Lost
I need to be cathartic again. Days like these I feel vacant - empty except for this huge stone that weighs at the centre of my chest. I feel like I want to cry, need to cry, but I can't. It just would not come out. The gravity of depression centres like a maelstrom inside me.
I am not prone to self-pity and neither am I prone to express such repressiveness. To others I am a pillar of security; a stone of such magnificent proportions because I never cower to the weathers of anxiety or worry. But the stone is cold friends. It is as cold as the mountains that grace the earth with magnificence. I am magnificent, and I am crumbling within.
There are days, such as these, where I cannot find contentment in solitude. I hate this fucking solitude. I am so lonely. I want the comfort of arms - strong and enabling; I desire flesh - warm and odorous; I crave moistness - tears that would find a crevice to fill. Where is this body? There are so many yet each seek the ephemerality of jouissance that expires by the morn. I seek the solidity of the earth and to lavish in the scented dew of twilight that scintillates on my nakedness. I seek this earth-form that would shape before my eyes without hessitation or nervousness. He that makes me as I sustain him. But by morning I will rise again to only the wafting scent of what-may-have-been.
As I express my vulnerability there will be those who would laugh at my naivity - perhaps my romantic stupidity. No such man, no such being, no such soul. Oh, hear you me, I have heard the platitudes a thousand times. Don't worry dear, he will come along just fine. Oh! Don't be silly! You're still young! That handsome chap would come along before you know it. I don't want him now. I'm already sick of waiting.
I stand here like the stone that I am - that I should be - because I am impenetrable. I have built this magnificent statue of mortar and stone with my swollen hands because I detest vulnerability. I am impenetrable because I fear to lose control. I NEVER lose control. Stupid, stupid, stupid me. I am stupid. I am arrogant. I am a fool.
Take me to a place that says no more and hears no more. Take me to a far-away land like the stories I read as a child. Take me to colours and clouds that fluffs in the wind where no soul ever lost tears to shed. Make me whole again so that I can find comfort in solitude. And hold my hands some fairy prince so that I may cry again.
posted by Insouciantfemme at 12:41 am
7 Comments:
This is a beautiful post, despite (or because of) the pain behind it. That may not be much consolation at all -- but others are in similar straits, this month, and so to read this is comforting -- it reaches others like me who can be struck dumb by these weights, these stones, that you describe.
Just to share my own thoughts, as I wrote in my journal, of the last few days:
It is irreversible, it feels irreversible, as you fall downwards into this ditch, this rut, this wagon-wheeled, hundred-year old rivet in the side of the road. And you cannot get out. Your energy is gone. You cannot read, you cannot watch movies, you cannot eat, you cannot do anything but lie in bed. Suddenly the outside world becomes another planet, you draw your shades, you cannot go out your front door. What was simple, utterly normal – a walk to the library – becomes a task as impossible and unimaginable as escaping the law of gravity. Unthinkable that you would ever move again from this spot.
Your eyes are red, you have bags under them. You have no will. That you had some will, some energy, something with which to block oneself off!
I think at some point that self-control we think we have mastered -- the impenetrability -- crumbles. Oh, it comes back, but these periods of wanting escape to some foreign land, as you describe, open up a window on an inner landscape of solitude that is pure hell. And we are helpless in this solitude; the defenses we've built up are so, so pathetic.
So, as I say, it may not be any comfort at all, but there are others feeling the same things.
Hi Sea,
You write beautifully. I wish I could read your blog. Why have you hidden yourself from my touch. I cannot link to your self. It is the closest one can get to another in hyperreality.
I am somewhat consoled that there are those who share what I feel. Maybe it is the ditch that I can never climb out of - that 'hundred-year old rivet in the side of the road' - that sustains my stubbornness. I don't like pain. I'm not used to it.
You have given me the impetuosity to think again on my predisposition - my self that is constantly in rigid control. Perhaps I will freeze and melt again to the rhythm of solitude. Perhaps...
Insouciantfemme
Thank you for the kind response; I had hoped that some sort of hypertextual touch from my corner of the universe, some small offering, might be a crumb of comfort.
What you've written since November scares the life out of me. Psychologically, we are more or less in the same place -- I find myself commiserating with you continually about the place I am in, mentally. I find no lines of flight out of my situation. Capital closes them all off.
And academically, well, I think we do the same thing. I am just some NoOne in his 30s on the way to the very same space you inhabit -- as I work toward a PhD which will, in time, turn me into a body mapped and carved up by corporate academic administrators (if I am lucky enough even to get invited to the dissecting party, that is).
Hence, quite frightening, as you walk ahead of me, to hear of and read what you observe.
Sorry about the lack of a link -- I'm no spectre, really, nor did I mean to leave that temporal impression -- or email address. You can write to me at seaofdoubt at gmail.com, if the mood strikes you.
But as for more sustained writing, I wish I had the energy or courage to blog. Everything I write goes into notebooks, which I know someday will sit on a curb in a box, and then be tossed into the back of a garbage truck and buried without a second thought.
What you are doing in hyperreality does at least leave a mark on others, as my response to you can attest; you are, as Ms. Woolf wrote, mitigating "the sufferings of our fellow-prisoners," and decorating "the dungeon with flowers and air-cushions" (and much more, of course, than that Victorian trope suggests).
And I am a quarter-of-a-century fool who is both naive and fearless. Thus I am at times the epitome of stupidity.
I used to write in my diary - I still do sometimes. Those shadowy eidolons that reside in the deepest crevices of my self find reve(a)lation in those damp and brown pages. It is necessary sometimes. We cannot fully come out to the world without repercussions. So said Eve K. Sedgwick - my mother of epistemologies.
If I have decorated this dungeon with 'flowers and air-cushions', I must apologise. I like the dungeon. There is a familiarity to it. Its chilling comfort, its hard stone floors and imaginary murals of desolate bodies, are so much a part of my life. But don't let me deceive you. Outside the bars of my self-imprisonment are cherry blossoms that wither gently to the grey skies. Its disharmony strikes a beautiful complexion against the landscape of my emotions.
Come to my madness anytime. Visit through the imaginary door that separates the backstage and frontstage of my identity. Here I am a puppet with and without strings. Here I dance the carnivalesque dance of Puck The Fool.
Welcome back Sea.
My modest attempt at a blog:
http://ulrikemeinhof.blogspot.com/
It will get better -- and more interesting -- with time.
It is time like this you should do something out of your daily pattern. Maybe there's something not working right in order for you to get the guy you want. Maybe you just need to allow yourself to be vulnerable. It's ok to be so ... from time to time. *hugs*
I'm vulnerable at the moment ginger dear... and it's not helping... not helping at all. The indecisiveness of this boy is just killing me. I can't handle this. I most probably have to move on... sigh.
Illusions. I always grasp at illusions only to realise the phantasm is my own.
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