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.
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.
F$@! The blanket of depression that was merely hovering on Thursday completely engulfed me last night. Halloween . . . a costume bought- perhaps, not perfect, friends, fun, dancing, and champagne had no ability to attract me. My night was instead one of tears. Thinking of Samantha’s blowfish analogy, I had become the perfect representation. My face bloated, wrinkled, and red. I cried. Read. And felt so very lonely. This trip to PR has been the first devoid of its magical ability to calm me and provide an effortless balance. My preceding trip to New York was also the first in which I began to find my cadence.
I don’t believe this blanket had one maker—rather a combination of various contributors. I was missing my newfound companionship in New York with the Journalist and the abrupt stop to promising relationship in its infancy with Dario, the Slavic breathe of fresh air. Knowing that the relationship could have flourished but was now simply a seedling left without nourishment. While I recognize that it will wait and be there upon my return, entering a world that is empty and leaving one that was fulfilling and promising provides a dramatic contrast that perhaps emphasizes the cons that always existed in PR.
Another contributor to this heaviness is one of my employees’ statements regarding a rumor from a wife that I party too much. This is far from the truth, but with this rumor in circulation, how can I easily portray a carefree party image when I venture out. Ironically, venturing out and having that persona may be the temporary antidote to my emptiness.
While contemplating this, I also realized some people happily own that party image while it is one I vehemently oppose. I think back to when my brother returned from the war and Bosnia after being gone for ten years- leaving me as a six year-old and coming back to a sixteen year-old, he transferred his teenage years onto me. I was barely a partier—social, but serious, too involved, too studious, too ambitious. The moments of partying were good for me. And I believe they still are. Yet, I can’t release the misguided judgments. Maybe, I simply hate when people perceive me to be something I am not. I wonder what other misperceptions truly affect me. Do judgments affect your actions?
It seems easy to normally act without regard to other’s opinions. Let them think what they will. However, here I am unable to shake it.
I wonder if it’s only misperceptions that challenge those qualities that define us, the ones that our aligned with our highest values . . . our identity.
Regardless, no me gusta Halloween and siento mejor. J I will write more about the Journalist and Dario later.