Fahgeddaboutit

…feel like this needs to be my motto for sanity for a million reasons.  I must learn to forget about it….pretty much everything really…

I spent the entire day yesterday longing to write.  I had beautiful thoughts and well put-together words that ached to be typed.  Every spare moment of thought in my head which  I had was spent making little attempts to organize and collect these wonderful thoughts so that once I could sit at my computer, I could best manage to get them out in an efficient way.

Seems to me that by the time I get to be alone with my thoughts and at my computer, I’m so full of a million other things, that I no longer recall what I wanted to say or feel I have anything at all to say anyway.  Is this typical of people who enjoy writing…people who feel compelled to write?

I’ve so much that I  hope to say someday…so much that I pray I’ll get to write efficiently about before my life is over…  and I chronically feel frustrated and interrupted so that by the time I get to attempt this, I’ve nothing going through my head except frustration and believe it or not, I don’t ever intend or actually want to write only about frustrating or painful things.

So maybe if I can’t ever “get it said” for whatever reason….perhaps that’s an indication that none of it needs written or said anyway?  It feels empty to think that my one passion in this world has resorted to nothing but a venting of negative feelings and challenges because I can’t organize my thoughts or time well enough to ever accomplish anything but…

Ahhhhh….yet another venting…!

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Lost in translation

Definitely lost.  I could not possibly be more direct and straightforward, nor more misunderstood than if I spoke another language altogether.  How is that combination possible?  I think only that others can’t hear very well outside of their own thoughts and perceptions, leaving every thing I try to express wide open for a myriad of translations that typically bear little resemblance to what I’m actually attempting to express.  It is frustrating on a level of boldly irritating.  It leads me to not speak for constant fear that I’ll be misinterpreted. 

I’m thinking that so few people say what they mean  or mean what they say and that has created a disconnect from those who do.  I might say, ‘Your tie is nice” and you might hear me making fun of your tie.  These small disconnects create a gap for more and more misunderstandings.  They build on each other until communication is almost impossible, as I’m too fearful and take so long to carefully find words I hope can not be misinterpreted and you only hear more and more what you think instead of my actual words.  I can’t recall having the ability to just say out loud what I think or feel and trust it to be understood.  I’m defending it and explaining it even as I say it, hoping to prevent having to re-explain, hoping to avoid the frustration of my sincerest thoughts getting lost intranslation.

I’m sure I’m guilty of this too.  Once I took most things at face value, which left me wide open as the butt of jokes and accusations of annoying naivete’, which sadly was truly trust and innocence.  “I’m so proud to be with you” actually translated (to me) as I’m so proud to be with you.  When in actuality it must have meant, “You’re dressed like a tramp” or possibly, “You get too much attention and that makes me uncomfortable.”  How am I to know anymore?  I thought you were just proud to be with me.

Is there no place in this world for direct and honest communication?  Can I not say what I mean, using crisp and clearly descriptive words and trust that you’ll hear just what  I’m saying?  Is this not possible?

Mental cruelty

I do not understand waging psychological warfare on another human being…unless perhaps it is during an actual war.  In which case, I’m still adamantly against it, but it makes sense in a life or death situation.  I will never understand  random pathological liars merely for the sake of mentally torturing someone.

I think of the movie Sybil and how that mother just got her kicks by knocking down her daughter literally and figuratively over and over.  It makes no sense and that is the cruelest abuse of all.  Typically, I’d look at abusers and be disgusted, but also know that they’ve their own demons they’re fighting and feel some sort of compassion, even if only a little.    Randomly waging mental abuse on another person for no reason except for the sheer pleasure of it, is just senselessly cruel and disgustingly sick.

How do you even fight back against that?  I do not believe in fighting back.  I believe in turning the other cheek…but what happens when both cheeks are raw and bloody and the slapping continues?  You can’t call the police for help because it’s all figurative…the only wounds are mental and emotional.   There is no “crime”.  No laws have been broken except moral laws against humanity.  There is no protection from this except to escape.  And what do you do when there is no escape?  When the abuse has so damaged your spirit and your thinking that the fight or flight response has left your resources and you can only hover in the corner waiting the next attack and praying that this isn’t the one that kills you…or hoping it does just to finally be free of it.

Is revenge ever righteous?  I fully realize it’s often warranted, yes…..but is it ever appropriate?  I’ve always believed that living well was the best (and only appropriate) revenge, but I’m learning that in some cases, the abuse itself prohibits any chance to live well. What then?

There are some seriously ill people in this world.

The frustration of documentation

Don’t know why, but I’m craving a documentation of my experience.  Do I want this in hopes of validation?  Who would I even share it with?

On some level, I do think it would be validating and healthy to have it documented in writing.  I can’t imagine anyone would ever be interested, but I might feel a satisfaction knowing that in the rare event anyone might be curious, interested, or perhaps even helped by my experience, then such information would be available.    And if no one ever was, no harm done, right?  Writing has always been my primary outlet of purging my thoughts and releasing them to better organize and understand.  Writing is my perpetual therapist.  She/he is compassionate, patient, forgiving, and cleansing…and so far has never once given up on me…no  matter the extent of my insanity or problem.  I realize that this is no easy task, as I’m a perpetually frustrating hard and enduring case of a myriad of issues, experiences, and a constant insatiable craving for knowledge and understanding.

So writing a documentation of this would be nothing harmful and only positive.  Yet, I can’t get my thoughts in order enough to write it.  Perhaps because I’ve only minutely documented bits and pieces in extreme moments.  Yes, I am not a totally reliable client to my therapist.  I selfishly come and go only as needed…

I feel so strongly that documentation is necessary for myself and/or perhaps to help others.  It repeats in my mind that it must be done.  It is so frustrating to feel pushed and compelled to do something that seems just beyond one’s capabilities…  Simultaneously and to add to my frustration, I have the chronic paranoia that time is running out to do this.  I am merely in my 30’s….and it feels that time is running out…literally??

Um, I am apparently quite mad.  And in that madness, I only wish that I could cross the boundary into the comfort of complete and utter madness.  Standing on the fence for so long has become exhausting:-) AHHHHHAAAHHHHHHHHAAAAHHHHAAAAAAA (that was my attempt at an evil laugh!)

Ummm…..gosh, or have I?

52.3

Informally studying the I Ching.  It’s utterly fascinating!  I just awoke from a frustrating dream where I desperately wanted to be alone but could not find any alone space.  IC then gives me 52.3 -> 23.

52.3:  The bane of my three years existence!  Feelings and desires from the heart are unhealthy if suppressed.  I suppress, suppress, suppress… with no escape from the desire and no success to any amount of efffort to make it dissipate.

Changing to 23:  Splitting apart – makes me think of getting rid of that desire/emotion, separating myself as a person from that overwhelming emotion which has seemed to define me for so long…  Keeping me wrapped up in exhaustion from fighting to suppress it, leading to giving into it, leading to depression (anger at myself) from my lack of will power and futile actions which lead me back to suppressing the desire as my only method of dealing with it….  Which in turn repeats the cycle.

Meditation hasn’t helped me to re-channel these emotions, although everything I’ve read and know indicates that it is my only possibility…  I may not be meditating properly?  It’s hard to hear/think/breathe calmly when the emotions are swirling ferociously or passionately through me.  The very problem I’m trying to address creates the obstacle for the only solution to help with it.

Lately, I have fantasized about going to a convent or manastery to practice and strengthen my meditation and prayer abilities.  I dream that in the safety of stillness surrounded by holy stillness of mind and passion , I find the magic cure!  I meditate successfully, my heart grasps peace and refuses to let go….and I dedicate the remainder of my life – mind, body, and spirit- to God in gratitude and prayer.  This fantasy is halted by two obstacles.  1  It is not reasonable or feasible that I can go anytime soon to such a place.  2.  What happens if I did and the noise in my heart and mind still did not stop?  And I’m only left going crazy in silence and prayer?

It feels sad and pathetic to be a prisoner of my own mind and heart.  To attempt to exist within the bars and boundaries only I have placed around myself…and to have lost the key to release myself to freedom.  It feels like a form of insanity in itself.  I have put myself here.  It stands to reason then that I  am equally able to release myself as well.  Only it appears I do not have that ability.

To get to that place, even briefly, makes me feel a form of death, as though no hope or desire will ever have enough gumption to penetrate into my spirit.  And what then is life about?  The thing I believe most in is being passionate, following my heart, believing in miracles…  If I shut off the passion and spirit of my heart, then what’s to hope for?  Another exhausting battle tomorrow with keeping that shut off?  Or another “successful” day with absolutely no passion or spirit?

Regardless, the I Ching’s uncanny wisdom/insight into my battles is truly amazing….now, if only it had the answers to resolving the issues…

Emotional Rescue

Emotional rescue.  Is this what I want?  Have I been waiting for this since I was three years old?  Is this what happens when the people who are supposed to care for you don’t care, except to punish and abuse?  I’ve no interest in being a victim.  I really don’t see the glamour in that situation.  Victim is a state of mind that I do not want to have.  Yet, I feel like a victim when I’m powerless over myself and my life; powerless over my emotions; restrained by various circumstances which seem beyond my control.

I am boxed in tightly by these things.  If I attempt to see the box I live in as one of my own making/choices, then I can free myself with different ones…right?  It doesn’t seem so.  I get excited when I convince myself of this and head out to free myself, only to realize I have chains holding me to the box.  The fact that the chains are invisible ( most likely mental and emotional) does not make them any less chains.  They’re only more binding and frustrating because no one can see them…. even me.  But I sure as heck can feel them the minute I try to escape…SNAP around my ankles as I try to walk in a new direction.  SNAP around my neck when I try to turn around.  SNAP…SNAP…SNAP!  Then I fall down and I cry from frustration and the pain, but no one hears me because no one is in the box with me.  (Thank God for that!)

I talked to Greg a little last night about these things.  Don’t know if I scared him off or not, but maybe I was trying to?  I do not want anyone else to get hurt in this.  And until I find a way to free myself, why would I be so cruel as to let anyone else come close to my prison box?  Three years (or is it 30?) in here alone sure is getting more and more lonely and frustrating and I distinctively feel that with every minute that passes, my chains to him only tighten and grow stronger.  If I’ve isolated myself out of fear of hurting anyone else, then where do I go when I’m lonely?  Who do I turn to and “depend” on for comfort?  My prison keeper!  Making him and my dependence on him more and more powerful…and me weaker and weaker, in the victim mode I so detest and do not respect.

I read about Iboga (sp?) therapy for treatment of addiction and psychological blocks.  There is a treatment center in Vancouver.  It sounds a little dangerous, definitely radical and certainly expensive as it’s not covered by insurance, so the feasibility of this is small.  I discussed briefly with Mark and he says maybe we should start saving for it.  It’s not like it’s urgent since I’ve been in this box for so long already and I’m still breathing with a faint, but persistent heart beat.

Gosh, I’m fortunate to have Mark!  I couldn’t ask for anyone better for myself and my daughters.  In everything, from everything, I am so very blessed in so many ways.  Why is it so hard to see that sometimes?  Things could be so much worse than complaining about my pathetic chains and the ridiculous box I somehow continue to choose to live in.

I am blessed.