Problem Chylde: Learning & Writing

I’ve reached one of those points where I feel too much, where feeling too much no longer feels like a penchant from what I’ve survived, and feeling becomes a fucking unbearable burden that I want to reject.  I’m angry, I’m alone, and I’m hardening my shell because my soul is admitting too much negative energy.  My natural barriers against the negative waves are useless right now. 

I’ve reached an era of recognizing that my body, my soul, my intellect, my faith, and my voice are the only parts of the world I have to know.  At sporadic moments, they work without integration.  At random moments, one or two of these elements shut down, and all manners of filth wear down the rest of me.  

I’ve reached an understanding that toxic environments breed chaos in your spirit, and then that spiritual chaos chips at your body and forms a green mold all around your self-consciousness.  You know it’s there, it’s stinking up your holistic fridge — but it’s too disgusting to throw out.  Your hypocrisies live on, flame on through the halls of your hopes, your dreams, your passions, your loves — your hypocrisies reach those halls and char everything behind those doors you thought you bolted shut and the doors themselves.  You can’t create something impenetrable in yourself because there’s always one person that’s going to reach through those walls and see what’s hidden there.  And you know everything about that person, and living with them until death becomes a new version of hell.

I’ve reached an impasse in negotiating boundaries with myself.  I can no longer look at my life and say definitively, “So I’ll never think about X.”  ”So I am truly a [insert label]-ist!”  ”So I will not.”  ”So I am not.”  

And it hurts to lose that ability to try to lose myself in everything because I realize all that’s left is the essence of my being.  I’m in a society where the type of person I am is not the fucking thing to be!  I can’t lie and say that despite the worth I build in myself, I still cry when I realize that I’m not conventionally beautiful.  I still shudder when I realize I can’t wear that midriff, I can’t date that woman, I can’t walk into a room and expect people to understand me or to have some honest nonverbal commiseration with someone, and I can’t separate the smallest element of physical contact from intimacy.  I’m met with all the things I feel I can’t do.  The limbo of pretense and folly, the energy suck of acting better than myself to get away from what I’m feeling — I’m learning that by ignoring the need to love and to take care of myself, I am shaming me.

I run into these points in my life, short life that it is and probably will be, and I realize there are probably many different causes for why I neglect myself.  Internal and external causes — they’re there.  I can’t lie and say I’ve accepted why they’re all there, that I love the past and wouldn’t change it if I could.  I can’t lie and say I’ll heal from them all, either.  But if I can’t make the best of the fact that I’m still alive and I still have this fire in me, then what is there left to do?  What kind of care and honesty am I nurturing in myself if I can’t keep this fire burning, if I can’t keep my little light shining?

It’s weird — these thoughts arose under the pettiest circumstances, so petty that I shouldn’t speak about them.  And for sanity’s sake, I won’t.  But sometimes I feel like a piece in this rudely constructed game, and I walk blithely from square to square, picking up goodies, losing turns, and then this tsunami of solitude and disruption chucks my piece clear off the board into this carpet of confusion and hypersensitivity and panic and disorder.  I think I’m alone, feeling this way, and yet I’m sure I’m not alone.  And then I feel like the most narcissistic person on the planet, stuck at crossroads facing identical mirrors and distraught at the idea that this next step I take is for no one’s benefit but myself.  Distraught at the prospect of fighting for myself, of being myself in a world where there are so many options to mimic and to parrot other people.  

Every time I hit that carpet, I think, “I hate this fucking game!”  But I always dust myself off and stroll back to the start space.  

And I wonder, am I starting alone?  Do I have to start alone?  When I sit with myself, really sit with myself, are my thoughts my own?  

The best moments are those moments when I’m comfortable with the answers to all those questions being “yes.”  The worst moments are now when I’m so unsure I could camp out on my burial site and wait until my food supply runs low.  

There is so much to be done.  There is so much I can do.

Where do they mesh, and how?  

That’s what I’m asking myself right now.  

And every wrong answer hurts some part of me.