Well here I am, sitting in my fave seat in my fave White Spot, tippity typing on my tablet’s virtual keyboard, and contemplating life.
I am oot and aboot today because my check was late due to the postal strike (grr) and did not show up till yesterday, ergo today was my first chance
to cash the goddamed thung. Lucky my bank (Vancity, represent) is open from 9:30 am to 3 pm on Saturdays, otherwise I would have had to wait until Monday, and that would have been a huge hassle and probably led to my having to borrow money from my friends.
Andci haaaaaaate borrowing money from my friends.
So that was my motivation to get my behind out of my room and out into the cold cruel world.
It’s been fine.
Took a cab to the bank. What the heck. It felt like luxury.
And now I get a little day out where I can have a nice lunch then do a little shopping at Pricesmart (shop smart… shop Pricesmart) before taking a cab home again for some well earned laziness.
It’s just like I’m people!
There’s. so little content in my life that merely running a few errands feels wonderful because, for this brief glittering time, my
life has direction and purpose.
Why I cannot provide this kind of purpose for myself is the million shekel question.
My best guess is that there is something wrong with my connection to my life force and the world. There is just plain not a lot of life in me, and there never has been. I have always delicate and hesitant and ready to bolt at any second.
It is an id thing, of course. My rape severed my connection to mine as I retreated into my mind in order to deal with the trauma. I guess I died inside in order to survive. What was left of me was fragile and trembling and unsuitedunsuited for survival like a chick who hatched too soon.
Like I keep saying, I can feel what is missing in me. I look at healthy people and marvel at their strength and vitality. Compared to them, I feel like a chalk cartoon of a person, flat and empty and only superficially appealing.
Back home now, and feeling okay. Saturday has return to its usual calm. Life is good, or at least, not currently actively painful.
That will have to do.
Now, on with the angst!
Now I know that what I am saying is crazy. By that I mean, the product of a thought process distorted by mental illness and thus not representative of reality.
But this is about how I feel. So let’s just take “crazy” as our baseline and move on.
This lack of vitality of which I speak, combined with the chilling numbing effect of depression in general, is why I am always going on about being dead on some level.
Well, if you lack life force, what else can you be but dead?
And I want to return to life. To resurrect myself. But there are some very deep problems I have to overcome first because as much as I want to return to the realm of the living, I am also terrified to do so.
I have been keeping my skeletons in the deep freeze of my heart for a very long time now, and as a result, there’s an awful lot of them. When the adrenalin and life force start pumping, those skeletons start to wake up and it feels like if I don’t clamp down hard on that adrenal response, I am going to be torn to pieces, Night of the Living Dead style.
Probably not a realistic fear but tell that to my amygdala.
And life kinda sucks when you live in mortal fear of your own adrenaline. In fact, I am thinking now that a lot of my anxiety comes from that inner conflict.
The healthy part of me wants to restore life to my cold dead flesh and leave the shadow of my icebound castle to go out into the world and become what I need to become.
But the depression thwarts it by responding to the increased heat by turning up the AC and freezing me out by at least as much as the heat was increasing, and often by a whole lot more.
That’s how my depression punishes me for trying to escape, you see. Via a wildly disproportionate response to a non-crisis.
The paralells with a facist totalitarian state just keep piling up.
So the struggle continues. Recovery, through this lens, is a process of learning to disable and suppress this instinct to clamp down on my own attempts to heal.
I want to live. I want to live. I want to live.
Repeat until believed.
The fear involved is a very slippery thing that is very good at hiding from all attempts to get a grip on it. I suppose that’s how it’s lived this long. And as long as that fear remains, healing is going to be a constant struggle.
One thing I know for sure is that the cure for my problems will not come in the form of self-analysis and endless blogging. Those work but they work very, very slowly.
In fact, it’s downright glacial.
So if I ever hope to speed up the process, I will have to think outside my tiny little box and start contemplating experiences that might help it along.
Dunno what those might be. Might be a trip to a Buddhist temple or some nice little out of the way Christian church of some friendly and middle of the road denomination where the people are nice people and don’t mind a non-judgmental secular humanist sitting in on their services and soaking up the vibe.
Or maybe it would involve me fucking my brains out at a gay bath-house or similar orgiastic type situation.
Whatever it takes to finally thaw me out and let me open my heart to the world without fear and without reservation.
Maybe then I can truly be alive.
Maybe then, the Blue Fairy will make me a real little boy.
Maybe then….. I will finally grow up.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.