Thursday, April 10, 2008

It can't be just for me

I have said these words, I should not say them again:
Living can't be this hard for other people.
Other people don't have to do this, do they? They do not have to work so hard just to interact with the world.
It can't hurt this much for everybody. Can it?
Why does it have to be this way?
What did I do to deserve this?

Woe, woe, woe is me.

Now get me a trashcan to puke into--pathetic self-pity disgusts me.

No melodrama.

No drama.

No tears in baseball.

Still, there have been a couple of observations made over the last few days about my life-experience that warrant commentary.

1) I do not have dreams. I only have nightmares.
I wish this statement were figurative, but it is literal. I do not remember the last good dream I had. Justin does not remember me telling him about any good dreams. I wake up drenched, breathless, terrified, my heart racing. In my sleep I run from beasts of many sorts: rapists, fire, attackers, killers, angry bosses, parents, customers, clients, angry people of all sorts. In my sleep I balance on ledges, walls, cliffs; I scramble up and down steep and awkward surfaces to escape I-do-not-know-what. In my sleep I dodge the ocean's tide that laps and licks and prepares to swallow me whole by trapping me between the curve of cliffs I cannot climb. In my sleep I fall. In my sleep I nearly die.

2) Exhaustion consumes me.
I wake from those nightmare nights knowing the day's tasks would suffer because I did not feel rested though I slept. Now that I realize the extent of my even-when-I-sleep sleep deprivation, it finally makes sense that a lifetime of working in my sleep followed by days spent working to achieve more than whoever came before/the day before/what "they" expected/what I expected/more than necessary has worn me tissue-paper thin. I crinkle and tear, wrapped around the gift I mean to give delightfully.

3) I power through my days.
Oh God, thank you for those days spent resting, lolling, forgiven. But even those provide amplification for my skipping-record brain. Rest. Does everyone have to concentrate on resting? On stilling their mind or watching a sitcom or movie in focus, instead of watching their thoughts
dash from friend to work to husband to family to chores to contacts to laundry to noises to car trouble to trips to movie to focusing to doctor appointments to itches to pains to paints? I work to rest, though sometimes--sweet glory--I rest. Rest: a gift. A special reservation. Real life, real life is for me to run through. Jump. Hoop hoop hoop hoop hoop. Jump. Real life is every day. Every day is scheduled. Every schedule is a goal a task a commitment. Real life requires achievements, and achievements are to be achieved.

My real life is too hard to do with such busy nights of sleeping-or-not-sleeping--the same.


No wonder I am so fucking tired and my fuse is sometimes so fucking quick to light from tiny fucking sparks.


But I deserve no special right to wallow or allow my brokenness to break anything or anyone. I grant myself no permission to inflict my wounds on other parties.

Easier to hide or avoid the task of interaction. But reality calls for power--do that job and do it well and do it with a smile or do not bother.

It can't be just me.

I shall not wallow as I carry this bizarrely heavy weight of a heart hollowed by other people's carvings that too easily I inadvertently allowed to crumble my insides.

I have no special reason to complain. No right to suffer. No gall to cry. This lot in life is not so unique or bad. It just is. What it is.

This is what I do: I go.

Just shut up and drive.

Shut up and go.

Go.




I rise, I rise, I rise.

1 comment:

mik said...

Search search search for something to satisfy. This innermost hunger to which we cannot find words to relate…of which we Wonder whether what others say really feels the same. As this anxious moment that resides within yet exists in no timeliness outside oneself. Clutching grabbing reaching blindly for what should would could be the fulfillment of this yet insatiable hunger. Clinging to the comfort of being contained within this, bound by that which terrifies. The thoughts of which after being pushed aside come back to haunt while Lying in the dark scared of sleep. living can feel so alone. And this hunger only grows more as it is fed. Moving without choice from one moment to the next, what's next? What now? What more? Staring out to sea overwhelmed by the magnitude of millennia made by minutes stitched together. Footprints erased by the tide, only sand and shells remain…fragments of what has lived and left. Why this hurts is the same as why we search. This hunger is not to be satisfied by the same means which creates it. Too large is this which we feel, of which we remain part of. that which has no borders, no edges and is still complete without having anything outside of it to define it. This elusive moment within haunts. It taunts us to escape it, but perhaps instead we begin to embrace it. searching searching searching not to find, but to be found...