impressions

my awakening consciousness

furiosity

Filed under: daylilies — waterlily at 9:52 pm on Wednesday, May 14, 2008

is this even a word? if not, it should be. it perfectly sums up my usual mood, lo these many months. far back in the most remote reaches of my mind Curiosity loiters, too: just how long can a person be so pissed off? i say ‘loiters’ because it’s an idle, detached sort of curiosity. i mean, whenever it runs it’s course is when i’ll be done with it. i try not to wallow in the fury or even embrace it, but i will NOT stuff it or deny it. ever. never again. after stuffing anger for forty odd years, i think it’s not only adds up to an enormous amount, but possibly it kind of…mutates. starts to get malignant, even. malignant cells grow wildly fast and out of control, so i just want to get it all out, all the malignancy or potential malignancy. if others don’t, won’t or can’t understand this furiosity of mine, it doesn’t change the fact that, in allowing myself to feel the way i feel without pretending it just isn’t so, i am fighting for my life. i want it back. as long as i am in no way violating the rights of others to live just as freely and safely, i’m going to do whatever it is i need to do. just because it isn’t pretty, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s evil and wicked!

outpourings

Filed under: daylilies — waterlily at 9:06 pm on Friday, May 9, 2008

some days my psychological paralysis is so extreme that i’m afraid to pick up the phone or leave the apartment. i have no idea what exactly i fear. as far back as i can remember, i’ve been afraid of people. in varying degrees. it’s this vague, visceral feeling; people seem sinister, no matter how pleasant or benign they are in appearance or manner. and sometimes they seem beyond sinister….. like, monstrous. i can remember getting these feelings around some people when i was three years old. i want to know why. i’m forty seven years old and this stuff is just now occurring to me and i want to start living. i really don’t understand a lot of what is happening to me. i fluctuate between two main states of mind – extreme anger and complete, numb, dead detachment. i’m so tired. even the thought of living makes me tired. a few weeks ago, i was talking to my older (by four years) sister and we were reminiscing about old times, growing up. i mentioned the fact that i had had these feelings around people even back then and she said casually “oh yeah, mom and dad took you to a child psychologist once, because you didn’t talk for about a year.” i have NO recollection of this!! i said as much to her and i had a million obvious questions, because our mother died years ago and of course asking the big giant shithead (dad) about it isn’t an option. but she didn’t know a lot and i guess it couldn’t have been too big of a deal if nothing came of it. but it nags at me. not that it especially matters now but i keep wondering if it could be a clue, an insight. i keep thinking maybe back then (it would have been the early 1960’s) they just didn’t know enough to make a diagnosis? unless there was no diagnosis to make. but why would a child simply stop talking, and for such a long time? i just need answers; my life has been so messed up. or maybe this kiddie shrink DID make a diagnosis or hell, just gave my parents some good information but my dad decided nobody needs that information and no one needs to act on it. after all, he did decree many years ago that the entire psychiatric profession is a joke, that only a nutcase would be interested in the field. i’m perfectly serious. not kidding. not even exaggerating. what else would you expect from a man who tells emotionally distraught child to “snap out of it”? a man who finds another person’s pain irritating? i could go on, but i think anyone reading this who is human and also has more than two or three synapses firing gets the picture. anyway, i keep thinking maybe there could have been help for me if not for the shithead and if so, then my whole life could have changed course. i won’t latch onto that as the only possible truth though. things could have played out in infinite other ways. i just need to have some answers. i can’t remember anything really traumatic happening to me as a child that would explain the not talking thing. i mean sure, my dad was a shithead but he did not hit us, or abuse us in any physical way, he didn’t drink, he provided well, gave us a clean, safe home and everything we needed to be (physically) healthy and educated. looking at what i’ve just written, now I feel like the shithead for trashing him. but not for long. he spent my lifetime trashing me. telling me to stop being mentally ill. then shaming me and writing me off as garbage when i could not. and for such a noble parent, how did it escape his notice that all i ever sought was unconsciousness. that my only goal in life was to be dead? either walking dead or under-the-ground dead it didn’t matter to me; it all seemed like inconsequential variations of the same hell. and i just kept up the act. all the right little mannerisms, the right little stupid things to say, just a robot living on auto-pilot, programmed for many different kinds of situations but not for deep, substantial relationships with other human beings. and above all else, programmed to never ever let the real self show. programmed for permanent “nice”. for some reason i find i’m suddenly interested in knowing about all of my ancestors, what were they like and what was the nature and the circumstances of their lives? i want to know what their personalities and their mental condition was like. it’s almost become a need like hunger. i have a lot more pouring out to do but for now, i think this is all.

reality bytes

Filed under: daylilies — waterlily at 8:44 pm on Thursday, May 1, 2008

everything i write seems so boring lately, maybe because it’s a personal journal and my world has become so isolated and insulated….. it definitely doesn’t make good reading even if i try to open up and write frankly about my inner, most demented emotional life. it’s therapeutic for me, sure, but to the reader it’s largely the periodic accountings and rantings of another angry person. i guess this is why i fantasize about writing fiction. why don’t i stop fantasizing about it and actually DO it? i’ve got a million theories but am not sure what the real reason is. as a general rule however, i’ve always preferred fantasy to anything too real. reality – for the most part – is fraught with unpredictability. the only predictable thing is that there WILL be coldness, harshness and cruelty, it’s just impossible to predict what sharp jagged-edged form it will assume to creep or crash it’s way into your day and it seems to have an infinitely imaginative and horrific array of shapes to take when it does. i know there are also joy and beauty and other good things in reality, just as there are courageous, truly admirable and great-hearted people. too much of the time though, this knowledge feels faded and distant, some old theory you can’t for the life you remember how it applies. what does this have to do with why i don’t go ahead and write my novel? i’d be afraid of the nuts and bolts work and the confronting of painful and hugely unpleasant realities of life and myself and human nature and to do so is necessary if you want to write well and really connect with and touch and move and entertain the readers. i guess i’ve been afraid of having nothing to say, no imagination to spark interest and of not doing words justice. i know i’m going to do it though and very soon, because the thought of not even trying is worse than all those fears and more, combined.