'Nonetheless something for it.'

"Two times in!
I've been struck dumb by a voice that speaks
From deep beneath the endless waters.
It's twice as clear as heaven
And twice as loud as reason.
It's deep and rich like silt on a riverbed,
And just as neverending.
The current's mouth below me
Opens up around me --
Suggests and beckons all while swallowing.
It surrounds and drowns and sweeps me away.
But I'm so comfortable...so comfortable.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.
You're saturating me.
How could I let this bring me back to my knees?"

If love is just a chemical reaction triggered by sensory receptors in the human brain, then what happens to those theories regarding the true and nonbiological basis of emotions? Do they then translate into tangential symptoms, perhaps?

I want to experience the complete and corporeal physicality of the human body tonight. I want to be loud and brash and dark and numb and crumbling and violent. I want to stomp on fingers poised precariously on concrete curbs. I want to kick street signs and handle dexterously panes of cold glass -- and then shatter them on an abandoned avenue.

I want to be dirty. And raw. And utterly obscene.

I want to smell the overpowering odor of cold leather and leaves and a worn car's interior. I want to drink until I'm stupid and get...completely fucked up.

And I don't care. I don't care. I don't care much for judgments, perceptions, or what people think! Of me! Don't care.

Hemorrhaging

"I hope that now I feel contagious; am I the only place that you've left to go?"

That phase in this relationship marked by an overwhelming attempt at intimate comprehension is over. I'd rather take a bottle and undo my oath than take that which has sprung up so suddenly in mind's eye.

Alexithymiatic predilections are no easier to navigate now than when first we met, and still you expect that the pseudo-strides I've taken make up for the terrorestrial patches I've traversed. I don't know where to go now. I don't know how to preface what I'm feeling with words adequate enough to make you see that certain situations are too important for me to simply "get over." I don't know how to breach a sudden silence created by your frustration and my unwillingness to open. I don't know what's happened to the ease with which I use to speak when conversation between us was remarkably, deliciously feasible. I remain unmoving lest the silent eyes of that frustration turn on me.

You have to know that things are not the same. You have to know that the exquisite "dusty luster" of our relationship is now tinged with things unfamiliar to that of the original. I don't know how to explain the tiny and cacophanous ideas that whirl behind grey eyes when the face seems asleep. I don't know how to tell you that I'm infinitely tired of the dualism tenderness has taken on, of the shortening of fuses at both ends, of the uncomfortable pauses I weather when attempting to draw you into discussion. I don't know how to tell you that I don't know where to go anymore.

The only times that I am completely sure of your feelings are when I'm with you, and even then I'm drawn away from the current occurences by tingling thought-threads looping en mass. The only times when I am not confused are when your arms, eyes, and (partial) attention hold me; if I can't trust anyone else around me, I'd like to be able to trust you...

But who am I to talk about trust? I shattered yours because I was unwillingly to put myself in a position that would cause a moderate amount of discomfort and disconcertion. I am, a this very moment, disconcerted. But really -- who cares?

I am looking for something to make me [never mind]. Get that? Riddles flower with vine-feelings, and I haven't grown any of those in so long. I am shortening more thought-things so that I don't disclose anything else worthy of a scrutinous poring-over.

We're done here.

"Over and over and over again she cries, "don't fall away and leave me to myself"..." Oh, but I'll be the first to tell you that I am left to myself and I enjoy the solitude only she can afford me.

I said...we're done here.

eratnaC

"So douse yourself in cheap perfume -- it's so fitting for the way you are.

You can't cover it up..."

--to half

"She cries her life is like some movie, black and white."

I seem to fluctuate rapidly (and violently) between a high level of self-disclosure and a perilously low degree of social 'need.' There are times when I feel intensely private, profoundly apart, and completely content with my position as an emotional lockbox. There have been a rare few times when, moved by an internal need to feel 'understood,' I've gone out and confided completely in an individual. Precious few people have I ever actually spoke to at length -- and with painful, strange sincerity. This sincerity has escaped me just this moment; I am suddenly left with the bitter suggestion that perhaps I should stay here, in this room, all weekend. Unmoved by both my own current longing for deep conversation and the fact that sleep, despite its overwhelming appeal, seems far off, I've a notion to remain here...shaking my head from side to side so that my hair covers my face.

I've thoroughly throttled that disgusting mass of depression that launched itself at me some days ago; this is in no a way a repeat of that situation. I most certainly am not hindered by despair tonight -- I am not re-associating myself with any feelings lower than a certain dull unsettledness. It's creeping through the very pores of my body, but I've settled into a cohabitation, of sorts, with such inexplicable moods. I like them, actually. They're very much a part of me...and really, where would one be left without a little inner enigma? The only time an actual problem arises from this cohabitation is when something -- some bit of bad news or a doubly-high dose of that 'residual depression' -- pushes my ability to cope over a self-possessive edge. It then becomes both frustrating and debilitating when I undertake the task of stating my feelings; they're never explained as they are inside, the situation itself spirals out of control until a crying jag takes the place of discussion, and ultimately I am left feeling more alienated, more misunderstood, and more alone than when first I attempted to speak. I am told, constantly and clearly, that when such a thing happens, I just have to stop it. I simply have to pick myself up ("by the bootstraps," as it were), brush myself off, and dry my own tears.

I cannot begin to explain how exquisitely exasperating this is. I refuse to play the "but I have clinical depression" card, because such a move (in my opinion) is fit only for those who give up at the 'starting line,' who constantly look for the easy way out of troubling, difficult, or foreign situations. I used to look for an easy way out of things -- most certainly, I did. It resulted in the loss of a beautiful and vitalizing experience; thus, alongside my search for 'happiness in the moment,' I took up the duty of banishing all tendencies towards taking the path of least resistance. I am nowhere near the end of this endeavor, of course -- but I believe I've made progress, and that's the only evidence I need to continue on with the struggle. I know that I have the ability to "just stop it;" I am very much aware that I have the option -- but that capability hasn't fully flowered yet. Realize that I still need help...I still need help. Self-possession alone simply will not suffice at this point.

This isn't to say that I have some grand store of self-possession, either; rather, I am of the opinion that I lack somewhat in that department. My domino fiend, on the other hand, is to me an interesting example of an aplomb-bearing individual -- that is to say, he does command a certain amount of self-possession...though whether this comes from philosophies he's adopted or from some internal well I've not ascertained. I haven't asked him...or, rather, it's never come up in conversation. Though not unprosaic at times, conversations with him are of the general relationship stock -- except when I get on a 'disclosure kick;' when I feel exceedingly open, he's wonderfully responsive and, like last weekend, we can go on for hours. Those are the times I love most -- those are the times when I feel content, clarity-sated, and willing to let him inside the shell I've constructed to keep others away.

That shell is there, to be sure -- and for reasons good enough. I have been left behind so many times in my life that I am (as of yet) still unsure as to who now will remain and who will go. While this may seem a little girl's fear of desertion, it has grown significantly in this last decade; it has branched out to encompass different avenues, different threads of thought, and different occurences. There is no one way of explaining away this irrational fear, as most psychologically-related phobias (and I guess I would go so far as to call it that -- a mild phobia, of sorts) are too complex and too interrelated with other mental aspects to be simply "explained away." Oh, well. This little phobia, when joined by other fears and insecurities -- a fear of people's scrunity [yes, I did say I'd gotten over that -- for the most part], a fear of being laid too open to someone, an insecurity about my intrinsic worth, etc, -- conspires to harden that shell lest I become what I've always despised...lest I become a bleeding heart whom everyone knows everything about.

When everyone knows everything, one is liable to get hurt. When even someone knows a little about everything, one is liable to get hurt. I will not be hurt again.

"You were fashionably sensitive but too cool to care."

I really should start limiting these miniature dissertations. They're outlining too much of me for comfort. I think, though, that they're allowing me to sit back and look in on myself after I've finished -- hardly a bad thing.

Vivo!

New thought: I love life.

New thought: I revel in the movements my body is capable of, the joy I can bring myself, and the fact that I have the option of waking up every morning with a new lease on a new day.

We're all dust. Of course! I'm a beautiful, intelligent, deep-thinking part of that dust. Hallelujah!

"Dance, dance..."

"Building a mystery..."

"Can you help me remember how to smile -- make it somehow all seem worthwhile? How on earth did I get so jaded? Life's mysteries seem so faded..."

Sometimes it lifts. Sometimes it lowers. Always it is choking.

There is something that invariably hovers at the base of my skull -- beyond (or, perhaps, beneath) consciousness, reason, and rationale. There is something there that refuses to leave, no matter how many times I attempt to banish it; there is something there that inexplicably burrows into my body and afflicts it with the most grey and heaviest of feelings. I am slow to term it "depression," because although I was diagnosed with that complex 'illness' more than half a year ago, I like to think that I've overcome those particular hurdles. Perhaps it's a sort of residue; a loose heap of mental detritus, maybe, cemented to the inside of my brain.

Try as I might, I cannot lift this from myself. And I have tried -- really, I have -- time and time again. The best outcome these efforts have yielded is something akin to ignorance; that is to say, I gain the strength (through various inner sources) to push aside the threat of these "grey feelings" so that I might enjoy a few days of existence unshadowed. While this is enough to lead me "by the nose," so to speak, through these days and weeks and months of mine, I'm always left wondering -- what is this thing? And why won't it leave...?

After I was tossed aside and inevitably left to my own devices (some time ago), I sought out that shifty concept of 'happiness in the moment.' I sought out certain instances of beauty, certain key occurences that would surprise me with an instantaneous joy, certain bits of natural appeal and childlike delight -- and I was left with the impression that "this is enough;" I was then of the opinion that this grey thing would lift. I was bolstered by my surety, by the sudden thoughts that occured to me inside that contemplative period; I learned to wave aside my fear of others' judgement, to stride past the intense terror that others' scrutiny lit in me (like a monstrous, perpetually-afire matchhead). I learned to stop slicing the very skin on my body -- because, really, what good did it do me? Though there was no immediate pain transferred to me through this self-mutilating act, a great deal of hurt was heaped upon those that loved me...and especially on one 'someone' in particular.

That, of course, is another tangential thread altogether. While I'd love to discuss the intricacies and supposed 'value' of self-mutilation, I'm not sure I feel entirely up to it. Let's have a stab at it, however -- a solid try may do me good.

When hysterics brush against my insides (as they sometimes do), the aforesaid "what good" statement becomes lost amidst the waves of "I need an outlet." For a majority of sufferers, it feels good when first the body is harmed; biologically, there is sound proof of this -- upon infliction (and after pain has built up to a significant level), endorphins are released and circulated throughout the system. When one becomes addicted to this endorphin rush, to the "good feelings" that typically (and erroneously) become associated with harming oneself, self-mutilation then advances past the 'rare and irregular' phase of usage. At times this becomes overwhelming; the self-mutilator deceives themself into believing that the source of these "good feelings" is solely and irrevocably linked with the amount of harm they cause themselves. I know this to be true -- I've felt the same things. I've believed that the more pain I inflicted upon myself, the better the "release." And I did feel better after one of these episodes; the initial emotion-storm that first triggered thoughts of self-mutilation would fade into the background, and I would be left with the sweet, delicious throbbing of a dozen bleeding wounds.

Look at that sentence -- I would be left with the sweet, delicious throbbing of a dozen bleeding wounds. Doesn't that seem unsettling, now, when it's placed alongside thoughts more rational and routine? The raw and horrifying truth is that I liked it -- is that I still like it, despite the fact that I no longer feel compelled to continue such 'episodes' in my search for a release. Three times now since I officially, intentionally, willfully quit have I given in to the urge; three times have I regressed to a primitive mindset...three times have I stopped halfway, reluctant to throw myself passionately back into the safe, comfortable, compelling pool of self-mutilation. I nearly gave in again, but I was stopped by the realization that although it didn't seem to hurt me, it undoubtedly hurt the boy I loved. And although I am loathe to say that he stopped me (after all, I like to think that I stop me), the thought of harming him became almost unbearable.

Thus, I've resolved to give up completely. On self-mutilation, that is. I did give up on it months ago, of course -- but this time, I believe, is fortified with the knowledge that I am not alone any longer. While my convictions regarding the other revelations swell and fade from time to time, this one will remain in place despite certain concerted efforts to raze it to the ground. I'll always feel pulls towards self-mutilation -- I have known and accepted this -- but I'm tired of playing the prey to my own predator. And there are now other avenues of thought to peruse, other experiences to revel in, and self-mutilation has no place among them.

Returning to those ideas discussed some paragraphs ago, I believe that those other strength-lending discoveries have not left me -- but neither has the grey thing. A month after imbuing myself with additional ideals that served as a ladder out of that pit I'd fallen into, I again realized that the irrational and sourceless weight of the 'residual despair' was still with me. I was, of course, sickened by the this sudden, hopeless discovery; what more did those imaginary forces want of me? I've been dwelling on this ever since that damnable day, and I have to admit that I am no closer to an answer than I was before the contemplation began. I am no closer towards banishing this grey goddamn thing than I was before I was kicked out onto the street and forced to scrutinize myself and my actions.

It's perfectly alright, though. I don't think I'll ever find the answer that I'm looking for, the source of the greyness that I obsessively search out, the truth behind a thousand different mysteries I'm hung up on solving. And maybe I'm supposed to have this residual depression; perhaps it's a part of who I am -- a part of my identity so like Edna Pontellier's in Chopin's "The Awakening." I believe I've resigned myself half-cheerfully to the pushing of a stone up an ever-growing hill. You'd better kiss me, though, when we reach the top. You'd better, buddy...

"You're a beautiful, fucked-up man --
You're setting up your razor-wire shrine...

You're so beautiful, with an edge and charm...
But so careful when I'm in your arms..."

"This is my..."

It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.

It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.

It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's NO way OUT. This time I have really led myself astray.

It seems no one can help me now. I'm in too deep -- there's no way out. This time I have really led myself astray.

It's only to be understood that this is what afflicts the minds most susceptible to romantic ideals.

It's only to be understood that existence, admittedly a wretchedly confusing idea, is absolutely intolerable to those individuals imbued with more than a cursory knowledge of that which permeates their environment.

"...[M]an enters a totally meaningless world, makes it habitable through his consciousness, confers meaning on it through his free choice, and is overawed by the dreadful freedom which makes him responsible for his situation and his life."

"To suffer and to be are one and the same...[.]"

If suffering constitutes being, and being constitutes the conscious application of man to a collection of experiences (essentially and habitually termed "life"), then what becomes of those experiences -- those splintery bits of "life" -- that are not related to suffering?

What of the times I spend, yielding myself both spiritually and bodily, in the arms of someone who cares for me beyond the self-imposed limits of comprehension? Is that not "life?" And if it is, why am I not inundated by more of these experiences? I think that in order to have a "life" of any determinable span, a wealth of weekend-length situations unrelated to both suffering and pain should be at my disposal.

I am finally ready to admit that I need someone other than myself. Though at times ashamed to announce this silently, I have finally concluded that this needing is perfectly sane, perfectly rational, perfectly normal. I have finally come to understand what so many others have already figured out -- I need someone. And, rest assured, it feels good to know that someone else needs me, too.

However, this needing doesn't always translate into understanding. I am lost for words, sometimes, in relation to what I'm feeling -- and often it seems like I'm simply re-wording emotions and ideas that I've stated a thousand times already. Tonight I was lost for words while on the phone, and so I covered the mouthpiece while sobbing through clenched teeth. Isn't that a particularly pathetic image? When voices break and falter -- when unshed tears well at the surface and unsaid feelings roil beneath the skin -- that, and that alone, seems the most delicate of moments. I'll not say how this night's moment was handled, because I'm not entirely sure myself; I'm left wondering if I'll be able to sleep tonight, if I made that hands' host angry, if I said too much on the same tired topic, perhaps...but I'll not say how it went. I can't be sure.

"And I'd give it all away just to have somewhere to go to -- give it all away to have someone to come home to."

I feel rather forlorn. Lost. Hurt. Snow-covered -- bleak like an empty field caught fast in winter's grip. Now contemplating, I don't feel understood at all. I feel bottled up and pushed aside -- but such is the lot of those imbued with romantic ideals, you know.

Key Blame Suffer Lose

I have decided that I deliberately make myself difficult to love. I bristle when there's little need for anger, I find myself upset when there's little need for tears (though I do enjoy weeping for no other reason but weeping) and quite often a certain despair visits me for no particular reason -- though that feeling, I suspect, has genuine causes that outnumber those of the other "false" feelings.

An example of this intricate and convoluted personal quirk? This past weekend was both an exceedingly wonderful retreat and a simmering, seething hell -- a duplicity brought on, no doubt, by that certain knack I have for refusing to believe that things are "all right" when, in fact, they generally are. It's overwhelmingly frustrating, sometimes, when through the brain-made fog there shines the light of unbiased self-inspection and I see what I'm doing. I see the pointless anger, I see the irrational grief, I see the illogically-magnified fear...and I grow completely disgusted with myself. Oh! This in turn, I think, brings on more of these nonsensical emotions -- and then the entire psychological situation turns cyclical. Snake eating its own tail, yes? Oh...I'm Ouroboros. I am!

How much sense this all makes! And so suddenly!

This is what undoubtedly colored my weekend. This cerebral, intangible morass of terrifyingly unidentifiable origins. I shouldn't have flung the cursory remarks that I wielded like stones this weekend. I shouldn't have ignored you for so long, though the books were wonderful. I shouldn't have gotten so mad over a situation that wasn't worth much in the way of anger. I shouldn't have done so many things! Oh, I was absolutely terrible for nearly three days; I was nowhere near approachable...nowhere near civil to those I love most. How completely beastly of me. How sickening I am.

In the most quavering and heart-breaking of voices: "Let all the hurt inside of you die."

There are more things to impart, more indelible marks of comfort and glittering slices of security and brilliant fragments of happiness that I experienced this weekend...but I suppose that should wait. A warm room lit by yellow light while wind whistles and house shakes and psyche-barriers break reminds me that I have amends to make and love to assure.

"Conflict-theories then exhumed..."

Introduction:

"Nothing's so loud as hearing when we lie; the truth is not kind -- and you've said neither am I...but the air outside (so soft) is saying everything..."

Story:

On the fifth day of a surprisingly gentle November, steel-wool clouds broke open like too-ripe fruit and spewed forth cold rain (melted ice borne on blusters) that pattered noiselessly to the half-frozen earth below. The stout and black-skinned tree that for so long boasted sun-splashed boughs and green finery spit gold leaves (curled in around themselves child's fist-like), ruffled stout-dark-body with an unmelodious mutter, and abandoned all hope of sweet summer succor; on top of the tree-talk and inside the rain whispers, arms thought lost encircled not-think-but-feel. "What's the worst thing I could say" metamorphed into "words like violence break the silence" -- and lovelovelove grew tenfold.

We're falling apart to half-time.

End:

On the fifth night of a surprisingly gentle November, steel-wool clouds continued to pour cold contents libation-like while inside a concrete cubicle red-and-yellow lights burned with the intensity of a silver chair's sism oyu olve. And she still didn't know what to do, and the tree still muttered and shook, and the yellow leaves still fell with the rain.

Analysis:

"Wrong way on a one way track...seems like I should be getting somewhere -- but somehow I'm neither here nor there."

Knows a little unsurety creepycreepy like teasing vine-feelings (despite the lack of yellow wallpaper) and little thorns uncurling between the teeth at the slightest hint nothing's okay. Oy. What more is wanted? I'm tired of doing things on my own but if I don't think about the journey then the destination doesn't seem so hard to reach and this time you said I wasn't on my own and I swear I'm making things fine on the inside so that I'll be okay on the outside but it's hard to do with all of this insecurity even though I had none this weekend and --

STOP IT!

"You only see what your eyes want to see --
How can life be what you want it to be
(You're frozen)
When your heart's not open?

Now there's no point in placing the blame,
And you should know I suffer the same...
If I lose you
My heart will be broken."

In addition: "No nourishment, I swear to god!" a querulous cry and then: "for all have sinned and I the worst. Independent, watch me fail; you sleep, I'll weep, and nothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothingnothing NOTHING nothing nothing NOTHING! Nothing's okay! NOTHING'S not unfine."

Bubbles and Green

"Words confessed from a memory,
I feel them at last when I sing of what used to be...
And I sing along like a choir.
If I say good-bye to love...

...Will it go away?"

How is it that the 'being' part of the term 'human being' interests me so much? Why is it that I feel a need to explore the causes behind every emotional fluctuation I experience? If I push hard enough at the theoretical "boundaries" of my psyche, will they finally bow...and then break?

It interests me to no end, the ways in which I allow myself to be overcome by sentiments only half-caused by sources outside myself. Violent swings in my mood are both astonishing and irritating -- and their underpinnings are rooted deep within me. Their foundation was built upon that part of me which dictates what and when I experience certain emotions. Imagine that! Outside sources affect my mood with varying degrees of efficiency...but in the end, it is me that decides to smile, to sob, to laugh, or to bristle.

Ting-a-ling...that's the way the cookie crumbles.

As it stands now, I've allowed myself to sink into a funky little morass of curiosity and fear. "I'm more than just a little curious how you're planning to go about making your amends...to the dead." I promised I wouldn't break him, and now that I know exactly what the "breaking" process entails, I'm worried that I'll be just careless enough to crack the too-delicate exterior. And god, what if he breaks me? I've heard too many flat voices this weekend; I've seen too many colors in too many eyes and I've experienced too much joy and too much unsurety. Things are not back to normal, much to my dismay. Sometimes conversation seems strained -- is this the way it's going to be? Are things going to be delicious face-to-face, but will it/you/I fade when distance prevents spontaneity and touch?

Drama creates in me a desire to lash out. I'm doing my best to stifle the stinging remarks, the indignant silences, and the obstinateness I am sometimes prey to. Let me do an experiment; here -- my thoughts unbridled by chemicals: ...I failed.

No. Too revealing. It was an interesting experience, however, attempting to weave my way between two desks and a couch in order to get back to this computer in time to utilize the lack of inhibitions. Why is this radio station playing nothing that I know? If I hide behind the music, no one will realize that I am terrified, bare, and wounded. "Scar tissue that I wish you saw." I'm adept at hiding it. Pick me up-up-up because I can't go any further with this thing weighting every step; pick me up and brush the leaves out of my hair and make me see that...oh. I found out why your eyes were cold. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. That was brain-blowing.

Could you be everything to me if I asked? No, not "enough" or "not enough," because you're too much. You can't hurt what's already scarred over. Oh, yes you can. That's a lie. Thought I'd move on? Can't. Can't get over you not getting over me. 'People's Court' playing in the background and Cranberries on the computer and "you're a dream to me" if dreams had spines and made you ache, bruise, bleed, and tingle all at once.

Now she's not making any sense. Now she is what she is when she's alone.