Mania To Save The Day

    Finally! Mania has finally made an appearance. I knew it was merely waiting in the wings, watching as I struggled through waist deep angst, fought against big, ugly demons. It waits, knowing I will fight my way through the latest chaos, the most recent drama. Mania knows I am stronger than I think I am. Mania knows I will rise to the occasion. My Mania knows me better than I know myself. Once I had dissected myself, exposing the bleakness at the root of my ongoing battle, Mania stepped up to help relieve me if the heavy burden weighing upon my soul. I know the core issue is still there, it did not magically disappear with the arrival of mania, but it has been tamed, forced into a corner, muzzled, sedated, until I have recovered enough spiritual energy to renew the battle.
    With Mania in the house, I knew my soul needed me to dance. I have missed my Manic Dance Party For One. And though I am somewhat hindered by recent surgical invasion into my troublesome knee, I strapped in and danced. Not quite with my usual reckless abandon, instead I relied on measured, sinuous movement. Music that caressed my body like lover's hands, encouraging flowing movement, flexing muscle, warmth, sweat. My soul needed me to dance. Dance renews me, empowers me, frees me to send my mind away from the day to day strife and off into the cosmos. Mania rescues me, Dance salvages my soul. Now, I am tired, but justly so. My muscles ache in a sweet, heated, post-coital way. I am relaxed beyond measure, tranquil, serene. I know that it isn't likely to last, but I will enjoy the afterglow while I can. Mania has arrived, I am saved.

Dredging Up The Past, Again

    I am not inclined to write about specific events, preferring generalization and symbolism to share my day to day weirdness, meltdowns and triumphs. But this weekend I got an email. Definitely an unsolicited email from the ghost of my past that haunts me most, and cuts deepest. A ghost that cut me to the quick, left me ragged on the side of the road, and still asks for absolution. I know that there is a point when I must find forgiveness if I am ever to truly heal from the deepest betrayal, devastation, humiliation and anguish that has ever been inflicted on the very core of my being. I know that, and yet, I don't know if forgiveness is possible. How can you damage someone so deeply, and yet still believe that friendship and love are a possibility? I realize that I have something deep inside of me that is broken, damaged, torn asunder. I am beginning to think that this damage is visible to prospective friends as a tainted aura. That this pall that has been cast across my features is partially responsible for my failure in the social arena in which I now find myself struggling to find acceptance. Struggling and failing. I find that I seem to have set myself up for multiple rejections. Friends wonder why I crawl into my shell, hide from the world, head for the sanctuary that is my home and refuse to emerge until the necessity of a paying job forces me into reality. And still I risk myself, my self esteem, my heart. I don't know why. Every minor rejection is an echoing reminder of a cataclysmic failure, the opening of wounds so deep they may last through eternity, the devastation of hopes, dreams and expectations. I was left hopeless, heartbroken, wounded, damaged, and deranged. It was not pretty. It was agony. The email made me stop and reflect how I am trying so hard to put that past behind me, to forget, to wish it had never happened. I am striving to move forward, but am being held back by a bitter past, and an indescribable, black emotion that stifles my joy. I need to confront my own damaged soul, deal with my own fractured heart before I can move ahead and into a new life, whether that be alone or with a partner. I know that others can see the damage as clearly as if I wore it tattooed across my forehead. It is a blight upon my cheerful nature, a curse upon my giving character. I know if I can face this head on, pull it from within my very being, dissect it, analyze it, understand it, that I may be able to beat it. I am beginning to see it as if it were a cancer that must be removed in order to restore my spiritual health. And in this sense, it will leave a void, a part of me that is lost forever, my innocence lost. I think that this is the crux. The reason I cannot find it within myself to find forgiveness. My innocence was taken, abused, discarded. Whether intentional or not, that was the outcome. My innocence is lost to me. My trusting nature has been sullied, and may never return. This is the true tragedy. Innocence lost. My Innocence Lost. I want it back. I want it back, but I know I ask the impossible. Maybe, just maybe, I can at least heal my trust. Relearn to trust my heart, to bare my soul, to not be guided by the memory of a pain so deep as to be unforgettable. And so, this email from my tormenting ghost, though it did dredge up grief, pain, tears, mourning, anguish. it reminded me that I must not turn my back on my own heart. I must reach through the haze of grief and heartache to find my trust, to heal my soul, to regain myself. I can do this. I must do this. If I cannot, I will continue living a half-life, and that is not an acceptable path. I will shed my grief. I will find my trust. My soul will heal. I will open my heart. I must, this is not an option.

Once More Into The Breach

    My demons were especially cruel last light, tormenting me, taunting me. Flaying me open to reveal fresh wounds and still tender scars. They are incredibly skillful, these demons of mine. Their timing is impeccable. They know to wait until I am at my lowest ebb, and it is too late in the night for me to reach out (though they know I reach out very rarely and only under extreme duress). So in the the darkness they ply their trade, with infinite accuracy. Targeting my weakest points they prod and poke with glee. I know they lurk in the shadows, watching my life, waiting for unrelenting hardship or ghosts from the past to interfere with my fragile stability. They know that the slightest touch from these ghosts will spill me from my questionable life raft, my leaking vessel, and spill me into rough seas, frigid water, the murky depths. There, floundering, I am vulnerable to any assault. My demons know this, and wait. They won't attack when I am feeling fleeting strength and stability. Oh no, they are clever little beasts. They know that when I am feeling powerful and rock solid that their attacks will be easily deflected. They will wait patiently, burning red eyes watching my every move, knowing that I will tire and my defenses will flag. I can only protect myself from the constant onslaught for so long before fatigue forces my shield to falter, to droop, my stalwart defenses to crumble. Then they will move in stealthily, under the cover of darkness, to begin their tireless assault. They are clever little monsters, these demons of mine. Clever, patient, diabolical, relentless. I kept my defenses strong and firm for weeks, despite a continuing onslaught, despite wave after wave of assaulting forces. I stayed strong despite the odds, regardless of the repeated blows against the shield of my psyche. But even I cannot remain stalwart forever, without reinforcements any fortress is bound to crumble against relentless bombardment. In through the breach my demons swarm. Their invasion has taken on a life of its own, as they plunge deep into my soul, attacking any and all weaknesses, creating weakness where there was none. I have no defense left. I have no troops to rally to my aid. I feel I have nothing. No way to combat the current invasion. At this point, the best I can hope for is to play dead, lay lifeless and unreactive as the demons stab at me with red hot daggers. I have to hope that if I can remain quiet and calm, they will give up their monstrous game, tire of exerting themselves with no payoff. In this, I am asking a lot of myself. Possibly more than I can withstand. Possibly more than can be expected of any mortal soul. But I am out of options. My play book has left me bereft of ideas. And they say that no battle plan will survive beyond first contact with the enemy. I can plan, devise brilliant defenses, but when reality hits me like a land mine, unexpected and hidden, damaging and painful, no tactic will survive that. But I know I must manage to hold out. Maybe reinforcements will arrive in the nick of time. Maybe the demons will tire of their torment. Maybe I will manage to win a final and absolute victory over my demons. No. That will not happen. I know the best I can hope for is to finagle a truce, delicately harness their energy, bend them to my will. They will never be beaten, never surrender. Not in any real sense. But maybe, just maybe I can reclaim a working relationship with my demons. I know that in many respects I need my demons, they fuel my creativity, and can be the driving force behind my mania. My demons can whip me towards success, out of sheer tenacity, if nothing else. Despite an near overwhelming desire to just lie down and give in, I must make myself refuse to give in to their onslaught. I will find the strength, somewhere deep within my soul, to rise up against them. I will find the power to resist the overwhelming desire to succumb to their assault. I know I can be the victor, at least not be the fallen. I have done it time and time again. But I am so very weary. I just need a rest. I just need a brief respite to gather myself, again, for the next wave. For I know that when darkness falls, they will resume their insidious poking and prodding. But I will be ready for them. I hope.

Mania, Gift Wrapped

   I am waiting for my Mania to come to my rescue. It is long overdue. Mania is the one reliable weapon I have during times like these. I feel as if I am being assailed on all fronts. Faced with bitter disappointments time and time again. I bury myself in projects, keep my mind occupied, push forward when all I really want is to curl into a ball and shut out the world. It is times like these when I seem to be blindsided by random acts of rejection and ghosts from the past coming back to raise the pain and angst of bitter disappointments. The sun loses brightness, the spring colors dim, I see the world through a haze, and wish it were not so. Where is My Mania? It should be here by now. I am clock watching, awaiting my tardy guest. Mania knows I can't maintain this level of darkness for long. Mania knows it needs to intercede, needs to my knight in shining armor. For I have no other hero to step up to my aid. No other paladin to rescue me from Me. Maybe Mania will be here tomorrow, when I wake. Maybe, if I am sure to send out a reminder, a wake up call, then Mania will surely come to my rescue. Of course it will come, Mania has never abandoned me, never left me to flounder for long. But I know that it may be just testing my mettle, setting back and watching as I fumble through the day. Mania smiles, knowing that I am being reminded of my need for it, making sure I appreciate it for the gift that it is. For my Mania is a gift, it comes wrapped in bright paper, with a beautiful bow, easily unwrapped, and always a delight. Maybe the gift will be here in the morning. I will hold that hope close. My Mania will come to me, save me, be my hero once again. Mania just has to remind me now and again that absence makes the heart grow fonder. I do love my Mania. I truly do.

The Price of Independence

    The aloneness of independence takes its toll. I pride myself in my strengths and ability to face life head on, alone, hiding fears, and moving forward despite the sibilant voices whispering in my ear that it is all too difficult. There are days when I want to pull the curtains tight, crawl into bed, burrow under my down comforter and sleep until the feelings of loneliness, despair and emotional exhaustion dissipate into the ether. But they never truly leave. They hover like vapors in my peripheral vision, reminding me constantly of their presence. I don't like admitting to myself that my independence comes with such a steep price. I know that I am often viewed as not wanting or needing any assistance, a partner, even a shoulder to cry on. I can even convince myself of such most of the time. But there are days when all I could wish for is another warm body present within the house, the sound of someone moving about in the other room, someone else to start the coffee in the morning. I think I would even be happy with a poltergeist, just to have that feeling that another sentient being inhabits my space. In the not so distance past I have allowed myself to be entrapped in a toxic relationship just so I would not be alone. Just so there would be one person in the world who would contact me daily. I weighed the situation and realized that my self esteem and self worth were far too valuable to spend in such a situation and so I broke free, despite the agony and desolation it caused. But now, alone, I could almost wish a return to what was at least a pretense of partnership, although I know I felt every bit as alone then as I do now. My life is never easy.
    Of course I know that this mood will pass. The darkness that threatens is always transitory. Even though it does lurk just around the corner, waiting a moment of weakness to pry its way into my brain. I know that my happiness does not hinge on the whims of others. My happiness is not tied to any other body but my own. I can take pride in my independence, even though I know it may drive away those that are intimidated by my strength, or those who have a need to be needed. I understand this. I have paid the price of the resolute loner. I have set my course. Someday, maybe, this will change. Someday, my strength and independence will be recognized as the beautiful thing that it is. I know this, I recognize it for what it is, but on days like this, it can be hard to convince myself.

Unabridged Me

    Rejection. I have slowly become accustomed to it. Sadly, annoyingly, frustratingly accustomed to being given the "Thanks-for-playing-we-have-fine-parting-gifts" pink slip. The whole of my life these last few years has felt like one failed interview after another. I get one opportunity to put my best foot forward, am judged, found lacking. Days will pass. Achingly silent days. And then the formal rejection arrives. I am beginning to think that I am the only one in the world who feels I measure up to whatever arbitrary standards are set by whoever it is that judges me and finds me woefully inadequate. It makes me doubt my own skill set. Makes me doubt my ability to fill the bill. I tell myself that it is because I am overqualified. The world is not ready for someone with my amazing skills. That I am so wonderful that others pale by comparison, and so I must be culled from the herd so others will not feel lessened by my presence. It is a good lie. And one I repeat often, especially at night when my demons gleefully remind me of recent failures.
    It does bring me to the edge of the abyss. I stare into the darkness that only recently released me from its grip. I won't go back. I refuse to let the abyss gain even the lightest grasp of my soul. But it is there, waiting. Patient as eternity. Repeated failures, continuous rejections, makes me doubt my choice to stay the course, be who I am, not present a false face. I want to be Me. The true, unabridged version of Me. I will not dilute myself in the vain hope that if I am just less Me than I will be deemed acceptable. I will not censor my glee. I will not edit my truths. I need to be everything that makes me the unique individual that I am. But I am lonely in my aloneness. The nights are long and dark. With each new rejection comes a moment of doubt. My stance weakens, my resolve wavers, if only for a moment. But that moment feels out of time and space, an eternity of fear, weakness, melancholy, panic, tears. It really is just a brief moment. A moment when I feel that the true, unabridged Me is not fit for publication, that I must censor, rewrite, edit, tweak, throw out entire chapters. I feel as if the world has deemed me unacceptable. And I don't know how to cope with that. And so I don't cope, I try to ignore the pain of rejection and move myself out of range. Yes, I do look back over my shoulder, analyze and reanalyze my actions and words, hoping to find some clue as to why I was not chosen, I look over every second, hear words, feel emotions, wonder at the failure, and convince myself that it is not me. I am not to be found wanting. I am the unappreciated, unclaimed prize. And this prize is not to be given out willy-nilly to the first person/job/situation who steps up to the plate. If I am rejected, it is not me that loses. I console myself with the knowledge that despite my aloneness, I am unique, I am being true to myself, I am unabridged, uncensored, unedited, raw, honest, and true to Self. That is where I stand. It is where I remain. It is Me. And I do not reject Me, I embrace Me.  

Disjointed And Disconnected

    Feeling disjointed and disconnected. Nothing seems to flow, everything has a hitch. I can't even form cohesive sentences, my brain, mouth and hands seem to be on different frequencies. There are days when I feel I have split into several personas; capable worker-bee, spaced out writer, confused gender, emotional spaz. All  of this, packed inside my skull with no persona dominant or in control. It makes me feel as though my own body and brain were pulling me in every direction at once. Highs to lows. In and out. Back and forth. No control, no cohesiveness, no plan of attack. And so all I can do is drift along waiting for an inspiration to pull me out of the quagmire that can be my brain. It isn't easy. I can't stay focused on a task, my mind wanders the dark paths of my past, and at times my brain is filled with a nonsensical jabbering/singing as if it is attempting to block outside interference. It is mentally exhausting. And I don't know how to regain my focus. I try a hundred different plans and ideas with no benefit. Instead I must just let my many personas wear each other out, until only the strongest is left in control. But it is exhausting.