I’m having one of those moments when I fancy having ECT or some wild lightning strike come to erase my haunting memories. Something to zap them into oblivion so I can breathe again. I went to bed at 8:30, exhausted but too tired to sleep, so I read for awhile. Turned out the light, then back on, up to pee, then to write out a few thoughts, back to reading, toss and turn with my joint pain and struggles to breathe, turn off the light again. After turning out the light, the memories come, the terror returns, the guilt creeps in, the cowardice breathes its stifling breath taking mine away. I feel as if I can grasp one full, deep breath for every ten shallow breaths. It’s hard to differentiate between physical symptoms (like my nighttime asthma) from the visceral reactions of past psychological trauma and recall. One small thing can trigger this avalanche of burdens. And it triggers my asthma, tears can just run out without the usual accompanying sobs (like the other night), and just when I was feeling like I was finally over this latest rough patch, the emotional bullshit piles show themselves. Where does one hide this crap? How do you just bury your old self when it makes you who you are? I felt like I was so repressed for so long because I had buried it, I’d buried the girl I was, I denied her place in this world–my adult world. But now the ghosts come to the door, but they’ve no place, they just sort of sift about and remind me but serve only to distress my present moments. Fuck this head of mine.
I’ve put virtually all ‘Jedi’ work on hold. I just don’t seem to fit in any world right now except my own. I don’t even really know that I can label my experiences with any tag, I don’t know what they add up to. I feel a stifling aloofness to some of the things I read and I find it petty and it has made me second-guess things. It’s made me second-guess everything. I feel the tingles, I feel wisps of things, whispers in the air, but nothing obvious. Nothing like before Jan died. I think there is some lesson I need to learn from the silence and yet I’m absolutely terrified of it because it means my mind opens the dam to my chaos. The slow-leak poison becomes a storm of radioactive fury inside. When fear rushes in, so does rage. I had effective walls built up, why did they get torn down? Why did I not do every single thing in my life differently? Why did I have to taste the Goblin Fruit?? I suppose I should console myself with the thought that all of this is for a greater purpose, but try as I might tonight, the purpose eludes me. Taunts me. Sometimes I want to just scream into the Universe, “what the fuck is all this supposed to be?” and then I quickly quell that with an “ignorance is bliss” sigh of relief. I don’t know, I just really don’t know.
Earlier, when the night was younger and things were lighter, I was happily beading along with the Lord of the Rings commentaries, marveling as I always do at the magic created with the collective purpose of such talented craftspeople. I try not to linger on my thoughts of inadequacy as I work on my projects as we humans seem to obsess over. Instead of simply enjoying the process of doing the craft, we get hung up in being perfect at the craft. I appreciate a master craftsman, maybe more than lots of people do, but I try to remind myself that those of us who are the mediocre masses also have a place in this world, and I am here to claim mine. Some of us did not benefit from skills handed down, some of us had no traditions in our families other than getting by each day, some of us are completely divorced from our nationalities of origin and have little meaning in our lives in this world. I may not be the best at anything, I may never master a single thing, but I have a place in this world. So, while I don’t always feel that conviction (see above paragraphs), I will resolutely repeat it until I do believe it. I guess I’m getting a bit weary of those who are so fucking great at a million things while those that don’t flaunt it are seen as wallflowers unworthy of equal respect. I’m starting to believe that it is those very softspoken, blushing flowers still unplucked, still a field of wild grasses, swirling with all the others, that weave the most majestic magic of all. That it is what we do together that is truly wondrous, not necessarily what we do that singles us out. I’ve been pondering the idea that we are all cells in a giant cosmic cocktail, and alone, we’re really just a tiny cell and our problems and perceptions are equally as tiny. Important as a system, but expendable all the same. But I do hold a strong belief that it is the small things in life that make the biggest impact on the whole, so even us little cells doing what we do best, taking care of our own tiny universe, is as important to the Big Cocktail as a giant toothpick packed with cherries or a salted rim. Loving, laughing, playing games, making meals, walking in the sun, singing in the rain, trudging through the snow, crunching autumn leaves, caring for animals, bird-watching, smelling the roses, dancing under trees.