Follow Your Dreams?

    For too much of my life I have allowed my dreams to be rerouted by others. Dreams, plans, schemes, wishes, what I want to be when I grow up. I do manage to find my way to fulfilling many of my hopes and aspirations despite often feeling railroaded into the dreams of others. A large part of my Nature is that I like making people happy. I enjoy making life happy for those I love, through things both small and large. There is a deep satisfaction to helping someone realize their potential, or find thier bliss. The flipside of this is that I often put my own dreams on the backburner while helping another attempt to find their path. This is problematic on too many levels. The biggest crime is that I often place my needs and desires secondary, and delude myself that their path is my path. The truth is that we cannot, and should not walk another's path, or try to lead them along our own path. I know that it would be ideal to find that soulmate who is walking the same, or parallel path, a companion to lessen that lonely void in the night. But solitude is preferable to being pulled away from your dreams.
    I allowed myself to be distracted from my dreams long enough that some of them became unobtainable. Instead of bemoaning my fate, I have chosen to strive for those dreams that are still possible, and realign my thinking about those that aren't. Just because some dreams have slipped from my fingers does not mean that I cannot rethink my future, find an alternate path, new Dreams.
    A hard lesson learned is how the pursuit of a dream can descend into a nighmare-like abyss. I have had to make hard choices that were as painful as severing a limb. Choices, that at the times threatened to break me into brittle shards. Days would pass when I would question my ability to stay focused and on track, question my own sanity. Doubts and fears would assail my every moment. Darkness seemed to shroud my every choice, my every move seemed destined to fail, cursed. The nightmare seemed endless, my constant companion for the better part of a year. Panic, terror, abject loneliness, desperation and failure were my bedfellows. When you know the hard choices that must be made, and can see with clarity where those choices will force your life, but knowingly move forward with eyes affixed to the goal despite violent opposing forces. That is the true pursuit of a Dream. To find the strength within your soul to move ahead despite the foreknowledge of the pain and trauma you will suffer en route. To keep struggling to put one foot in front of the other, against the odds, against the tide, pushing upstream. To fight, struggle, weep, bleed, pay the ferryman. To rise above one's own doubts and fears. To face the fire, be seared and blistered, but continue through the flames. This is my truth. This is my struggle. To fight and win, risk and reward, bleed and heal. When the Dream becomes tangible, solid, real, then it is truely mine. The reward is all the sweeter for the pain and risk involved.
    A strictually spiritual victory is won with a hard-fought battle. There is far more potential for spiritual damage in pursuit of dreams. To throw yourself, body and soul, into a quest is to risk your heart, mind and spirit. To open your heart, bare your soul, is truely to risk all. The fear of that deep a risk is what often turns many people away from reaching for their dreams. But I have discovered that to risk it all, to fail, to fall, to feel that heart-wrenching agony, is not the end of the world, though it may feel so at the time. Instead what I found, to my surprise, is that even with the possibility of abject failure, the risk itself can be worth the effort. All out risk can become an epic failure. But even the failure can lead to a victory, when you come back stronger and more determined than before. When the pain of failure passes it leaves behind the knowledge that the victory is in the battle itself sometimes, not the outcome. Spiritually and emotionally I risked it all, failed, and am eager to risk it again. The exhiliration of the risk, the adrenaline of battle, the red hot energy of the pursuit, is a dream unto itself, regardless of the outcome. I believe I may have developed an addiction to risk, become an spiritual adrenaline junkie.
    And so I have learned to follow my Dreams. I have had major success through sheer force of will. I have had abject faliure that merely whetted my appetite. I do not need to curtail my wild imagination ever again. I may try and fail. But I tried. And failure will show me an alternate route, and add to my strength. I may win through the fire and wrap my hands around my reality.  I am already in hot pursuit of the next group of Dreams.

Tested by The Gods?

"I have found both freedom and safety in my Madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us." Kahlil Gibran

    In my continual Search for Self, my convoluted path to Truth, my rocky road to Growth, I am not at all beneath seeking truths in the words of others. Though I disparage self-help books and their slick, commercialized gurus, I know that out amongst that chaff are grains of intelligence and wisdom to be found from sources less touted by media mega-giants. I have long felt that I travel my path alone, despite the naysaying of friends and family who all assure me that I am not alone. To be alone is not a travesty, it is not to be feared. We all face our own truths alone, and should be able to stand up to our own reality without the need for assistance. I have learned inner strength and independence from my alone-ness. Yes, it can be lonely. I admit to having spent many a night weeping into the darkness from sheer, desperate loneliness that threatened to envelope me in it's cold, lifeless embrace. And then, with the arrival of the new dawn, realizing that it was not loneliness that caused my nocturnal wailings, it was grief over feeling a loss of self. Grief at my own loss of identity. Feelings that I had betrayed my Self in my own blind fumblings to attach my own sense of Self to others. That I had allowed myself to rely on any outward acceptance, approval, attachment or affection in an attempt to feel whole. I now know that everything that I need to feel whole, to regain my sense of Self, lies within me. I have the unlimited power to assauge my loneliness, I don't need to seek outside assistance. The long nights spent in body wracking grief, silent weeping and chest restricting sobs have passed. Weeping has been replaced with introspection, loneliness with love of Self,

 "Out of suffering have emerged the strongest of Souls; the most massive Characters are seared with scars." Kahlil Gibran

    I have honestly felt that this last year or more has been a Trial by Fire. Partially self-inflicted, partially from allowing external forces to rule my life, but I accept all the responsibility. It would be easiest to point a rigid, accusing finger of blame at every variable that I allowed to exert insidious, malicious influence over my life. But that is the crux, I allowed it. I allowed the actions around me to be a factor in my ability to find my Sense of Self, Self-Acceptance. I accept responsibility for my actions. I also accept and embrace the scars that I have garnered during this trial by fire, they were honestly earned. Some scars are superficial and will disappear over time. Other scars are deep, to the bone, and have left a permanent mark on my psyche. This is not to say these deep scars are in anyway a negative factor. Quite the contrary, I am proud of these marks. I am proud to look into my Self, trace these scars with a light finger, and know that they have made me stronger and more resilent, but have not hindered my abilities to trust, love, and risk. Along with these scars, the Trial by Fire has taught me that risk, though terrifying, is also exhilirating and satisfying. Even when the risk ends up in a total, painful fall, the thrill of the risk itself is worth the effort. Maybe I have become a bit of a junkie, wanting to recapture the intensity of the gamut of emotions that tore through my body. The highest highs, the lowest lows, the hysterics, the mania, the soaring giddiness. It was an amazing, exciting, fulfilling ride. And at times I do miss the inner drama. I now know that I can risk everything, and it will not kill me or my spirit. I can bare my soul, offer my heart wholely, and despite what seems like abject failure, know that I made that Herculean effort, and be proud of my willingness to risk it all. Out of that suffering I have learned Love of Self, Respect of Self, Pride, Inner Strength, Strength of Spirit. I have learned that there is no shame in honesty and truth, pure love and passion. I have learned that naivete and gullibilty, trust and belief are not character flaws, but strengths that are essential to my Nature. I feel I have been rigorously tested by the gods and my mettle was not found wanting.

"The feelings we live through in love and loneliness are simply for us, what high tide and low tide are to the Sea." Kahlil Gibran

    Through it all I feel I have come out the victor. I have grown, changed, metamorphosized. I am not who I was, but I am who I am. I am more Me than I have ever been. It is a giddy, empowering realization, this feeling of coming into my own. I feel complete and whole, for the time being. But I will not be satisfied to bask in this glory of rebirth. For what is birth? It is the beginning of a new journey. A journey of risk and rebound, fear and fulfillment. A journey that is worth every single step.

"Beauty is not in the Face; Beauty is a Light in the Heart." Kahlil Gibran

Stability? Or Lull in the Storm?

    Life has had a perverse tendency to continously derail me this last year or two. It has been an ongoing barrage of curveballs, road blocks, potholes, dead ends, and do or die choices. I have labeled the last two years, individually, as "The Year of Fail," which started as a joke, but after two years it failed to be funny. At all. So, here I am in a whole new year, that I have vowed to be "2012, The year of Win." So far, it is a definite mixed bag, with far less Win than I would hope. It has been undeniably the roughest winter of my life, a Perfect Storm of Stress. I have been assaulted on all fronts with dramatic life changes, mental instability, nerves frayed raw, emotions beaten to a pulp, promises broken, trust betrayed, brutal self-analysis, self-vivisection of my very core of being, microscopic examination of my inner workings, rending of spirit, shattering of self-esteem, dismantling of Self, and finally the need for a total rebuild of Spirit, Ego, Id, Sanity, Security, Self Worth, Self Esteem, and Self. I have ridden the Hell Mare and come through scarred but not broken, burned but not beaten. I feel stronger today than I have in my entire adult life. Mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally, I feel toughened, empowered and unbeatable. For the moment I feel free from the wreckage that my life had become. Free from baggage I should have discarded on the tracks years ago. But I do know that this sense of strength and freedom can be transitory, though I hope that it is not. Fervently hope it is not.
    Today, I feel as if I am finally on solid ground, that the winds of change have calmed to warm, gentle breezes instead of the icy, hurricane force gales they have been. I have felt like a leaf being tossed randomly at the whim of the storm, settling momentarily with the hope that the storm is past, only to be snatched up and tossed about until I am dizzy, ill and tattered. It has happened time and again, for too many months to count, too many storms to factor, too many gales to measure. It has been exhausting and upsetting. Painful and destructive. But I do feel as if I may have finally settled myself calmly, peacefully onto a small patch of solid, stable ground. I can feel the energy of bedrock beneath my feet. Yes, I do have lingering doubts as to the reality of this sense of grounding, doubts fed by nerves made jagged from repeated, unexpected assaults on my tenuous hold on stability. Will I have the rug yanked from beneath me, again? Will a ghostly zephyr from my recent past gust through me and unsettle my hard won calm, again? Will my own chemstry betray me, again? Is The Perfect Storm truly over, or merely resting to regain strength for the next assault?
    I have fought hard to find this patch of ground that feels rock-solid beneath my sore feet. I lay upon it, feeling the power of Earth against my cheek. I dig my fingers into the soil to reaffirm its solid reality. I embrace the very ground upon which I have found this momentary sanctuary. I will lay low, cling to the ground, and keep a low profile. If the gale force winds return, attempting to snatch me back into their cruel, merciless clutches, I will lay flat to the ground, feeling the Power of the Mother course through me, and I will let the winds blow harmlessly over my bare skin. I will become aerodynamic, letting the air flow as it will. If the wind does affect me it will be to lift me on new-found, powerful wings. My wings, hard won, and strong. The wind can lift me and let me soar, I may falter and tumble as I learn to fly, but I will not let the wind control me anymore. I am ready to fly.

What is Past is Past

    There are days, many days, when life is exhausting. I push myself to my limits, and beyond at times, and am unwilling to admit fatigue. I am inclined to perceive fatigue as a sign of failure on my part. A sign that I am not strong enough, stable enough, tough enough. That I am somehow letting myself down by admitting that, damn, I'm tired. I am trying to readjust my thinking. I don't let myself off the hook easily though. I don't like to admit to having human frailties. I have kept the old adage, "I will sleep when I'm dead," as a motto lurking behind much of how I drive myself through life. I have been told over and over, by so many friends, that I need to relax, take some down time. It is not something I do well. It seems that I expend more energy attempting to relax than I do keeping busy. My life has felt like an uphill battle of late and I'm feeling bruised and battered, though still retain all my limbs. I feel as if to relax is to let down my guard and open myself to further attack.
    I know that a driving force behind my energy expenditure is a combination mild manic mode, and a constant attempt to keep my mind from delving too deeply into painful reminiscing. The reality is that though constant motion may help with the mania, it does little to resolve my painful past. I know this. I know that I need to let the Past be the Past. I tell myself this, and do quite well moving ahead into my bright future, for a time. Then some dark ghost from the past will rear its ectoplasmic head and slime my best intentions. I find myself embattled with a past I want to leave behind me. It is my nature to fight. It is my nature to stand up to injustice, to stand up against those who have caused me pain and injury. I want to lash out, strike back, stand up and protect myself, hand out a beat down. But the past is an ephemeral cobweb, the harder I fight against it, the more I struggle to escape, the more ensnared I am by its cloying, clinging web. I know this. But my nature makes me ignore my own advice.
    I am slowly working my way towards acceptance of the past. Acceptance that I did indeed fight for what I believed was a right and true path, fought the good fight, and though I did not win what I had hoped, I won back my sense of self. I have to acknowledge that though not a victory, it was not a defeat. Sometimes the best we can hope for is a draw, and a tactical retreat. I need to step back and reassess the battle plan, regroup, tend to the wounded, and maybe wait for reinforcements. Despite my knowledge that fighting against my past is futile, what is Past is Past, I still need to rally the troops for future engagements, though I think some R&R might be in order to raise morale.

Unravel and Reknit

    There are times in life when we are faced with change and cringe away. Or forced to change or perish. Or faced with change and choose to take it as an opportunity to rebuild a stronger, better fitting Self. This winter has been a time of forced changes. Some I forced myself, others were forcibly thrown into my face. I admit, I felt myself unravelling. Like a sweater caught on a thorn as I made a mad dash through a gloomy forest in a vain attempt to escape the deranged killer that was hot on my tail. A sweater, unraveling, becoming smaller, less structured, becoming a tangled mass of multicolored yarn. That is how I felt, like a snarled wad of grubby yarn violently yanked from a comfortable old sweater. Few aspects of my sense of self did not take a hit, much of how I defined myself felt torn to ragged shreds. I threw myself into manic bursts of home repair and worked out like a freak. I did everything I could to keep my body busy, and pushed myself to exhaustion in an attempt to quell the voices in my head battering me with a sense of failure and rejection. Of course physical exhaustion does not equal silence. My nights were tormented by a gibbering brain, running in circles, preventing the exhaustion from dragging me into the oblivion of sleep. It was all I could to to gather the shredded threads of myself into a clump and hold it tight to my chest to protect it from further damages.
    Months of clinging to my sense of self, holding fast to what I knew were the true building materials of the real me. There were times when I would curl into a tight ball, a vain attempt to protect my vital areas from further assault and vicious rendings. Through it all, I knew I would survive this. I knew I would not be defeated. But I knew that reclaiming my sense of self would be a task worthy of Hercules. And still I clung to those unraveled bits of me.
    I did finally resurface. I took the tangled, dingy threads of myself and washed them gently. I cleansed them of the accumulated murk that had dimmed their natural, vibrant colors. I carefully untangled the miles of yarn, snipping away sections that were too damaged, too knotted to salvage. I spent hours rolling the yarn into tidy balls of clean, reclaimed, useable, sturdy material. Then I commenced the arduous reknitting. It hasn't been easy, I am working without a pattern, playing it by ear, improvising. I am reknitting the very fibers of  my Self. I am making a streamlined version of Self; smaller, more compact, more intense, more vibrant. I am reknitting myself into my true form of random beauty, unexpected peculiarities, unique style, intense color and exciting pattern. It is a project that is well underway now that I have disentangled, cleansed and repaired the raw materials of Me. It will take care and gentle handling at times, for the material does have some delicate, fragile sections. It will take diligence to assure that any future unraveling will be intentional and to improve the end product, not violent and damaging at the hands of another. It will take time, energy and effort, for no true work of art is easily or quickly finished. But I know the end result will be my masterpiece.

The Lunatic Fringe

    I admit to my spaz attacks, my lunatic moments, my hysterias and my whirlwind nature. I think it is the healthiest approach to a potentially unhealthy lunacy. As I see it, being in touch with my own lunacy, embracing it, allowing it to have its moments in the sun, helps make it manageable and lessens its impact on those around me. Oddly, this morning I was thinking of Brittanny Spears, and trust me, I very rarely, if ever take time to think about her. But what I was pondering was not so much her, as how difficult it would be to go through a mental crisis in full view of the invasive public eye. Any one of us has the potential to meltdown under enough stress, but most of us have the dignity of being able to do it in the privacy of our own homes. Imagine having no privacy, having cameras waiting to catch any moment of frailty, every mental lapse, every lapse in good judgement. That in and of itself would cause me to meltdown on a colassal scale.
    As it is, I know that if there were witnesses to some of my more recent "episodes" I would probably have been forcibly institutionalized, or at best put on a 72 hour "observation hold." But I have the good luck to live alone, and the only witnesses are my concerned dogs and my unconcerned cats. During these spectacular meltdowns my dogs are rarely more than a few feet away, sometimes taking turns lying at or on my feet, or resting furry chins on my knee as they watch with worried, limpid eyes. The energy expended during these lunatic moments is cathartic and healing, though at times alarming and disturbing even to me. I can only imagine the reaction if these moments were caught on camera and publicized to the world.
    Our society vilifies and ridicules such moments of "weakness." It is socially unacceptable to ever step from the norm. But the reality is that if everyone would allow themselves to be in contact with that small, inner lunatic the overall health of society would improve. There would be less use of medications to make people fit into their cubicaled lifestyles, medicating away any "abnormal" or negative reactions and emotions. We are not allowed to have rushes of extreme emotions without being labeled Extreme, Overwhelming, Volitile, Over Emotional, Dramatic, Too Intense, Fiery and let's not leave out Crazy, Unstable, Manic, Unmanageable, Alarming, Frightening, and Dangerous. True, most people do not have quite the rollercoaster of moods that I enjoy on a regular basis. Their loss. But why does our society force us to supress our natural natures? We are humans, emotional, volitile, passionate humans.
    Is it the Puritanical roots of our country? Doubtful, that was too long ago. Is it in the best interests of individuals? No, it robs us of our individuality. It is the need for the masses to believe that our world is safe, placid, calm, and predictable. It is society's desire to keep us placated, keep us fettered, keep us quiet and compliant by any means neccessary be it medication or brute force. Society does not want individuals who freely express their most extreme emotions, positive or negative. We are forced to become mindless drones or face ostracization. We face recriminations, reprimands, and rebukes. We are told to "settle down," "relax," "get a grip." Soaring emotions are slapped down, yanked back to earth and ridiculed by those who are unsettled by the sheer intensity, and seem to feel the need to drag the happy lunatic down to their level of emotional impotence.
    I find I feel as much a pariah in my deliriously joyful manic stage as I am when I am struggling through the gray bleakness of depression. I think people are more accepting of depression, though they are quick to medicate it away even when it is justified and appropriate. I think depression is easier for the bystander to witness and accept as it allows them to step into the caring, comforting, nurturing hero. In manic mode, I find my intensity frightens the few who have been allowed to witness it. Even those I thought strong and understanding made haste to distance themselves' as my outpourings of glee, raw elation, unbridled happiness and delirious joy became an uncomfortable honesty.
    I love my mania, embrace it, revel in the energy, delight in the exhultations. It is Me in my most extreme, Me in the undiluted form, Me unbridled and free. Despite the knowledge that there is a chance that I will never find someone who will truely understand and accept the real, honest, manic me, I plan on being true to myself. I will remain true to my explosive nature, revel in my emotional rollercoaster, ride the whirlwind and try to not feel pity for those who are willing to live their lives in shades of gray.

Curveballs

    Life never seems to tire of throwing me curveballs. The last few months have been a tumultuous crescendo of what has been a chaotic year. I have run the gamut of emotions, and been in a constant state of mental turmoil. I have watched, seemingly helpless, as my brain went round the bend and back. Self-flagellation has been a frequent past-time, self-deprication a hobby, self-blame a way of life. A recent, hard thrown curveball, aimed straight at my head, intent on damage, has actually had what seems to be the opposite effect. After the initial impact left me hurt, stunned and angry, I was able to shake it off, clear my head, dust myself off and finally trot to first base. The impact allowed me a clarity of mind to realize that I am not to blame for the issues, actions and inactivites of others. I am responsible for my own actions, which have been honest, true and real despite the insanity and mania that has driven me this last year. This sudden enlightenment has allowed me a deep sense of peace and triumph that has been missing for so long that I had forgotten it was even a possibility. I am allowing myself to feel the elation of survival and growth. The calm that comes from shedding the weight of self-blame, self-flagellation, and remorse. I feel triumphant, having shed the malaise of a toxic, damaging situation. I am empowered by my personal strength, my own integrity, my own honesty. I take strength knowing that through it all I at least managed to stay true to my self, even if it was not the wisest path. I have regained a sense of self, pride in my honor and integrity. I feel powerful, balanced and calm.
    Standing at first base, with that sense of achievement, the elation of moving forward without a backward glance. The anticipation of knowing I am now, finally, in a position to score is a heady experience. It doesn't matter how I got here, the pain of impact, the blurred vision, the confusion, the anger. What matters is that I have the strength, power and durability to shake it off and move into a scoring position. I can hear the crowd cheering for me, booing and hissing the dishonorable pitcher. The crowd is mine. The crowd is eager for my next move. They can see that I am stronger and tougher than anything the pitcher can throw at me. I know I am stronger as well. I am ready to round the bases, score a run, and then step back up to bat with no fear of future curveballs. The next curveball thrown at me, I plan on hitting out of the park.