I understood myself only after I destroyed myself. And only in the process of fixing myself, did I know who I really was.
– Sade Andria Zabala
I used to think I understood this quote. On some level my soul recognized its truth, and I knew it meant something for me. A blurry old friend I never remembered making but KNEW I was intimate with even if I didn’t recognize their face.
This is me staring out into space, clicking on new song after song to the point that I’m so desensitized by the sound of new music that I’m not even sure how to figure out if I like a song or not.
This is me holding two different writing books, one of them open with the cover facing me, because I’ve felt inspired to read them. But I can’t quite seem to grasp much.
This is me watching re-runs of NCIS and wondering what I’m going to cook for dinner for the crazy masses. Because the Great Food Person is stuck on *blank*.
This is me looking at bookmarked quotes, and again, feeling desensitized to the point of wondering if I even like that quote. Does it have that spark? Or am I just losing touch?
This is me doing, I don’t know what.
I haven’t written in over six months. I’m finding it’s a good thing. I’m starting to see, in this non writing excursion of the brain, that it truly, really, desperately is a part of me. I’ve just lost how to take what’s inside me and to put it onto paper. I’ve lost touch with how to breathe life into the stories in my mind. Instead, I basically take a cut and dry plot of what I’m supposed to write and rigidly stick to it. I’ve figured that part out. Now the part I gotta jump on? The figuring out how to write like Daphne Shadows part.
I’ve lost touch all right.
What’s that quote? You are a soul and you have a body. I’ll have to look that up so I can give credit. And quote it correctly.
I’d say it’s been one of those days, but that’s all I’ve got to say lately, it seems.
“Been one of those days.”
What does that even mean, really?
That I’m lost inside somewhere, waving a white flag, hiding behind a rock, and wondering when the blood will stop pouring?
Maybe that’s not it.
Maybe I’m wondering when the blood will start pouring.
Or damn, just start bleeding at all.
Don’t they say you have to lose yourself, get totally, fabulously and hilariously lost before you can find yourself?
Whoever “they” are, they forgot to tell me about the ‘meantime’ in their little spiel of knowing everything about everyone, ever.
I don’t think they leave out the things we REALLY NEED TO KNOW on purpose… okay, yeah, I think they leave it out on purpose, just to torture us.
I feel like my days are a consistent, ‘still clueless, working on it, learning, figuring it out, but not entirely sure what I’m doing or when I’ll ever be healthy, but I’m functioning and life is getting better’.
That’s good, right?
It’s better than what was.
But what do you do when you’re throwing all the garbage out, day by day, as you find the things you’re thinking, the rules you’re living by are just that, garbage… what do you do when you’re just left only one honest thing: I don’t know.
It’s a sort of blankness.
An honesty which is asking a question, but knows it’s still too vulnerable to ask it of anyone.
And why ask someone on the outside?
Don’t I know me?
I don’t really know myself at all.
I’m in here somewhere, I’m certain of that. The tricky part is the finding of myself, one sliver at a time. It takes time. Ugh. It takes so much freaking time.
Who put a time limit on it?
I put pressure, rules, ideals, beliefs that do nothing but hurt me.
Who cares where I got them. I’m using them on myself. That’s all that matters anymore.
I’m not good with messy when it comes to my knowing, my ability to be a perfectionist in all that I do and all that I show the world. But that’s just so damn fake. And I am so very tired of fake.
Messy is how it is. It’s all I’ve got. And I keep fighting tooth and nail to be more, to be better, to be prefect.
I’m finally realizing that I can’t do that.
Can’t be that.
No one can.
I think I have this picture in my head of how this world is but it’s utterly and madly incorrect. Laughably so. So naïve. Or ignorant. I’m not sure which. Maybe both.
What do I want out of life?
I guess until I can answer that question, nothing will make much sense.
There are so many questions I’ve never asked myself. So many questions I don’t even know. It’s always been, ‘What does life want out of me?’
My advice? Don’t ask yourself that. It’ll screw you up in both the heart and the head.
Maybe, what do I feel? Or better, what makes me feel? No, that’s not the right wording. … Jeeze there’s a lot of these: …. What are those things called?
WHAT KIND OF WRITER CAN’T REMEMBER THE FREAKING LABEL FOR:
What causes me to feel something authentic?
There. That’s the question.
What causes me to feel?
Bloody hell – what do I feel? When do I feel?
My fingers are freezing. My hands are freezing. Maybe I am feeling a little cold. It’s strange to be a stranger inside your own skin. I think that’s a song or something. Whatever. Its true.
Do you ever think we’ve over used and cheapened things to the point that what is cliché shouldn’t be? It merits being real but we’ve killed it. Buried it. Laugh at it. I think the only thing that’s real that isn’t cliché at this point is love. And even that has spins and takes that are cliché now.
Anyway. I don’t know what’s going on in my head. Everything inside my chest is confused, conflicted. All the wires are crossed. What’s supposed to be beautiful is sticky with blood that hasn’t dried yet. Lines are being drawn inside me, and they’re not where I thought they’d be. Maybe they are. Maybe I knew this was coming. Perhaps that’s why I pretended not to see.
Does that mean the pain of denial is simpler, easier, than the pain of learning to live?
I don’t want it anymore.
My heart pounds and I’m so unsure, uncertain. But its better this way. It’s right.
So what if I make a fool of myself. At least I’ll feel something along the way.
By the way, here’s that quote: “You don’t have a soul, Doctor. You are a soul. You have a body, temporarily.” It’s by Walter M. Miller Jr. and is often mistakenly said to have been said by C. S. Lewis.