin to admitting what feels like failure, slandering the representation of a person I have for so long admired and loved and longed to be like. So when you ask why I don't leave, it's not that simple and I don't expect understanding. That said, it's not to imply I don't recognize the flaw of staying in a place that triggers my deepest insecurities and almost revels in feeding a world view of limitation. As if to say, be grateful for what you have. Don't challenge this status quo and don't you dare speak ill of those in power unless you're ready to leave. And not only as if to say, but do they. They say these things.

I find comfort in knowing I'm not alone. Not in this work place, not in this life. Discontent abounds and reveals the notion of perfection to be a false messiah. I do not feel the desire to continue worship of this demeaning arrival fallacy. It might never be ok and yes, life is suffering and sometimes unbearable. But I don't know if I can, in clear conscience, continue to commit to the abusive destruction of this job. I am a human being with feelings, dammit. Maybe I can refer a robot in my stead.

Silver Journey

Perhaps these days I'm writing a bit more for myself. And not for the thrill of it. As the days meld into on another, I tend to glamorize my experience. If someone were to ask me, "how have you been?", my inclination is to respond with "good" or some such phrasing, but looking back over the documentation of each day, each moment, I see that it is not so accurate to say I am "good." Certainly there are moments of goodness, for which I feel much gratitude, but to exclude the times that are less-than-good is to proclaim an inaccurate picture of my existence. My last entry read like this:

"Feel tired and nervous about the cramping in my legs. Throat hurts a bit. Intro to Social Work class has been mostly good. Thoughts of going off medication all together. Wish for more time, more energy. Glad tomorrow is payday. Wish I lived in a country with better social programs. Feeling guilty about not being involved with my Mom and her care. Wish I could feel more or something. Not sure where I am or what I feel. I think I'm tired more than anything. I guess this is life. Shower and bed."

I can find the goodness in most anything. I always try my best to see or create the silver lining, but still I can't help but feel the loss of the sunshine in my heart and hints of optimism that things will be better. Maybe yes, maybe no. Maybe this is just how it is, an idea in which I find both comfort and terror. This is where I stand in this moment.
Peace to you. May your journey be only yours.

In the Grass

This heart of mine, it aches.
Depression or repression of the spirit, the definition of melancholy read. 
I focus on the gratitude that I feel for the many things in life. The stuff I know.
The sky so blue. The grass against my back. For accordion players and laughter.
Be grateful.
Be grateful.
Be grateful.
And I despise myself more than I realize. The active voice of hatred I used to have is gone,
but in it's place remains an underlying sabotage of goals and the havens I seek.
The battle is a battle day in and out and moment by moment.
And then comes the gratitude in the mere moments that seem like they must be happiness.
This isn't the place I consciously choose to be, but here I am.
Journeys of healing never seem to be swift and I suppose that holds the purpose.
Because the gratitude I feel is real. So real, that I use it to remember I once knew joy.
Droves of joy.
Have known it. Will know it again, I reassure myself. Maybe yes or no.
But for now, I remain side-by-side with sorrow.
It is now, but I aim not forever.
For whatever can be forever...?
Neither smiles, nor frowns.
Developing the mechanisms to handle the ups as well as the downs.
This moment: the only one I have.
I breathe the air and remember....I am breathing.