Connectedness is loveliest when you can simultaneously access your separateness. And separateness is most delicious when you can feel your connectedness.
If you cannot locate the beauty in someone then there is, more often than not, something missing in you, not in them.
Where once there was an amorphous, ineffable and heavy pain in my heart there is now a sharp and clearly defined one. When once I had a shield of avoidance and the armor of numbness I now stand naked. I know why I hurt and I know the pain that is to come.
The road ahead will be faced with effort and courage but will inevitably include failures and rejections (both big and small).
It is easy (as in familiar) to live life as the responder–to only act when there is a near guarantee of getting what I want. It is terrifying to reach out when there is the possibility of nobody being there; of expressing my love when it is uncertain that the love will be reciprocated just when I need it. It is easier to be found (however dissatisfying) than to seek.
My only comfort is the pinhole of light I see on the horizon. There is lightness, love and freedom there. It is faith more than strength that is pulling me along.
In a perfect world I would have been guided toward that light when it was appropriate to be carried there. But it is not and so I will run, walk, stumble, trip and fall toward it.
My metaphors are simplistic. My writing unimaginative. But somehow that feels true and sincere. I can’t be clever about any of this. I don’t want to hide behind my restrained aphorisms and disembodied fantasy worlds because they are part of the numbness. I am excited. I am terrified. I hurt. Learning how to be alive is not easy.
For two weeks I was the real me. A me without strategies. Without strategies for my strategies. No overbearing hopelessness and cynicism. No heavy footed gait. I felt the strength of my body and enjoyed it. The world and the people I love were vibrant and beautiful. I was kind, smart and–dare I say it?–even sexy. I could receive love because I could feel love for myself. I was dynamic. I could feel my life force. And yet it was all very serene–not a manic period of exuberance. I could feel everything and tolerate it: love, sadness, joy and anger. It was life. I was alive.
Then a few tiny setbacks: a night without enough sleep. A tiny rupture with a friend. An annoying interaction with–don’t laugh–a car dealership. And now I can feel the pull toward the familiar; toward the false self; toward that place where I spent my life hoping I would be found. Only it’s not there. It feels like I’m being pulled toward a home that has been bulldozed to the ground. And yet I can’t quite access the real me either. Not fully.
I am in limbo: not quite the real me but without the painful comfort of the false me that has been destroyed. I feel like I am grieving the loss of the familiar place but cannot fully embrace the new one. Home was helplessness and collapse. Home was a lonely and self-abusive place. But it was home.
Maybe this is simply the grief I need to go through to full embody the authentic me that I tried on for two weeks. Somehow it feels like I need to trust that I’m moving toward myself but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. There is no turning back now.
How much pain there is in having needs that I alone cannot fulfill. I turn away from myself and become the emptiness I feel.
The very work that wearies my soul keeps me alive. What would become of me if I did not attend to the needs of others? When once this was a way of vicariously fulfilling myself now it is simply a way to keep my heart beating.
My legs move in circles on this exercise machine. I look out at the gym and realize that I do not feel connected to anyone or anything. I keep the emptiness confined to this corner of the universe. Indifference hurts and I do not wish to hurt the world in the way that it has hurt me. I realize that however misguided it may be, this narrative makes me the pathetic hero of a pathetic tale. It allows me to stay connected to some semblance of my humanity.
I am not above lying to myself. The hunger that defines my very being is both an essential truth and a miserable lie. The only thing I can say with certainty is that I am tired. Too tired for this day. Too tired to finish this entry.
A meeting of two loving and lonely hearts. Too sad for pretense or charm. Longing looks of gratitude. Warm teary eyes lock upon one another and look away. We see in one another the parts that have yet to come forward: the lightness and the rage. I catch a whiff of the future laughter and conflict that will transpire between our reactive—if self-aware—fiery souls. I will fall for this person (as is my lonely soul’s wont) and have to grieve the unrequited part of my love to enjoy the other parts. Perhaps the grief has already begun, even as they sit next to me on the couch.
I reach exhaustion. I hold back saying this because I know they have a prior engagement to which they must soon attend. I am simultaneously sated and empty. I walk her to her car. We embrace tightly. I can feel the mutual insatiability in our hug as well as the safety of knowing that we both recognize our insatiability.
I lack spirit. My life force is low. It has grown increasingly so lately. Even a potentially healing experience increases the emptiness since it serves to remind me that what I seek cannot be found within another. What a sad and saving grace it is to know that. A knowledge that has allowed me to hold onto the love that is in my life.
I look inside myself and realize that whatever it is I need from myself is not there right now. I turn to food. I binge. I limit myself to vegetables and hummus—my tiny victory for the day.
I often grieve imaginary deaths to avoid the pain of my real losses.