Immobilized

Stuck again...

It's funny the lengths I would go to to feel better. Better does not necessarily require good feelings or pleasure. All I want is some kind, any kind of drastic contrast to the utter discomfort I feel. This could consist of several hundred empty calories of sugar spike chocolate that I consume and simultaneously regret, or a shot or more of whisky or any other kind of obtainable alcohol in the middle of the day, or my own hand across my face to sting and wake me up, or any other bloody scarring act whether it be pleasure or pain to distract the inside anguish, to restore to me control of my own, as if this could embody my state and allow it a life and death of its own without me having to think it and feel it - so at least I could go back to pretending to be normal and productive like everyone else. Emotional Phagocytosis.

But then there is the reckoning - consequences leaving me to question everything and forcing me to work all the harder when my equilibrium comes back. And my rationale, my desire to be responsible, to be healthy, to be a normal, well adjusted, and intelligent adult... tells me you don't need to feel, what you feel is not necessarily reliable and does not need to have such an effect... And then the me that is so deep and soul-like pulsates and swells and begs me not to push away the child that is what is my individuality and my love and everything. And then I'm stuck in between in the not knowing what or how to think and feel or how I should best be me.

My friend says, don't think. Don't think just do. This actually works very well. Until the thoughts that won't be silenced obtrusively shout and moan and babble...And it's ok. Sort of. Because there is something beautiful about pain. According to Viktor Frankl there is always meaning to life, even when it is full of suffering. Only a part of me truly believes this. The other part merely wants to escape. And to throw myself into a world of rush and paperwork, phone calls and multitudinous menial tasks and devaluing duties I am paid to perform is not a welcome escape. Thus my weakness in fighting the upwelling...

Oh for a moment or two of quiet and respite from the past. Oh for a reasurring squeeze or a solid wall to lean on. Oh for a friend to sit with and ease the weight of where am I and why. Oh to forgive and be forgiven.

I guess sometimes you have to carry your own calm with you... keep a little bit of it safe and buried deep to temper the insanity when it bubbles up. And I suppose between the ups and downs, the valleys and peaks there's gotta be something. Like a gentle slope or maybe a meadow, a little breathing space. And even though I think I have to be doing things and getting somewhere amidst the noise of life, perhaps simply continuing to be and to seek is where meaning exists. Like Debussy said, music is the space between the notes.