Things are going… well. There’s not a new day that I’m not surprised that I’m no longer tied to the train tracks, thrashing against ropes and blindfolds and gags.
No one escapes unscathed, and as the wounds scab over, it’s hard not to wonder what to do with the scars. Not just mine, mind you. Triggers trigging triggers is more than a play on words, and when it comes to integrating with an entire gender that I have historically followed astray, I have to be super mindful of my scar tissue. What’s more, at my age, my peers have likely experienced their own trials and tribulations, and as their keloids brush against mine, everyone has to work so as not to take anything too personally. Filtering reality through the muslin of trauma can feel pretty strange, at least when it comes to interactions that delve below the surface… and it’s not like I have those very often. That’s another thing I’ve realized as I’ve gotten older: authenticity is not easy to find.
Sometimes I find myself thinking about people and things that just don’t serve me anymore. I suppose I’m just used to it; it may take awhile to adjust to this new, smoother existence. It’s almost like these musical genres remind me of who I once was, and I get a kick out of remembering that person, a sleepy person who I no longer have any desire to be, but whose trappings feel dreamy and hazy and familiar. Maybe I’m worried that person is still in there, awaiting the opportunity to surface and shatter all I’ve worked so hard to build: normalcy. It’s hard for me to believe that I’ve built it on a lasting foundation, and why not? All of those other castles were made of sand. Maybe I shouldn’t spend too much time gazing down at her.
The winds are up again, and they’re whipping all sorts of strange thoughts through my head at 50 miles per hour. It must be all of those damned ions.
The road to a sea change isn’t always smooth, especially when it comes to cold turkey.
You maintain, because that’s what you said you’d do. You keep maintaining when the winds turn your logic upside down, because you trust that you were in a clearer state of mind when you originally made (or rather, agreed to) that decision to withdraw. The truth is, that was an impulse too, but you knew it was coming, that inevitable move off the pot. The only true whim was when it would happen, and it did, so now you have to follow through. Your ethics demand nothing less. Perfection or death.
Sometimes it’s hard to keep my gaze focused.
Someone, hell, make that plural; always ends up hurt.
Riddles allow for expression when communication would mean desertion.
New Built to Spill.
Radio silence doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten.
I’m a baby. I’m in a stainless steel sink, and I am smiling at my mom smiling at me. She washes me gently, and the warm yellow glow of sunlight pools around us.
I don’t know why this memory has returned to me, nor why it makes me cry every time I think or talk about it. Even writing this now, the tears stream down my cheeks and I sob. I remember the quality and direction of the light. I remember the love.
Maybe it’s because my mom was so happy then. Maybe it’s because of all the promise sweetly held in that moment. Maybe it’s because, as an adult, I can fully cherish the true beauty of that love. Maybe it’s because I feel, to my core, what it is to surrender to the loneliness of being alone. Maybe it’s the antithesis of where I am now, taking care of myself.
I’m not entirely sure.
I want a love in my life that feels like pinback’s pandora station.
I don’t know if it’s my pressing schedule, my home life, or relationships, but I’m feeling the strong urge to self-destruct. Fight or flight? My fight impotently turns inward, and there’s nowhere to run. At least, I mostly have stopped running, but without those coping mechanisms I am going crazy.
I’ve tried to avoid telling my friends what is going on. We don’t have that kind of relationship anyway. And my family? They are a major part of what’s going on, so I save it for my therapist. Thing is, I’m running out of energy. At least today I have. Between dealing with my mom, who doesn’t remember the things she says when she is drunk (oh, but I do), trying alone to maintain a semblance of order in a house of three adults, one disabled elderly man with just too many health issues, three dogs, and two cats, and managing my own life, I’m agitated and irritated. Compound that with my hypercritical and judgmental father and brother, and it’s so disheartening.
I have to keep reminding myself that this is temporary. I want to believe that, but like other things, I just don’t know if I really do believe. Of course, things could be worse. It’s just a fucking lot to shoulder alone, man.
My favorite uncle died.
The denial built up steadily until the funeral, when the dam crashed up, down, every way.
He was the best man I have ever known. His heart was his compass; his conscience was his guide. His death was glorious; his life was a psalm. Everything about this man was good and right and beautiful. He touched so many lives, in faith and in consistency, and his smile is burned into my heart.
I think of Neil Young. Cat Stevens. Roses. Communion. Community. Courage. The most steady, gentle, stubborn courage. Compassion. Service. Unwavering faith. Love. His slender frame breaking into song, his brown fingers strumming an acoustic guitar. Intellect… such philosophical, brilliant intellect, softened by bright eyes that held all the patience and understanding in the world.
Oh beautiful spirit, that I will find you again in time. I love you. Thank you for loving me, for guiding me.
Peace in merging with your buddy, the light of this world and the world beyond.