The voices are back. Those whispers that wake me at 4am, making sleep impossible. Doubts, fears, panic, turmoil, whispering into my brain, my companions in the night. I had thought these demons tamed and placated, slumbering in my dark recesses. But I was wrong, again. They wake as easily as I do, from the lightest touch, the slightest movement, gentle soughings, soft sighs. Any slight disturbance and they are reawakened, invigorated by their brief rest. My nocturnal visitors stay with me until dawn finds me groggy, distracted and incoherent. Their gentle gropings, sibilant slander, hissing harassments deprive me of much needed sleep, rob me of my peace, steal away my confidence. When dawn arrives and sends the demons back into the shadows, she finds me raw and brittle. Once again.
The demons do speak truths in their own derisive manner. They remind me of past mistakes, delight in revealing that I seem doomed to repeat them. They show me the path I find myself on to be all too similar to paths I have trod. They show me landmarks that I should remember, must remember, in order to flee from what may likely be imminent doom. The path takes me to graves of my buried past, shows me that cold, heavy rains have washed away loose soil to reveal skeletal fragments I had hoped decayed into dust. The demons make me examine the shards of bone for forensic evidence that will prove to me my own serial nature, my modus operandi. It seems I cannot step outside of my profile, no matter how I try. I actively seek and pursue what I think to be a different route, going so far as to head in the opposing direction. But it seems to be of no avail. The tangled pathways of my heart and mind keep slowly turning me back towards what the fates have deemed to be my inevitable, lonely, solitary existence. I feel lost in a dense forest, circling back on myself, stumbling over roots, tripping over brambles, bruised and scratched, returning again and again those exposed graves. I want to sit down in the dirt and sob, weep in sheer desperation and frustration, cry out against fate, finally succumb to the dark loneliness of my predicament, lay down and just give up. But is it reality? Or demon trickery?
Demons are well known for subterfuge, mind games, deceit. They can conjure images from sulpher and smoke, images tangible, visceral and solid. Or seemingly so. But they are really just fakery, smoke and mirrors, slight of hand, deception. The pile of clothing in the corner that takes on the visage of a horrifying night terror, exposed for a fake with the first light of day. Though there is truth salted into their nocturnal whisperings, it is only there to add to their believeability. Any truth can be convoluted and twisted until it becomes an obstacle to reality. Demons take my truths, mold them, torque them, contort and crumple them, until they are no longer recognizeable. My convictions and beliefs falter, my sense of reality distorts, I believe their truths instead of my own.
But knowledge is power. I know what my demons are attempting to do, I know their methods, understand their techniques. They make me see insurmountable obstacles where there are really only challenges, they try to make me give up before I truly get started. These bastard demons attempt to make me feel unworthy, undesireable, unwanted, rejected. At times they stage all out war on my Sense of Self and Self Worth. Clever as they are, I am more grounded than they give me credit. Despite the fears and doubts that assail me when I am vulnerable in my lonely nights, I can hold these fears at bay until light reveals their deceptions. Fatigue may leave me brittle, raw, emotional, delicate, but I have inner strength that I can draw upon as reinforcements while I fight back. It is a battle I fight over and over. But each time I back the demons into their cave and do my best to block their escape, they lose a fragment of the power they hold over me. I refuse to let them twist and trample my dreams and desires. I will keep my eyes lifted to the sun, and follow its path, until I reach the edge of the tangled thicket and look out over the vast expanse of my future.
"Real difficulties can be overcome; it is only the imaginary ones that are unconquerable." T.N. Vail
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Manic Dance Party For One
This has become a bit of a running joke, the Manic Dance Party For One. Long evenings spent dancing myself into exhaustion to music that I can't seem to make quite loud enough. It usually starts innocently enough, a little music to help banish the blues, chase the loneliness that is always lurking just out of sight. The first notes stream forth, the rhythm strikes a cord deep within my core, my body moves, my mind lets the music replace all thoughts. I dance. I dance wild and free, with no thought of dignity or self control. I revel in the natural rhythm of my body, feel pleasure in my movements, sensuality guiding my muscles. Hips, thighs, shoulders moving in synchronicity, supple and strong. Arms flowing, hands orchestrating moves or caressing my fluid body. I move. I am moved.
It begins innocently enough, a distraction, a spirit boost, just a dance. But sometimes a dance is not just a dance. My dance is another weapon in my arsenal. My dance controls demons, quiets doubts, and holds abject loneliness at bay. I dance when I am alone because I am alone. Music becomes my cherished companion, a friend from the past, a temporary distraction. Sometimes dancing is the only way I have to stop the crying. When I dance, my body is the boisterous Extrovert, the lonely Introvert removes herself from the dance floor, ever the wallflower.
There are times when the music feels scrambled, my brain cannot seem to make sense of the patterns. It becomes just so much noise. I close my eyes, cradle my head in my hands to quiet the chaos, let my body feel the pulse of the bass, the thrust of guitar, the pounding of drums, ignore the unintelligible ramblings in my brain, and regain my rhythm. What begins as just one more song will extend into an hour, or two, or three. Dancing with no concept of time. Just dancing until either I am too exhausted to continue, or the demons are finally quieted. I will dance unawares, until I smell my solitary dinner scorching. I dance until the aforementioned scorched dinner is cold and congealed. I dance until what is left of my rational brain is telling me I have to stop, have to eat, have to sleep. I am like the little dancer in The Red Shoes, dancing until I drop.
Sometimes dancing is all I can do to regain my sense of balance, a fragile inner peace. Dancing is my own personal war against abject loneliness. When I dance I am not alone, my mind is peopled with memories of my youth, of simpler times, of easier times. I dance because I have to. I dance because I can. Manic Dance Party For One is usually the best party in town. And so I danced tonight, scorched my dinner, and will sleep alone but with memories of the music to lull me to sleep.
It begins innocently enough, a distraction, a spirit boost, just a dance. But sometimes a dance is not just a dance. My dance is another weapon in my arsenal. My dance controls demons, quiets doubts, and holds abject loneliness at bay. I dance when I am alone because I am alone. Music becomes my cherished companion, a friend from the past, a temporary distraction. Sometimes dancing is the only way I have to stop the crying. When I dance, my body is the boisterous Extrovert, the lonely Introvert removes herself from the dance floor, ever the wallflower.
There are times when the music feels scrambled, my brain cannot seem to make sense of the patterns. It becomes just so much noise. I close my eyes, cradle my head in my hands to quiet the chaos, let my body feel the pulse of the bass, the thrust of guitar, the pounding of drums, ignore the unintelligible ramblings in my brain, and regain my rhythm. What begins as just one more song will extend into an hour, or two, or three. Dancing with no concept of time. Just dancing until either I am too exhausted to continue, or the demons are finally quieted. I will dance unawares, until I smell my solitary dinner scorching. I dance until the aforementioned scorched dinner is cold and congealed. I dance until what is left of my rational brain is telling me I have to stop, have to eat, have to sleep. I am like the little dancer in The Red Shoes, dancing until I drop.
Sometimes dancing is all I can do to regain my sense of balance, a fragile inner peace. Dancing is my own personal war against abject loneliness. When I dance I am not alone, my mind is peopled with memories of my youth, of simpler times, of easier times. I dance because I have to. I dance because I can. Manic Dance Party For One is usually the best party in town. And so I danced tonight, scorched my dinner, and will sleep alone but with memories of the music to lull me to sleep.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Life in the Wild
Lying awake, staring into the predawn darkness, I rummage through my brain, touching on recent events, past events, memories, emotions. I feel the swell of emotions, dampen them down by sheer force of will, wish they weren't quite so easily accessed. I live my life with my emotions just under the surface. They are there, awaiting the slightest flicker to light the fuse. There are many times when I wish I could submerge my rampant emotions, tame them, rein them in, regain control. But after so many years of keeping them pent up, corralled, tethered and silenced, their wild nature became more than any cage could ever confine. I released them back into the world in a furious flurry, it was my Pandora's Box. Once opened, what was released can never be recaptured and confined again.
I do love my tempestuous, impetuous nature. It is the vital spark within me, the driving force, my power. I have learned to love the exhilaration of the rollercoaster, exult in the maelstrom, ride the whirlwind. It is not a matter of control, or lack thereof, no more than I can control the weather or a wild river. It is acceptance, understanding, adaptation, flexibility. It is knowing that I will forever be a bit raw and oversensitive, exuberant and delicate. But it can be exhausting.
There are times, usually when tears threaten, my chest constricts, and panic nips at my heels, that I wish I could regain the rigid control I forced for so many years. I sometimes almost wish that my life could be lived in shades of gray, of calm, quiet, neutrality. My own emotions can overwhelm me with intensity, their effect on others can be stampede enducing. At times I miss the cold, calculating protector that sheltered me from myself, and from others. As well as protected others from me. But even that stern overseer regularly lost her tight-fisted control and my emotions would erupt onto an unsuspecting world in a violent array of explosive temper, violent weeping, giddy laughter. Each outburst became that much harder to stop, to confine, to regain control. It eventually reached damaging, critical mass, as explosive things often do.
When any wild thing is kept caged for too long it either loses it's will to live, or becomes a dangerous unpredictable beast. I never lost my will to live, I became the beast. When the caged creature is finally released back into her native habitat, there will be a time of readjustment, relearning survival skills, and a heightened fear of entrapment. Long periods of captivity can result in an animal that does not easily fit back into the social norm, the pack. The freed animal may chose to be the lone wolf, a solitary creature. The pack may be too disturbed by aberrant behavior to be willing to allow the lone creature back into their fold.
I do love my rampant, wild emotions. I love being freed of my self-imposed shackles. But I am reminded almost daily why those restaints were put into place. I find many people are uncomfortable with honest, vibrant emotions. People love the beauty of wild creatures, but want the safety of distance or a stout fence. They are enthralled and attracted, but fearful and cautious. They want to approach, touch, feel the thrill of danger, but will run at the first hint of fang or claw. They want the beauty, but want it tamed and collared, not understanding that the wildness and danger are a vital aspect of the beauty. Without freedom the wild creature becomes a moth-eaten, hollow shell and the beauty is lost forever. But with the freedom comes the knowledge that many will keep me at arms length for their own safety, or wish to collar and tame, cage and covet. Is it too much to wish for the hand that will let me run free, and yet be there outstretched, gentle, patient, knowing that trust and kindness, not collars or cages, are the true ways to live with The Wild.
I do love my tempestuous, impetuous nature. It is the vital spark within me, the driving force, my power. I have learned to love the exhilaration of the rollercoaster, exult in the maelstrom, ride the whirlwind. It is not a matter of control, or lack thereof, no more than I can control the weather or a wild river. It is acceptance, understanding, adaptation, flexibility. It is knowing that I will forever be a bit raw and oversensitive, exuberant and delicate. But it can be exhausting.
There are times, usually when tears threaten, my chest constricts, and panic nips at my heels, that I wish I could regain the rigid control I forced for so many years. I sometimes almost wish that my life could be lived in shades of gray, of calm, quiet, neutrality. My own emotions can overwhelm me with intensity, their effect on others can be stampede enducing. At times I miss the cold, calculating protector that sheltered me from myself, and from others. As well as protected others from me. But even that stern overseer regularly lost her tight-fisted control and my emotions would erupt onto an unsuspecting world in a violent array of explosive temper, violent weeping, giddy laughter. Each outburst became that much harder to stop, to confine, to regain control. It eventually reached damaging, critical mass, as explosive things often do.
When any wild thing is kept caged for too long it either loses it's will to live, or becomes a dangerous unpredictable beast. I never lost my will to live, I became the beast. When the caged creature is finally released back into her native habitat, there will be a time of readjustment, relearning survival skills, and a heightened fear of entrapment. Long periods of captivity can result in an animal that does not easily fit back into the social norm, the pack. The freed animal may chose to be the lone wolf, a solitary creature. The pack may be too disturbed by aberrant behavior to be willing to allow the lone creature back into their fold.
I do love my rampant, wild emotions. I love being freed of my self-imposed shackles. But I am reminded almost daily why those restaints were put into place. I find many people are uncomfortable with honest, vibrant emotions. People love the beauty of wild creatures, but want the safety of distance or a stout fence. They are enthralled and attracted, but fearful and cautious. They want to approach, touch, feel the thrill of danger, but will run at the first hint of fang or claw. They want the beauty, but want it tamed and collared, not understanding that the wildness and danger are a vital aspect of the beauty. Without freedom the wild creature becomes a moth-eaten, hollow shell and the beauty is lost forever. But with the freedom comes the knowledge that many will keep me at arms length for their own safety, or wish to collar and tame, cage and covet. Is it too much to wish for the hand that will let me run free, and yet be there outstretched, gentle, patient, knowing that trust and kindness, not collars or cages, are the true ways to live with The Wild.
Monday, April 9, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
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
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
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, April 2, 2012
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.
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.
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