The reality of danger is one that most people overlook in the pursuit of perceived happiness.
Or, better explained- Some are simply incapable of compound thought that leads to the discovery that happiness is in fact perceived. So the real danger that is overwhelmingly prolific, simply never strikes them as such.
Happiness is conjured or wiped clean like so many sticky fingerprints in the width and breadth of a moment... All it takes is one moment to irrevocably change the course of our lives. Yet, as I look around, all I see is people trapped in the confines of their misconceived safety, which in no way leads to long term happiness.
The path to discontent is generally well maintained, holes filled and smoothed over, but ends in an unexpected, quite tragic drop. One moment you are strolling along with ease, the next you find yourself falling into an unknown chasm. It surely was a pleasant road to get there too, but of course there were signs, and you ignored them for they were contradictory to the path.
Happiness, that mythical creature, you see it in every cloud, every leaf caught on the wind, the laughter of a child, colors seem brighter, coffee smoother, and everything tastes sweeter... It is all perceived as such. It is how the mind (heart) processes various stimuli, then deciphers the code into usable snippets of emotion.
Problem is, that when perceived happiness is categorized as absolute safety, averting the inevitable disaster that follows is not only improbable, but impossible. The only option left, is to save face.
Upon this discovery of what happiness is, I have begun a metamorphosis, though my wings are nowhere near ready to unfurl, taking flight in my new form seems the next step in exploration of this form, and in furthering the transcendence into the realization that again I will change, and again, and again to forms unknown.
Understanding my perception of happiness, outside of the boxes that societal normality has demanded it be placed in, is equipping me for the winding, craggy path to it's peak. I may never reach that peak. Maybe it doesn't exist above the cover of clouds which obscure any possible view of the summit. Maybe I perceive something so vast that there is no peak, only the continual climb into endless immeasurable space. The views from up there are beautiful.
Maybe, happiness is the climb, not the destination... that was the thought which began the transformation.
In what context you choose to perceive (for it is a choice, your choice) happiness, and whatever it looks like from your spot along the path, keeping in mind that taking two steps forward, or one back will change that perspective, happiness can not be contained in any one box.
A lesson hard learned through the past 10 years worth of heartache, now applied with the slightest twinge of bitterness, remorse, and loathsome regret that so much of my youth was lost to a perception only I was at liberty to change.
To the people who see only my cynical side, this is no surprise, they wish to only see the bitterness in me, when in fact, it is that bitterness in so many other things which permits for appreciation of all that is sweet. Without bitterness, chocolate would have no appeal...
To those of you who see only the ill in me, and wish to begrudge me my learning experiences (which is precisely what you do, when expressing that one should only see the "happy" side of things) because of how it colors their own perception- I say this;
If you are so affected by the thoughts, ideals, moods, and motives of others that you feel the need to voice your discomfort, perhaps it is time you step back from yourself long enough to evaluate why that particular perspective is so hard to wrap your mind around. Understanding the why should not affect your own perception, unless it is as yet un-solidified. In which case, new information can not harm, it benefits the mind/body/spirit to expand. Life is not all unicorns shitting rainbows, and it should not be treated with an air of whimsy which would imply that it is.
I refuse to look at the ill, and become disillusioned enough to will myself into believing that it could be worse- which is to say, it is not that bad. Some things simply can become no more intense than they presently are, without involving wiping clean your existence from this chunk of rock. They should be acknowledged, accepted, and then (when possible) ignored so that the here and now can still be lived in.
Happiness is not a goal to be reached, it is in every moment, you simply have to decide to experience it. However, without the presence of discontent in one form or another, it truly can not ever be appreciated- People live stereotypical "Happy" lives, and never experience happiness, for the frame of reference which it takes to appreciate what they take as granted, simply does not exist without having been forged in the fires of tragedy.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Mulligan
Mulligans are a funny thing... A funny word actually, comical as it rolls off tongue.
I had to, just this evening, explain what a mulligan was. Because, apparently, it is not commonly used in the average american vocabulary? I dunno. I like to give people more credit than that, and ASSume that they understand the simple world I speak (or in this case, type). Guess I do put too much faith in the public education system, seems it's lacking, and as adults, these women, these mothers do not feel the need/desire/motivation to educate their self any further. Never mind that they will be educating the next generation.
Got off track, as per my usual derailing. Can't stay on track to save my life, or so it would seem.
Where do I begin again? Ha! Mulligans... Mulligans... Have you ever wished for a mulligan, just one more chance to do over, without any strings, without any questions or regrets? I did. Until this evening.
It dawned upon me, finally, and like a burning bale of hay falling atop me, pinning me, that if I had the opportunity to "fix" whatever may have gone awry, I would be pulling the thread on a close knit garment, unraveling everything that is of significance. And for what? The chance to knit it back together in a new form? One that is potentially even more likely not to fit the picture included with the instructions.
Last night I had the opportunity to speak my piece (to my own peace), to let my mind go, and where it went was murky.
Though, with mornings light, clarity dawned anew as well, and the unexpected continued to occur... Ah, and if I had used a mulligan, it never would have. I would not be at this place in my life, it would be incomprehensible to me, the ocean of emotions before me, and how I am to sail across it without being drawn under. My vessel is weathered, sails are in desperate need of repair. Yet afloat I stay, because I have my own history, which has been writ on my heart, and is an open book to read, a lesson to be drawn from. With a mulligan, all is lost.
Emotions are a funny thing. Not so funny as "mulligan". No. But funny, queer, odd, strange, unsettling. Peering at the multifaceted face of emotion, holding it to the light, one moment a rainbow of incomparable beauty appears, the next you are face to face with a cut that should never have been made. It is awkward, strange, doesn't quite fit. But when you set the stone, you never see it. It is hidden in a golden rimmed setting.
I am attempting to say, in so many words, that every emotion has a counter, ever beautiful thing has an ugly side as well. Most of the time it remains hidden by the facade, but in actuality, still exists. Only the maker sees it, knows of it, but it is there. In a finished work, the beauty is evaluated as flawless, but only the creator knows what it took to achieve it- and only the creator can truly appreciate it. With all of its flaws, for the masterful work that it appears to everyone else.
I do not believe that the master would appreciate his creation were it not for the mistakes that were made in the process of perfection. Life, emotion, it all equates to the same... More of the same. Without the failures, we can not appreciate the successes.
Call it irrational, call it infatuation, call it what you will. Love is a verb. Love is constantly moving, in action, ever changing, moving, moving, flowing fluidly through the mind, body, soul. Love is nothing, and everything, and something that can not be readily defined beyond the websters- It stands for so much, and for some, so little. Love can be redefined, and it has, and it will, and in the end it is never the same as it started out, and it is better for it.
I'm permanently bruised, have been bludgeoned, beaten, but am better for the beating, for the knowing, for understanding what it is that keeps us moving. What it is that gifts us with the very precarious thing called trust, with the not so simple capability to gift someone with this, and likewise be gifted with the assurances that are part and parcel to it. For everything implied, even if never clearly defined, for the very welcomed peace of mind.
It is irrational, to those who have never been there. Sadly, some people never get to take this trip. They never venture to cross the boarders, to let go of the perception of safety- better, the misconception of safety, the delusions that lead us to this misconception.
It is even more irrational to those who went there, and were absorbed into the delusion of safety. Love is anything but safe. It is volatile. It is dangerous, it strips us down to the bare minimum of who we are, our naked hearts exposed, broken, bloodied, torn, stitched together, and bandaged over. It makes us completely vulnerable. In the best, and the worst possible ways.
When I was a wee one, not so many years ago, and believing I was mature, all grown, my own woman, who I was, solidified in my perception of self in such a way as only the very young are capable of... I loved.
Little did I know then, that the self assured concepts of life, relationships, the way things ought to be, were more on point than I could have accredited myself with now. It was simple. It was pure. And it was real.
Only upon loosing myself from the tiny box in which I have so long resided, have I begun to re-explore the fact of love. Of the ties that we make with people. Of my ideals regarding family, and what that looks like... Now I am bursting at the seams with the reality that it is in fact possible to see any or all of these things come to life, even when the conditions are not conducive. Dreams really do come true- I woke to one today.
No fairytale is all unicorns shitting rainbows... There is always a wicked stepmother, an old witch, troll (surplus of those about the interwebs), a king with a superiority complex, a horrible beast. My story contains them all. Some of them are the same entity, others are imagined into that role, now that I am capable of processing the reality of what happened to me, and can compartmentalize it- Boxes are awesome!
The incredible thing about fairy tales, is that you get to spin your own. Just takes a little fiber with which to use the wheel, and bind into thread...
I lost myself again, I'm venting, is it evident?
Another glass of chardonnay, and back to the redefinition of love... Here we go again, spinning, spinning, spinning. I pricked my finger, and now I sleep, and here he is to wake me. Could never happen. It's just a story. Or is it?
In my case, it's the reality of what the years have dealt me. I forced myself into emotional slumber, for the day that maybe, just maybe, one chance, one shot, one moment in which I could live out the reality I so desired would be granted me. Unbelievably, it was.
Irrational would not be the definition that I would give to a love that has run deeper than the deposits of self loathing regret which was spawned in the moments after catastrophic trauma. Irrational was the idea which maintained what little of me there was left to function in those conditions. Irrational was the justification I used not to run for my life after what I knew was good, was worthy, was wholesome, what was what I have so longed for all of these years...
Perhaps in the simple purity of my youth I discovered what some are left to flounder on the deck in hopes of being scooped up into- Love. Actual. Simple. Active. Moving. Changing. Redefined.
In reality, my analytical mind will not let it be so simple, I must dissect what it homogeneous.
How can I rationalize the absolute fact that I am now experiencing the reality of love. The act of loving. The willingness of being in love with another individual?
This is not easy for me to grasp, to label, to understand.
In order for love to grow it must be given a wide birth, and in the same moment, it is the immersible vehicle you dive within, and are taken down, down, down into the belly of the beast. How can I possibly rationalize this.
Maybe it is irrational. Perhaps I am delusional. Maybe I simply refuse to see the dangers that are before me.
What I like to believe more likely, is that I have in fact found the most precious of gems, and that it is being set. Though, as any precious gem... Does not necessarily remain in its setting.
Fluidity is not conducive to a setting, which, in it's self defies any sense of traditional definition... It, simply is, what it is.
Now, to go 'shag and crash'....
I had to, just this evening, explain what a mulligan was. Because, apparently, it is not commonly used in the average american vocabulary? I dunno. I like to give people more credit than that, and ASSume that they understand the simple world I speak (or in this case, type). Guess I do put too much faith in the public education system, seems it's lacking, and as adults, these women, these mothers do not feel the need/desire/motivation to educate their self any further. Never mind that they will be educating the next generation.
Got off track, as per my usual derailing. Can't stay on track to save my life, or so it would seem.
Where do I begin again? Ha! Mulligans... Mulligans... Have you ever wished for a mulligan, just one more chance to do over, without any strings, without any questions or regrets? I did. Until this evening.
It dawned upon me, finally, and like a burning bale of hay falling atop me, pinning me, that if I had the opportunity to "fix" whatever may have gone awry, I would be pulling the thread on a close knit garment, unraveling everything that is of significance. And for what? The chance to knit it back together in a new form? One that is potentially even more likely not to fit the picture included with the instructions.
Last night I had the opportunity to speak my piece (to my own peace), to let my mind go, and where it went was murky.
Though, with mornings light, clarity dawned anew as well, and the unexpected continued to occur... Ah, and if I had used a mulligan, it never would have. I would not be at this place in my life, it would be incomprehensible to me, the ocean of emotions before me, and how I am to sail across it without being drawn under. My vessel is weathered, sails are in desperate need of repair. Yet afloat I stay, because I have my own history, which has been writ on my heart, and is an open book to read, a lesson to be drawn from. With a mulligan, all is lost.
Emotions are a funny thing. Not so funny as "mulligan". No. But funny, queer, odd, strange, unsettling. Peering at the multifaceted face of emotion, holding it to the light, one moment a rainbow of incomparable beauty appears, the next you are face to face with a cut that should never have been made. It is awkward, strange, doesn't quite fit. But when you set the stone, you never see it. It is hidden in a golden rimmed setting.
I am attempting to say, in so many words, that every emotion has a counter, ever beautiful thing has an ugly side as well. Most of the time it remains hidden by the facade, but in actuality, still exists. Only the maker sees it, knows of it, but it is there. In a finished work, the beauty is evaluated as flawless, but only the creator knows what it took to achieve it- and only the creator can truly appreciate it. With all of its flaws, for the masterful work that it appears to everyone else.
I do not believe that the master would appreciate his creation were it not for the mistakes that were made in the process of perfection. Life, emotion, it all equates to the same... More of the same. Without the failures, we can not appreciate the successes.
Call it irrational, call it infatuation, call it what you will. Love is a verb. Love is constantly moving, in action, ever changing, moving, moving, flowing fluidly through the mind, body, soul. Love is nothing, and everything, and something that can not be readily defined beyond the websters- It stands for so much, and for some, so little. Love can be redefined, and it has, and it will, and in the end it is never the same as it started out, and it is better for it.
I'm permanently bruised, have been bludgeoned, beaten, but am better for the beating, for the knowing, for understanding what it is that keeps us moving. What it is that gifts us with the very precarious thing called trust, with the not so simple capability to gift someone with this, and likewise be gifted with the assurances that are part and parcel to it. For everything implied, even if never clearly defined, for the very welcomed peace of mind.
It is irrational, to those who have never been there. Sadly, some people never get to take this trip. They never venture to cross the boarders, to let go of the perception of safety- better, the misconception of safety, the delusions that lead us to this misconception.
It is even more irrational to those who went there, and were absorbed into the delusion of safety. Love is anything but safe. It is volatile. It is dangerous, it strips us down to the bare minimum of who we are, our naked hearts exposed, broken, bloodied, torn, stitched together, and bandaged over. It makes us completely vulnerable. In the best, and the worst possible ways.
When I was a wee one, not so many years ago, and believing I was mature, all grown, my own woman, who I was, solidified in my perception of self in such a way as only the very young are capable of... I loved.
Little did I know then, that the self assured concepts of life, relationships, the way things ought to be, were more on point than I could have accredited myself with now. It was simple. It was pure. And it was real.
Only upon loosing myself from the tiny box in which I have so long resided, have I begun to re-explore the fact of love. Of the ties that we make with people. Of my ideals regarding family, and what that looks like... Now I am bursting at the seams with the reality that it is in fact possible to see any or all of these things come to life, even when the conditions are not conducive. Dreams really do come true- I woke to one today.
No fairytale is all unicorns shitting rainbows... There is always a wicked stepmother, an old witch, troll (surplus of those about the interwebs), a king with a superiority complex, a horrible beast. My story contains them all. Some of them are the same entity, others are imagined into that role, now that I am capable of processing the reality of what happened to me, and can compartmentalize it- Boxes are awesome!
The incredible thing about fairy tales, is that you get to spin your own. Just takes a little fiber with which to use the wheel, and bind into thread...
I lost myself again, I'm venting, is it evident?
Another glass of chardonnay, and back to the redefinition of love... Here we go again, spinning, spinning, spinning. I pricked my finger, and now I sleep, and here he is to wake me. Could never happen. It's just a story. Or is it?
In my case, it's the reality of what the years have dealt me. I forced myself into emotional slumber, for the day that maybe, just maybe, one chance, one shot, one moment in which I could live out the reality I so desired would be granted me. Unbelievably, it was.
Irrational would not be the definition that I would give to a love that has run deeper than the deposits of self loathing regret which was spawned in the moments after catastrophic trauma. Irrational was the idea which maintained what little of me there was left to function in those conditions. Irrational was the justification I used not to run for my life after what I knew was good, was worthy, was wholesome, what was what I have so longed for all of these years...
Perhaps in the simple purity of my youth I discovered what some are left to flounder on the deck in hopes of being scooped up into- Love. Actual. Simple. Active. Moving. Changing. Redefined.
In reality, my analytical mind will not let it be so simple, I must dissect what it homogeneous.
How can I rationalize the absolute fact that I am now experiencing the reality of love. The act of loving. The willingness of being in love with another individual?
This is not easy for me to grasp, to label, to understand.
In order for love to grow it must be given a wide birth, and in the same moment, it is the immersible vehicle you dive within, and are taken down, down, down into the belly of the beast. How can I possibly rationalize this.
Maybe it is irrational. Perhaps I am delusional. Maybe I simply refuse to see the dangers that are before me.
What I like to believe more likely, is that I have in fact found the most precious of gems, and that it is being set. Though, as any precious gem... Does not necessarily remain in its setting.
Fluidity is not conducive to a setting, which, in it's self defies any sense of traditional definition... It, simply is, what it is.
Now, to go 'shag and crash'....
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Blast From The Past
Lest we rest, Triumphant
In silence
In silence
With our defiance displayed in an array of violence
By the tyrants, who's confidence in gods and monuments
Outweigh the judgements, laid by our government
an institution of confusion, the result of a cranial contusion
It;s just an illusion
Created for the usual, delusional masses
Those crazy bastards
When I was a mere bud of the woman I am only beginning to blossom as, I wrote that. 13 years ago, as a young pup I had more of a sense of self than I do now. It's time to get back to my roots.
This weekend has been a blast from the past, and has brought the realization that I know who I am, I simply learned to forget. Now, I remember.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Delving in
What, why, when, how, who, if, maybe, could it, am I?
So many, many, many questions that I do not as of yet have answers to, not that I have a desire to have all of the answers, but reality being what it is, and how it is, and knowing that I am in my own little world most of the time, it needs to be, to exist, somewhere outside of my own little internalization. I must be, It must be a reality close to me to survive, to exist, to allow. To be perceived by the knowing, the intimacy of dreams.
I want for tomorrow to come without incident, to be a new day, a new life, and new desire, a new enemy to chase. I want, I want, and I know that in wanting I will eventually perceive the world in terms that are beyond desire, and roll in the reality in which I must certainly live.
If in the living, the lusting, the chasing, the fighting, the flight from all of the previously stated, I am able to passionately latch onto some sort of outward persona, to "Become" whatever, whoever, and whenever I am supposed to be, yet also maintain myself,to some smallish degree, at least in the little box- the one in which I so long lived... I will have succeeded at life.
Looking around me, seeing through their eyes, it is so frightening to see myself as they see me. I seem to be so out of place, such a candidate for the isle of misfit toys, I am, I was broken. A rag doll without her rags, not limp, but empty, devoid of fluff, of happy stuff, the stuff that matters.
For the answers, the ones that lie beneath, the ones that matter, beyond the scratched lens on the surface of the water, what lies deeper, buoyant, bobbing gently below the surface, perfectly balanced, I must weigh myself down to reach.
So many, many, many questions that I do not as of yet have answers to, not that I have a desire to have all of the answers, but reality being what it is, and how it is, and knowing that I am in my own little world most of the time, it needs to be, to exist, somewhere outside of my own little internalization. I must be, It must be a reality close to me to survive, to exist, to allow. To be perceived by the knowing, the intimacy of dreams.
I want for tomorrow to come without incident, to be a new day, a new life, and new desire, a new enemy to chase. I want, I want, and I know that in wanting I will eventually perceive the world in terms that are beyond desire, and roll in the reality in which I must certainly live.
If in the living, the lusting, the chasing, the fighting, the flight from all of the previously stated, I am able to passionately latch onto some sort of outward persona, to "Become" whatever, whoever, and whenever I am supposed to be, yet also maintain myself,to some smallish degree, at least in the little box- the one in which I so long lived... I will have succeeded at life.
Looking around me, seeing through their eyes, it is so frightening to see myself as they see me. I seem to be so out of place, such a candidate for the isle of misfit toys, I am, I was broken. A rag doll without her rags, not limp, but empty, devoid of fluff, of happy stuff, the stuff that matters.
For the answers, the ones that lie beneath, the ones that matter, beyond the scratched lens on the surface of the water, what lies deeper, buoyant, bobbing gently below the surface, perfectly balanced, I must weigh myself down to reach.
Roiling in the eye
The sky is overcast, the air moistly heavy with rain that is beginning to fall. All around me the nesting birds call for their mates to flutter home, as a large military aircraft that I can not identify rumbles over head, and on its tail thunder comes rolling in.
Like a wave crashing to shore, gentle salty breezes wash over me, raising goose flesh on my arms. Another plane soars above us, somewhere above the clouds, again trailed by rolling, crashing waves of thunder, as another late spring storm makes its way up the coast.
The air around me is peaceful, and yet somehow charged, it is the calm before the storm. Now the sky behind me darkens to a green, surrounded by dusky gray, like being in the eye of an ostrich feather. Thunder crashes again, rumbling and rolling, like the roiling surf. The storm brewing is not unlike that which is in my own mind. The fury which is encapsulated in the eye of memory.
Local wildlife feels it too, so I sit and gawk as they scurry about, seeking shelter from the storm. As I too, seek refuge, and begin internalizing, the eye of the storm, and its beauteous calm will soon be upon me.
Like a wave crashing to shore, gentle salty breezes wash over me, raising goose flesh on my arms. Another plane soars above us, somewhere above the clouds, again trailed by rolling, crashing waves of thunder, as another late spring storm makes its way up the coast.
The air around me is peaceful, and yet somehow charged, it is the calm before the storm. Now the sky behind me darkens to a green, surrounded by dusky gray, like being in the eye of an ostrich feather. Thunder crashes again, rumbling and rolling, like the roiling surf. The storm brewing is not unlike that which is in my own mind. The fury which is encapsulated in the eye of memory.
Local wildlife feels it too, so I sit and gawk as they scurry about, seeking shelter from the storm. As I too, seek refuge, and begin internalizing, the eye of the storm, and its beauteous calm will soon be upon me.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Today my sewing machine bit the dust. I feel like I want to cry, as I look in the mirror at my tattered, ill fitting jeans, and typical T-shirt... I was in the middle of some new clothes. Yeah, I want to cry. Not just because of the damned machine either.
Some days, like today, I feel so lonesome. I love my babies, and I really don't get all that much out of superficial interaction, but I also feel trapped in the realm of motherhood, and can not escape. I want conversations that stimulate more than my gag reflex as someone discusses their latest diaper blow out, or which formula they finally chose after their baby reacted badly to the first 3- because "I couldn't breastfeed"... If I had just a nickel every time I heard that, I would be a rich woman. I want to mean something to someone, anyone, other than just mom.
Today I looked in the mirror, and I saw everything I told myself I would never become, and it frightened me to no end... Realizing that I am losing my grip on who I am as a person, after fighting so hard to preserve it for so long- It's as though I looked up at the dangling baby grand hanging by a thread above my head, and couldn't shake the enormity of it's shadow, even when I stepped aside.
Is it wrong of me to suddenly take an interest in "girly" things? Is it even for me, or am I just willing to put on an act so that I can get as far as a hello? I am not sure. Furthermore, would it even work? I'm not exactly fitting the profile of beauty, even on my most attractive of days.
It sickens me to see someone who has nothing to offer, be offered everything, because they fit the profile- they are fun to look at, even though they are as empty as a whiskey bottle in an alcoholics rubbish bin. Yet they are considered an asset because they are empty- Just look @ women who are in sales and you'll see what I mean... They thrive in that position because there is nothing else for them, they are nothing more than a showpiece. Yet they succeed when someone who is qualified is left to the wayside- Am I the only one who is sickened by this?
Some days, like today, I feel so lonesome. I love my babies, and I really don't get all that much out of superficial interaction, but I also feel trapped in the realm of motherhood, and can not escape. I want conversations that stimulate more than my gag reflex as someone discusses their latest diaper blow out, or which formula they finally chose after their baby reacted badly to the first 3- because "I couldn't breastfeed"... If I had just a nickel every time I heard that, I would be a rich woman. I want to mean something to someone, anyone, other than just mom.
Today I looked in the mirror, and I saw everything I told myself I would never become, and it frightened me to no end... Realizing that I am losing my grip on who I am as a person, after fighting so hard to preserve it for so long- It's as though I looked up at the dangling baby grand hanging by a thread above my head, and couldn't shake the enormity of it's shadow, even when I stepped aside.
Is it wrong of me to suddenly take an interest in "girly" things? Is it even for me, or am I just willing to put on an act so that I can get as far as a hello? I am not sure. Furthermore, would it even work? I'm not exactly fitting the profile of beauty, even on my most attractive of days.
It sickens me to see someone who has nothing to offer, be offered everything, because they fit the profile- they are fun to look at, even though they are as empty as a whiskey bottle in an alcoholics rubbish bin. Yet they are considered an asset because they are empty- Just look @ women who are in sales and you'll see what I mean... They thrive in that position because there is nothing else for them, they are nothing more than a showpiece. Yet they succeed when someone who is qualified is left to the wayside- Am I the only one who is sickened by this?
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
K, so here goes... I quit writing again, not just this, but everything. I am in a uncommunicative state at present, and there are some (though very few, as I am a bit of a recluse these days) who are wondering where I am. Or maybe I give myself too much credit, and the fact of the matter is that no one is wondering anything, because I am an open person, and it is obvious that I have regressed back into my plastic bubble. Contradiction in terms- Recluse being an open person! LOL @ myself! Truth is stranger than fiction.
After an interesting convo with the manimal on Sunday, I was heavily struck with the realization that I can not do what i desire, for there is no path forward. I have to market what I am good at, what meager skills I possess... I would love to be a Doula, but the fact of the matter is that it will put me in contact with too diverse a group, and I doubt my personal ability to remain neutral, which is absolutely necessary to be helpful, rather than harmful... A lot of people disagreed with my birth choices, but the simple outcome was the same with all three- uneventful, uncomplicated, unmedicated, unintervened, natural child birth. That is what I preach, and I know that I can not support someone who decides to risk it all by going the procedural route that most MDs preach. That is where I would be doing harm, although for the greater good.
Next task: Figure out how to be social, and integrate myself into some form of society in which I am likely to find solace, and perhaps, even succeed at becoming a productive participant in what lies beyond the safety of my plastic bubble of sanity.
The question that follows: Can it be done? (or am I too far gone, recessed into the crack in reality which allows me to function without any physical social connections, and very few interpersonal relationships.) What I fear is that I am so offended by the shallow ones- the one who have NOTHING to offer, and are a leach, a likable leach that people keep around for amusement- that I may never find my niche.
The resentment that I harbor for my parents, and particularly my mother is almost deafening- it is a constant ringing in my mind, not at the back, like a gnat flying about, buzzing in and out of my thoughts, but a damn relentless blood sucking mosquito, eating me alive.
She now admits that it was wrong, what they did, isolating me, especially when I plead with them to let me free- let me go to school! Not realizing at the time that what they had done was illegal, and they would have to answer for it sooner or later. Now I belong on the Island of misfit toys... No matter how hard I try, something is broken.
I feel so awkward with my peer group, especially when they learn that I have a child who is anywhere from 4-8 years older than theirs... Seems the stigma of being a Teen Mom never wears off, they just find new ways to judge you, and your over achieving public school attending, vegetarian child. No matter what I do, she will always have to live with it too. Even though she is a high functioning child, the label is still there- she must be illiterate, poor, white trash. OK, they have me on the poor part, sure are. It's life, you make due with what you have, not what you don't.
AAAHHHHH!!!! I am just so fucking frustrated, I want to be "fixed", and for the sake of survival, just fit in! OMG, I can't believe I just said that... No, I don't want to fit in, I do not want to be a sheeple, I just want to look like one during daylight hours so that they'll accept me into their money making world.
After an interesting convo with the manimal on Sunday, I was heavily struck with the realization that I can not do what i desire, for there is no path forward. I have to market what I am good at, what meager skills I possess... I would love to be a Doula, but the fact of the matter is that it will put me in contact with too diverse a group, and I doubt my personal ability to remain neutral, which is absolutely necessary to be helpful, rather than harmful... A lot of people disagreed with my birth choices, but the simple outcome was the same with all three- uneventful, uncomplicated, unmedicated, unintervened, natural child birth. That is what I preach, and I know that I can not support someone who decides to risk it all by going the procedural route that most MDs preach. That is where I would be doing harm, although for the greater good.
Next task: Figure out how to be social, and integrate myself into some form of society in which I am likely to find solace, and perhaps, even succeed at becoming a productive participant in what lies beyond the safety of my plastic bubble of sanity.
The question that follows: Can it be done? (or am I too far gone, recessed into the crack in reality which allows me to function without any physical social connections, and very few interpersonal relationships.) What I fear is that I am so offended by the shallow ones- the one who have NOTHING to offer, and are a leach, a likable leach that people keep around for amusement- that I may never find my niche.
The resentment that I harbor for my parents, and particularly my mother is almost deafening- it is a constant ringing in my mind, not at the back, like a gnat flying about, buzzing in and out of my thoughts, but a damn relentless blood sucking mosquito, eating me alive.
She now admits that it was wrong, what they did, isolating me, especially when I plead with them to let me free- let me go to school! Not realizing at the time that what they had done was illegal, and they would have to answer for it sooner or later. Now I belong on the Island of misfit toys... No matter how hard I try, something is broken.
I feel so awkward with my peer group, especially when they learn that I have a child who is anywhere from 4-8 years older than theirs... Seems the stigma of being a Teen Mom never wears off, they just find new ways to judge you, and your over achieving public school attending, vegetarian child. No matter what I do, she will always have to live with it too. Even though she is a high functioning child, the label is still there- she must be illiterate, poor, white trash. OK, they have me on the poor part, sure are. It's life, you make due with what you have, not what you don't.
AAAHHHHH!!!! I am just so fucking frustrated, I want to be "fixed", and for the sake of survival, just fit in! OMG, I can't believe I just said that... No, I don't want to fit in, I do not want to be a sheeple, I just want to look like one during daylight hours so that they'll accept me into their money making world.
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