self & other

"In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.
A healthy man does not torture others--generally it is the tortured who turn into torturers." 

Carl Jung

It has taken me several years too long to realize that those who find fault in others are those who peer privately at themselves and see those same faults reflected back at them each day. Most of the time, it is not so much that they are unhappy with the world, but rather, that they are unhappy with themselves in some way…

Perhaps it is those faults themselves alongside the feeling of being unable to change or see things differently, that are the source of so much frustration. And maybe it is the only way in which a person can bear living with themselves; to rationalize over and over their hatred and anger so that instead of standing opposite to themselves, they stand opposite to the world and those within it.

I know from experience how much easier it is to hate than it is to feel sadness; to blame instead of to look inward; to inflict pain rather than to feel compassion. I wanted to feel as though I deserved to stand upon this earth, and so I tried in vain to elevate myself above others in order to feel worthy of life and all it had to offer. And in so doing, I had deepened my resentment and bitterness toward everyone and everything; striking at imaginary foes and creating enemies even from those who cared for me.

I suppose this period is inevitable for anyone who has had their trust in others shattered to pieces.  We choose instead to look upon others with distain rather than to see ugliness in ourselves because we want to live and be happy for once. But all of this only leads to more despair and frustration, because it is only a temporary bandage for a wound that runs far deeper.

I see this happening in nearly everyone around me, and especially in those who have purposefully sought to injure me. But, rather than anger, I have come to feel sadness for these people; for their unacknowledged pain… to live life blinded in such a way, because I know why it is they hold so much hatred in their hearts; because I am no different.

And it really is a shame to live in a world so inclosed, unable to truly see others the way they should be seen, and to appreciate the goodness in them that is so often overlooked because you're so immersed with your own misdirected hatred and fear of rejection, with only loneliness and emptiness as your companions.

detachment

It seems that all I've ever done throughout life was dissociate just to get by... detaching from situations that breed anxiety; detaching from people and relationships that cause me anxiety. But it only gets you so far and does so much. There will always be a zenith from which you fall headlong into the craggy rocks below. You don't realize what you've lost during those times of detachment; the people and experiences that should have mattered to you were never truly appreciated as they should have been. More importantly, the lessons meant to be learned became nothing more than blurred scenery.

It's only when you land, that you feel the true weight of all that was ignored crushing down upon your body. You can cry, throw things, break things, break yourself... but none of it will be enough to quell the frustration and regret running wild inside you.

There are indeed "better" ways of living life, but those require time and effort... and most of all, feeling worth that time and effort. That is something I continue grappling with every moment of my life. Do I deserve to eat? Do I deserve to take care of myself? Do I deserve to have people who care about and love me? Do I deserve to "recover"? Do I deserve happiness? 

How hypocritical of me to trumpet the entitlement of self-worth to all those around me, while doubting my own. Does a hypocrite deserve happiness? Does a hypocrite deserve to live?

The answer to these questions is always a resounding no, in my mind. And yet, here I am, still alive, as further testament to my hypocrisy.

waiting

Lately, I've been waking mostly in the afternoons. I wonder why I bother waking up at all, save for five felines who paw and gnaw at my slumbering body in hunger each day. By the time I am awake, I can never return to sleep until the morning. So I make my tea and wait anxiously--as the sun leisurely floats away behind the horizon--to be unconscious once again.... ad infinitum.

And during this period of waiting, there isn't a single second that goes by where I am not tempted by P's wonderful collection of pharmaceuticals or by the xacto knives I've been keeping safe within my drawing supplies. So I cook and clean, or perform whatever menial task that is required of me, hoping to distract my restless mind from these thoughts. But, there's only so much cooking and cleaning one can do.

It's in those moments of silence and stagnation where they begin to creep in, like a slow setting fog. You never notice it, but close your eyes for just a minute, and nothing else exists beyond that blanket of hopelessness and doubt. You wander about frantically searching for something concrete to keep you grounded, and at times there is a thought that peeks through for you to hold on to, but most of the time, you lose yourself in it and remain lost for months on end. You lose your footing, as though the ground has transformed into nothing but a raft above the sea, drifting to nowhere...

foreign

It often feels as though I don't belong in this world. Why else have I been made to be so incompatible and ill-equipped with what is necessary to survive in a world where all the things that seem to matter, do not actually matter at all?

I fear these insatiable desires that do nothing but feed into themselves, greedily trapping anyone who wanders too close. And yet they always ask "what's wrong with wanting fame, beauty, wealth, esteem, power, or acceptance?" ... as though it were self apparent that these things are worth the trouble of having, when they themselves are worth nothing in the end. In the end, we will all die and none of it will matter.

What does matter, from what I can tell, is the quality with which one has lead their life; how they have treated others, their true passions, and the changes they have made in the world no matter how imperceptible. And yet, these are so often the things that are rarely acknowledged by so-called accredited institutions and the glorious pages of history texts.

It seems that legacies are born mostly out of vanity and greed (where there is vanity, there is always greed as its right hand).

I am guilty of all of these desires, and I wish I was not... but how else can I survive in this world when these are the very things that are demanded of me? (Is it merely coincidence that fibromyalgia has also made my body allergic to itself?)

My dream of escaping far into the wilderness has slowly become less of a dream, and more of a reality as each day passes. And despite my indecisiveness and irrational fears of the unknown, this I can be sure of: I want nothing more than to experience life from its marrow--in its purest form--in complete freedom and simplicity. And if I cannot do this, then I would rather not live at all in this fabricated human existence.

uncertainty

It has been three or four months since I've seen my mother. Take that times six; twenty-four months, or roughly two years since I've seen my father. And though I should be relieved, it remains in my back of my mind as a constant reminder of having been left behind once again, for being what I am.

I was honest for once; I told him of my fears and sadness... It was the last time I heard from him. It was then that I finally knew that I was not strong enough to be loved. I am not enough. I never was, and I never will be, not in my father's eyes, at least. It is said that time heals all wounds. I wonder how much time it will take to heal this one.

My mother, on the other hand, has found a new home. She is alone now, though I think that she prefers it this way, despite her half-hearted attempts at including me in her plans.

By late spring, I will be leaving this place for good, and with any luck, it will become just another distant memory, ready to be forgotten.

we meet again, dear unreality.

It has been nearly a year, but it seems as though nothing has changed (internally, that is). Such has been most of my life; transient places, people, and body, but the pestilence of my mind remains.

Although, I have become a good deal less consumed by bitterness and rage than before. It's possible that this is due more to resignation than actual peace of mind... I'm still unsure. I am trying, at least, to be less judgemental of others despite being excessively judgemental of myself. It hasn't been easy.

What does seem constant is my ever-present feeling of emptiness... and it seems that I've become markedly more depressed than usual, perhaps as substitution for the anger I've left behind. In leaving much of that anger, so has my desire for gluttony and purgation ceased; replaced by abstinence instead.

My body has changed, and yet I feel as though everything remains the same...