As summer comes to an end and events such as Hurricane Irene and random earthquakes mark moments that will forever be distinguished memories, I am left feeling a little untethered. I start the dialogue that summer has escaped me, that I’ve done nothing, but then my memory reminds me . . .
I live a life so many covet. If twitter followers are a mark of anything, in one week, moments, trips, meals and 6am cocktails are spent with “people” who cumulatively have over one million followers, and that’s just four of them. I laugh. I dance. I am proud of my business. My body. Grateful for my friends. But I float . . and I feel as if days pass and mean nothing. Perhaps, it’s that being single, now for an extended period, having a small company, and living away from my family leaves the life I live to be simply lonely. . . . but connection cannot be dependent on finding the one.
So here I am. Making a decision to reengage. With myself. And change my decisions. To start- instead of watching tv (mindless and unrewarding with the exception of the escape provided) I am writing. Thinking. Deciding to figure out how to use every moment to be more alive . . .
As I walked to my car, I sat, forehead in my hands, the door ajar. The rearview mirror reflected a glimpse of hollow eyes. Dry. Eyes that longed to be wet. Once again, there were no tears to be found—it seems these days there never are.
As I drove over the bridge I asked for them, pleaded, floodgates open, please. Unanswered. Surrounded only by a desert of emotions.
My father called. The father who has only become a figment of that role in the past year. And I shared, divulged the subconscious torment that was beginning to unveil itself to my conscious. On the surface my emotions remain unscathed, but a teardrop that crawled down my face upon hearing my mother’s name two weeks ago proved that the truth lies elsewhere. My shoulders have also become the physical manifestation of my repressed emotions. The pain so intense I forked over $180 last Wednesday for the only massage I could find at 8pm. The gift of our bodies.
Psychological pain syndromes are actually defense mechanisms designed to cover up sensitive or unresolved emotional issues. The subconscious mind feels that these issues are so threatening to the well being of the individual, that it will do anything to prevent the issues from becoming conscious. This process is called repression. When repression is not enough to guarantee that the painful issues will remain hidden, the subconscious will create psychosomatic symptoms to preoccupy the conscious thoughts of the individual. This conscious focus on the pain is a very effective means of making sure that repressed emotional issues remain well hidden.
This in combination with the sabotaging of my relationship Monday night had me convinced I was a psychological, repressed mess. I must figure out how to fix myself, again. Thoughts of seeing a therapist danced in my mind. I thought of S, his stability and my contrasting instability. The cards dictate that I am destined to be single.
I initially attracted S because I was in a stable period, inspired by a new project of my own making and in love with my life’s ability to grant me to time to enjoy my passions. We matched . . . temporarily. Now, I am complex, messed up, and a saboteur.
But then came my father’s words. Advice, a first. He told me, “It doesn’t matter how messed up you think you are—what matters is that you share who you are with that person. The person then has the ability to meet your needs or not. The right person will want to learn how.” Such a simple truth, one I have known but knowledge and application are not the equivalent. My father’s multiple dictations of the above allowed it to permeate, a calm overcame me. I stopped worrying about whether I fucked up. I emailed S with an explanation. I shared how I work. The outcome was not in my hands or tied to my actions. Relief.
This morning I felt something I never had. As if my father gifted me another leg on which to stand. I noted my solitary life and my limited internal reach of my emotions. I realized how precious speaking is. How vital support can be. It’s not something built in my life and often when I seek, my calls are returned unanswered. But, for now, I am stronger, balanced, and once again, myself. And my shoulders feel a hell of a lot better.
I have encountered an unfortunate recurring problem. With each extreme high, I dance. Enjoy. And then sink. Today I drove. Thinking of how grateful I am for my life. In disbelief. And now, I sit. Empty. Shake it. I say. S. Work. Dreams. Stress. Balance. Moments out of movies. And then a lull. Mundane. And disconnected.
Tears. Are stuck inside. As i paid my bill to a meal that I couldn’t eat, I thought the floodgates would open upon leaving. For once my face would be kissed with tears. I was wrong. I walked to the ocean. Stared into a darkness that was only interrupted by the saliva of the waves crashing. Fought the torment. The desire to numb. Feel the pain, I plead with myself. I question, what does that mean.
I write as I fight the path of which offers comfort. A support that I can offer myself. Requires no one. It calls my name. yet, I have been so good. So proud. The consequences swirl insignificantly to the strength of the solace, my drug.
I fight. I try to write. I sit here, in torture. With this pain, this keyboard and words that are not flowing. Words that are not healing. The sadness stuck behind these veils that are eyes. The pain, this void is inexplicable.
This morning my tear ducts were also activated, yet also not fully employed. But the catalyst was happiness. A fragment of a dream. A passion felt. A plan. It still breathes, but my heart is suffocated, constrained and I wonder how it continues to beat. I hurt.
I am on the brink of something that awakens me, the me that has long been asleep. So close to finding a feeling that I forgot how to feel. Passion. Yet within the same day, now I sit, hollow. Lonely. I think of the players in my life, the cast of which I write. I think of the texts that fill my phone. And the texts that escape it. I breathe, move and live with a void. The highs, the dreams, the excitements I have felt only emphasize that I am not whole. That there is no companion, family or friend with whom to share. That when i need, suddenly no one is there.
. . . And the pain that this is me. And it will be, always.
Why are evenings always my worst enemy? Trying to not succumb
The fallen flowers are hula hoops. A finger, come hither. I should be dancing and swirling within. My hands (and elation) should be in the air.
Yet, I am leaning against the taupe concrete, simply watching. The gray skies creating goosebumps. I had to come outside. I couldn’t breathe. Hollow. However, I met the death in the air. There is no reprieve here. I pace. I stare at my reflection. I want to sit. Rest my head within my hands. Want to cry, but there are no tears, there never are.
We finally signed. The deal. The reason I stayed. I pressed forward and drafted my excitement. The to field taunted me. With each name I started to type, I pressed delete to each letter. There was no one.
No constant. No recipient for I already started building my cage. A cage to protect. Others.
But I am left ravenous. Craving a him to my her.
I lay in my bed. Perpendicular. Every which way. My body, immobile. Unable to get up. It has returned. Clouds of indifference. A thick fog over motivation. I was asked about this unmentionable the other week. I happily noted, dormant. I suppose I said so too soon.
It has returned. With increasing attendance. The voice in my head to escape, a devil on my shoulder. I forgot how powerful he was. Its habits, seemed long removed. But, now they are here again. Sunday and Today. I dealt with the consequences. I fear that this voice will grow louder if I don’t stop it now. But, how?
Why am I so sad that I must escape? Why can’t I logically recall in those moments that the short escape has far worse consequences.
Addiction. It’s a curious thing. The fuel behind it is often not the chosen escape, be it drugs, alcohol, food, sex, etc. The addiction lies in the decision. The decision provides one with control, when life seems to be offering none. An addict is calmed before they reach their drug. Soothed by the option- the voice speaks and they imagine their acquiescence. The drug is support. Self-provided. You need not be vulnerable to someone else..
An ability to mute thoughts. Stand at the helm.
Numb. Escape. Control.
I think I would prefer tears.