The process in between worlds is where things get really interesting. You learn how to manage your fear, how to stay present in the now, how to see in the dark.
I want a relationship where I feel entirely accepted. I want a relationship in which I know I am doing ok, doing the right thing, have the best intent, feel safe to be wrong, feel safe to be flawed, insecure.
May be the most valuable thing I have learned in the past 8 years, or so. If things get worse, just stop. Don’t try to change anything, don’t work harder, don’t resist. Just stop. Everything wants to find its way back to balance. Everything wants to find its way to okay.
I deprive myself of it. But writing is one of my things. The amount of things that go through my mind that I need to write down is really…infinite. Everything is meaningful. Everything is attached to a feeling or a question or a sense. Yesterday I was thinking…we have senses for a reason. We relate that way. Writing is a little indirect when it comes to being a way to relate or communicate, as it is not only visual but intellectual and perceptive and interpretive and ambiguous and infinite when it comes to meaning…but it is a sensual thing.
Writing is a sense extension for me. It feels like the worst thing to do sometimes, and the only thing there is to do other times. I can’t not write. Yet it feels like the long way around most of the time. I must though, take the long way around; use it as a learning experience, accept that it is part of the process. It is a self-prioritizing activity, writing.
Writing from Saskatoon at the moment. I am completely mobile right now. Sitting here, in a car dealership, waiting for my van to be examined and for them to do whatever it is they have to do. And all I am thinking about is what is happening hundreds of kilometres away. That’s what he does in my life right now. Make me think about things that are not in the moment. Make me anticipate and prepare all the time, as a way of avoiding more problems, problems that I myself do not author. There is so much to preoccupy myself with besides what is imperative for my own every day personal and professional life.
Writing it, I must. I have to write something, because that is my thing. I move on by continuing to write, every day.
The story today is, quiet and straight-forward for a few minutes. Easy and predictable near me. Upheaval and danger and chaos where he is. And I have to go back…really…
She drove up here last night. It was the last thing in the world that she wanted to do. Her body told her no. Her mind told her no. He begged and said he would hitchhike if she didn’t bring him back here. She can’t argue with him.
She is dirty now. She feels the saturation…
No sleep. No peace. No sanity.
He disappeared. He may not be back.
She is blindingly depressed at the helplessless.
Blindingly scared of the decisions, small and big.
There is a lot going on, even the moments before I wake up. Listening, watching, feeling…all are busy things. When I skip them I am anxious… When I skip water, when I skip praying, when I skip breathing.
The angst has been high. The squeezed feeling has been every day pretty much. I am drowning in my own passiveness. It’s growth time. And it hurts. Morning is a window, or a big door into the day, into how I feel the whole day. I forget the evening too… but the morning, it is the door that I must pass through in my own way.
This feeling is like a weighty moan in the background as I try to task orient myself. I feel it, but I can’t release it. I think about it, which doesn’t make it any less…loud or nauseating. Can’t choose what will feel better because…why? Because I think doing something will make things better? Because doing nothing is so difficult when feelings are nagging? Hollow inside, even though I am full of things to express and full of things I must do and the associated feelings of responsibility.
Importance: self expression, personally furthering activities and creations, feelings of togetherness and home.
This moment: gone already.
What does it mean to face the profuse loneliness head on and then speed off in the direction that life is pulling you?
It takes me by surprise and yet is maybe the most familiar thing. I thought I was on top of it. I thought. But I was feeling more than thinking. I am hopeless still. For a little while longer.
The pain is acute right now. It is the feeling of foolishness? Embarrassment? Shame? Disappointment? Abandonment? Another real shattered heart? One more time, someone not seeing, feeling, loving, taking care of my love for them. I feel like I get into a cruel game every time.
My Dad held out a pack of Juicy Fruit for me to take a piece when I was little. Couldn’t have been 5yrs old. It was a trick pack. Where a spring lets go and snaps onto the top of your finger as you pull the piece of gum out of the pack. I thought it was cruel.
Not because of the gum.
Because the gesture was kind and the trick negated that for the purposes of his entertainment. Story of my life?
I am feeling icky…bigger than icky. The profusely needy, lost part of me that still searches for the kind of love that does not leave – how do I soothe her. I look for the kind of love that does not flap in the wind. That does not second-guess itself, re-evaluate itself, rationalize itself away, chuckle at itself for having been foolish, used, entertainment.
In a moment, or 10, I think I have found it the love. But I created the illusion again.
The love is in me but not in others? Is that it?
I can not argue for other people’s feelings. I can not know for them.
What do I truly know for me? I know deeper things in everyone. But that does not help.
Do I know deeper me? Do I know my own tendencies to commit, and then to block out what I can receive from the person or love I committed to? Do I know myself? Am I rightfully cautious? Or foolishly?
Maybe I don’t want to know myself. Because working out why I block out love is too much work for lowly little me. Do I just filter it out? Do I love conditionally? Am I genuine?
Am I truthful about having a broken heart?