"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..."
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..."
posted by Ophelia at 12:41 PM
2 Comments:
I weep to hear such resolve, such power, such honesty, such comprehension.
I weep because I think you have over come.
I weep at seeing you shine and assured and whole.
Will the darkness ever leave forever? I do not know. I know that it is still within me and, give the right mix of internal and external emotion, that corrupted tree can bloom again.
You are strong Jessica Faith! You have proven this so many times in just the brief length I have know you.
“To love and to learn, that is goal of life” So sayith Ann Rice.
Matt
You weep because you've never bothered to look into the world. This place is filled with horrors far worse and with far more heroes and demons, yet you gush over someone who is merely sorting their life into more digestable chunks. If making one's life easier by doing what she's doing is a rarity, then apparently I am not as aware as I may have thought. Despite this, your "corrupted tree" is your business to be sorted elsewhere. I am not intending to say that what has transpired within this particular page is nothing and should be discarded as such, I am merely saying that you are taking this to levels that should not be seen given the context.
Not to mention the fact that you quoted Anne Rice as if she was a god or something. Also, the quote was used entirely out of context...so way to go on your part. Have a wonderful rest of your life.
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