Just Beneath the Surface

    I spend so much time picking apart my psyche, poking it with a stick, examining it under the microscope in an attempt, so I lie to myself, to be better grounded. Truth be told, it is a mechanism I employ to hide from myself the truly fragile nature of my being. As long as I am actively examining, I can think less about the delicate balance I work so hard to achieve. I know that just under the surface, the calm, rational, steely exterior, is that fragile creature, the delicate nature, the emotional rollercoaster, the brittle me that can shatter at a touch. I delve deep into my motives, actions, reactions, my past and present, my desires and needs, delve deep to keep my mind busy. My mind must stay busy, active, in order to maintain at least a semblance of balance, calm and stability. I know for fact just how easy the exterior is penetrated, how quickly my stability can be undermined, that the gentlest push can tip the scales. I do not like living a precarious existence, though it is my nature.
    Some days it can truly be a moment by moment effort to hold tight to my tenuous grip on what passes as reality in my life. I know that the next meltdown is always close to the surface, held in check by sheer willpower and stubbornness. Because I also know that I cannot return to the depths of despair that are still so fresh in my mind, that abyss that threatened to swallow me whole just a few short months ago. Just under the surface, so close I can see it rippling under my translucent skin. It writhes like salmon in a shallow stream, fins nearly cresting the surface, causing the water to shiver in response. There it is, I can see it, feel it, touch it. I know it merely waits for the opportunity to break the surface, to leap free of my carefully constructed constraints.
    Despite all my efforts to keep the inevitable meltdown contained, I also find myself forcing issues that are bound to sabotage my hard won control. I pursue, push, press. I cause conflict, chase unobtainable dreams, set unrealistic goals. I reach beyond my comfort zone. I lay bare my heart and soul. I confront with open honesty, knowing that rejection will likely be the result. Is this a subconscious drive to keep my demons well fed, active and productive? Am I, as I was once accused of, a drama addict? I chose to think not. But the thought niggles at my brain. I know I cannot keep myself reined in, but know that to unleash myself causes mayhem, mayhem causes disaster, disasters leave me shaken and alone. Alone with my demons. Then I berate myself, knowing I crossed the line. But knowing I had to.
    It is a true conundrum. Be true to myself, true to my nature and risk all, or forcibly alter my nature to maintain a calm course. Knowing what lurks just beneath the surface, what waits to be loosed on my world, knowing but feeling helpless to stop it. Fighting against my own nature, the struggle, the mental anguish I bring upon myself. Hand in hand with the meltdown is also my inner lunatic. That vital spark that is my very essence. I cannot have one without the other, or my life will be lived in shades of gray. I cling to at least the appearance of calm, though I want to let my inner lunatic out into the sunlight to dance and play. The inner lunatic that drives my creativity, sensuality, sexuality. The manic dancer, the insomniac, the whirlwind. I think I might as well try to capture the wind, tame the fire. But I also know it will likely keep me delicate and brittle. There is always a price to be paid.      
     

Demon Pinata

"A writers brain is full of little gifts, like a pinata at a birthday party. It's also full of demons, like a pinata at a birthday party in a mental hospital."

    I have written about my Demons often enough that this quotation seemed incredibly apt. It made me laugh, for a brief moment. Then I had a visual, as I usually think in images not words, of my head being struck with the knobby stick of my reality, skull broken open, with no idea what will spill forth. The days when beautiful gifts shower down, covering the ground with brightly colored surprises, can seem few and far between, though cherished. The nights when my brain cracks open and the demons spill forth in a darkly chaotic flurry seem far more common. I never really know what will spew forth when Brain opens up and lets loose the secrets hidden inside.
    I have thought that I would love a little predictability in my life, just a little. But it eludes me on every front. I have become accustomed to the chaos, unpredictability, disappointments, and the sticks upside the head. I've been brained all too often. So often that it does seem to be the one thing I can expect out of life, that smack upside the head, rattling me, blurring my vision, making thoughts spew forth without rhyme or reason. I do feel like a pinata, dangling casually from a tree limb, minding my own business, watching the party from a safe distance, and along comes some blindfolded miscreant swinging a lethal length of wood, intent on cracking me open, while some other yayhoo starts yanking me around by my tenuous hold on reality. It really is an assault on my peace, my sanity, my stability. I know the stick swinging savage isn't thinking of the damage to be wrought, only in the violent act itself. The glee of breaking open a carefully crafted, brightly colored, delicate shell of papier-mache just to see what is inside. I have spilled myself often enough with humpty-dumpty damage, to know just how difficult it is to gather up those gifts being trampled in the grass by careless feet, pawed at by gluttonous hands, then reloading myself, repairing the damage, only to await the next assault.
    I wouldn't mind if on occasion, the demons would be loosed and trampled in the grass by those careless feet, stomped into well-deserving puddles of goo, or let to scamper off and infest another pinata. Sadly, my demons are clever, nimble little beasts, avoiding the jack-booted thugs with ease. And they are quite fond of my brain, having found it to be a warm, nurturing environment to raise their devilish brood. So they always return, finding their way home to roost. Nestling in, drowsy, waiting their 2am wake-up call, eager to burst forth from the smallest of cracks. Like I said; clever, nimble little beasts.
    If I could even limit who wields the stick. Limit it to a select few with whom the sharing of my gifts would be a pleasure. Instead I feel the world has a free hand to grab that stick whenever the mood strikes, so assaults can come from any and every direction, even the least expected. I never know where the next strike will come from, or when. The parties just keep coming. The best I can hope for is to add extra layers of papier-mache, maybe slip in a few layers of steel, to keep my shell from cracking, to protect my gifts from careless hands. I rebuild, patch the cracks, revitalize my colors, refill myself with my little treasures, and yes my demons, and await the the next hack-handed attempt to break me. I hope I get stronger with each party.

Balancing Act

    My life seems to be in a constant state of confusion, no matter how I try to work things through. This last year has seen me rocket through the extreme gamut of emotions, be drug through the range of highs and lows. I have suffered major defeats and won some hard fought victories. And it continues on. Though, truth be told, things seem to be evening out a bit, there is less trauma and drama being inflicted on my psyche and self esteem, and I have regained much of my sense of self. I have found the Me that had seemed lost forever, the Me that had hidden away for decades, avoiding the light of day, remaining as a mere ghostly image on the eye of my mind. Regaining contact with that vital Me has made me vow to not lose her again. I won't let her sneak away, hiding herself to spare me the ramifications of  her exuberant personality unleashed upon my world. I have suffered from her enthusiastic pursuit of dreams and desires, as she steamrolls over and though obstacles. But when she knows what she wants, she is not afraid to let her needs and wishes be know, sometimes forcefully, often with dire results.
    Now I strive for balance. How can I allow my exuberant, enthusiastic Self the freedom to chase our dreams and desires, without inflicting irreparable damage? How can I allow free rein to my personality, and yet garner a semblance of control? I cannot allow my Self to ride roughshod over my cherished wishes, irregardless of how well intentioned she may be. And so the balancing act begins. I know what I want, I can see it and taste it, but how to get from point A to point B? How do I proceed? I need the strength and boldness of that Self that had lain dormant for so long. I need her joie de vivre, her je na sais quoi, her all out balls to the wall, steel cahones to give me spine and courage. Without her I can become timid, shy, nerveless. I will squelch my dreams as too unobtainable. She doesn't know the meaning of the words, "can't," "won't," and "impossible." I need that support, I need her motivation. But how do I find that balance between caution and carefree, slow and easy versus fast and furious? I know I must proceed with a modicum of caution, my psyche demands it. But I must allow the bold Me to keep the forward momentum. So, my cautious Self holds the wheel, my reckless Me fuels the engine? Bold energy as the powering force, wisdom as the guiding hand? I must find the balance. I must proceed with caution and care, but I must continue to proceed with a bold heart. There has got to be balance.

Grail Quest

    My 2am internal wake-up call was as abrupt as hitting a light switch. From dead asleep, to brain on full speed, with the flip of an internal switch. I wish I could disconnect that switch. Curled up on my side, arms wrapped around a pillow that is my only bedmate (except for a plush cheetah named Turbo, but if word got out about him, my tough reputation would be toast), once again I ponder life. I think about life, the now, the future, all the paths facing me, decisions that may or may not present themselves, all the possibilities, all the realities. I think until my head is buzzing with options, choices, decisions, most of which are far in the future, or only in my imagination. As I have said before, the downside of a writer's imagination is the vivid reality of my thoughts, mental meanderings, fantasies, fears, and desires. I see them with a clarity that evades most people when they are remembering true events from their recent past. I think in images, more than words, and they roll through my brain with the speed and clarity of movie previews. Some, I see over and over, intentionally hitting the mental repeat button. Of my repeats, some are beautiful and sweet, some sensual and seem out of reach, some wishing for a future that may be unrealistic and beyond my reality. But they are my imaginings, and I can watch them as often as I like.
    Often my repeat showings are lessons learned, as if the movie theater of my mind wants to lash me with parables, using my own shortcomings as the prime examples. I become the central figure in my own tragic Grimm's Fairy Tales. I am the dancer in The Red Shoes, The Little Matchgirl, the voiceless Mermaid, the Tin Soldier with one leg who pines for the Paper Dancer. And as I watch my parables scroll past, feeling alone in the dark, I wonder what I can do to rewrite my script. I heard it said once, "He writes his own script, and yet complains about the plot," and found it an apt and poignant observation. I watch my parables and know there has to be a way to rewrite the endings. I don't mind being the Tin Soldier, but won't stand by to watch my paper dancer be blown into the fire, then cast myself into the coals to be melted into a heart-shaped mass. I will not be the tragic, long-suffering, silent, ineffectual character of a bleak tale propelled ahead by fate, without fighting back. But how to rewrite my script?
    Lying awake, the 2am world hushed and still, I hold my pillow to my chest, curl around it for comfort and attempt to edit the scenes playing out in my mind. My favorites, the beautiful, sweet and sensual, need no editing, only elaborations and refining. They are fuel to my desires. But the parables, the life lessons that my brain is trying to drum into me, as if I have no choice in the paths of my future, these must be rewritten. But how to write in my small cast of characters? How to rewrite their roles? I know that I cannot write the future for another, that is a true path to failure. But I want, need, must write my own script to lead me through the dark, demon haunted forests and perilous, rocky ravines to the happy ending I know can be mine. At times it feels less like a simple fairy tale, and more like a complex Grail Quest, replete with challenges, tests of courage and strength, raging rivers with well guarded bridges, impassable paths, darkest forests, and bottomless pits. I move ahead carefully, knowing a misstep will take the Grail farther from my reach, perhaps even destroy it before I can so much as touch it. I have seen my Grail, or at least one of them, for who is to say there won't be a series of such in the long life that stretches ahead. I have seen a Grail, felt it's perfection, and then had it moved beyond my touch. I know I am not ready yet, know there is growing and healing to be done before the time will be ripe. But I can still see it in my mind's eye, I know it is there, that it may still be mine, if I prove worthy.
    So it will be a matter of writing my script, mapping the course of my quest, patiently approaching the trials I know will present themselves to me. If there is one thing I have learned from the parables and quests of history is that the over-eager, impatient questers will fail every time, it is the patient who will survive. The questers looking for the fast, straight road will fail as quickly as they had hoped to succeed. But the quester that sees and accepts the long road, the winding path, the obstacles, will find the Grail, and understand its true worth. For if it is worth having, it is worth the trials, worth the Quest. I am writing my script, hopefully with the happy ending, but if not, there will be a treasure of growth and understanding to be had in the end.

Kinship

    Humans are not solitary creatures by nature. Even those of us that are introverts and disinclined to seek out companionship, preferring a level of solitude and independence. It is human nature to seek out others to share life with. I know I am not an easy friend, I am too solitary, forcing myself to be independent and self-reliant. But even I know the value of the kindred spirit. Once in a great while you stumble upon another being that seems to fit easily into life, someone who fits you with an ease and comfort that can never be manufactured or falsified, a true kinship. There is a physical, intellectual and emotional connection that is like a final piece of a puzzle, snapping into place and completing the picture.These people are rare gems in a world of stone. I know I am lucky that I have family that are kindred spirits, as well as a few cherished friends; fledgling new, lifelong and true, and those yet to be.
    When a kindred spirit is floundered upon, it is an inner struggle for me to not want to grasp them, cling to them like a life preserver found in the jetsam of a sinking ship. A buoy to keep me afloat in icy, lashing waves. But I must force myself to relax my panicked death grip, allow them breathing room, not come across as desperate and alone in the vast, cold sea of humanity. The rarity of a true kinship makes it more valuable than any earthly possession, and so cannot be passed by, ignored, or let to just slip away. Such a rare find makes my heart ache with a longing so penetrating and vibrant I become nearly disfunctional. I fear the slightest wrong move will whisk this treasure beyond my reach, and it will be lost to me forever. I recognize my need for these few, rare beings, and am happy to enjoy even brief moments of their light in my life. A kinship, a brother, a sister, a son or daughter, whether by blood or fate, miracle or accident, should never be allowed to slip away, to pass us by, to be denied or ignored. Such a rarity should be cherished, even in miniscule amounts, cherished, treasured, recognized for the miracle it is. The miracle that two beings can find a level of mutual understanding that transcends words and worlds. Such kinships should not be lightly dismissed, or allowed to lay fallow, they should be gently nurtured, respected, cradled in cupped hands and held gently to the heart.   

My Body

    I love my body. Not because of how it looks, but because of what it does for me. My body is strong, powerful, graceful. My body protects my spirit. When I am at my most fragile, emotional and brittle, my body steps in and encases my delicate nature within muscle, sinew and bone. When my spirit is cowering within, my mind shrinking from the world, my emotions running amok, my body courses with the pent up energies of the emotional conflict. The energies build, pounding through my veins, lending vigor and stamina to my lean muscles. And so my body takes over, my body is in control. When all else is raging out of control, my body takes charge. And so I stride for miles, faster, harder, faster, harder. My lungs fill, pulling oxygen deep into the pinkness, invigorating my blood until it flows rich and red. My heart pounds with a slow, forceful pulse, feeding muscles with my rich blood. I can almost feel the blood carrying away stress, anxiety, fear, doubt, and flushing them out through exhaled breath. I stride for miles, faster, harder, faster, harder. I feel the weight of the day fall from me with passing miles.
    So many days it is not enough to merely sweat and breath, while pounding down the miles. And so to weights. I lift and strain, groan, moan, my face contorts with effort. I lift until my breath is ragged and my limbs are trembling. I am bathed in sweat, exhausted to the point of nausea, stress and tension bleed from me, falling to the floor with the droplets of sweat that run in rivulets down my face. Trembling, sweating, pulse pounding in my ears, feeling the strength of my body. Reveling in my power, knowing my body can protect my delicate spirit.
    And then there are the days when the miles and weights are still not enough. Days when anxiety and doubt, sadness, loneliness, assail me without relief. Those are the days when, exhausted and trembling, I begin to dance. The music louder, faster. My body forgets the exhaustion and is empowered by the music, strength gained through the need to continue the fight against the demons that seem to plague me even during daylight hours, on days like this. I dance, sweat, let the music and motion finalize the cure. Finally, my heart sings, my spirit lifts, I shed doubt and pain as if they were leaves scattering before my dancing feet. I love my Body, it is Strong, Powerful. My Body saves me when nothing else in the world can. My delicate nature is well protected by my lovely form built solidly of muscle, sinew and bone. I love My Body.

Switchbacks

    As much as I wish my life were a smooth, straight, well-paved country lane, wishing does not make it so. My life is a slow climb up a steep mountainside with so many switchbacks, dead-ends, and washed out bridges that I don't even know what direction I am traveling most of the time. Inevitably, as soon as I think I have a level, straightish section, where I might be able to coast on autopilot for a brief moment, out of nowhere a mudslide or boulder will come careening down the slope, missing me by a hair's breadth, and adding another obstacle to an already arduous climb. I should be accustomed to it by now, but every time it takes me by surprise. It could be that fatigue has lowered my ability to cope with the unexpected, even when I should be expecting it. For it has been a difficult climb, no doubt about it. Even if it takes me by surprise, my recovery time is swifter. I am more likely to take these obstacles in stride once the initial trauma and emotions have spent themselves.
    At least I am continuing to climb upwards, which is a vast improvement over the last year, when it was truly one step forward, two steps back. Now I continue to put one foot in front of the other, with very little backsliding. Okay, there is the ocaissional backslide, but it is brief, and only a mis-step in the scree, not a full blown tumble off a cliff. I have had many a tumble, some quite extreme and involving some serious injuries, but I have recuperated, mostly, and am back on track.
    I think the most difficult aspect of my climb may be the uncertainty of what may await me around every tight corner, every switchback, behind every mudslide. I can't see my way because the path is so convoluted. I like having a clear image of where I am going, what I am reaching for, what lay in wait for me. There is a fear behind my climb, as I reach up for a handhold, reach up to grasp a ledge, not knowing what may lurk within striking distance. I crane my ears for the sound of rattlesnakes, expecting my blind gropings to result in venomous snake bite. So far the worst that I have had is a few bee stings, minor gashes, scrapes, bruises, and only one broken heart (which healed fine, thank you), and some minor heart abrasions to remind me that I am still tender-hearted, not steel clad.
    And so I climb, sometimes one foot in front of the other, sometimes hand over hand, sometimes on my belly inching forward. But still I climb. I know that I will finally round a curve and see the panorama of the world spread out before me. I know that above the dense canopy of forest that shades my progress is a blazing sun and azure sky. I know there is clarity ahead, even if I cannot see it as I climb. I know that I will find a clearing, a gentle slope, a straight path ahead, if I just keep climbing. And so I climb. I climb.