When I first started writing, the internet it became a substitute for human interaction. Aside from Pepe, the computer had become my next best friend. Certainly better than any therapist I have ever seen. Writing through dark helped me to clarify and organize my thoughts.
My computer does not ask me stupid questions or blame me for taking too long to spit just the right words.
It does not mind if I stutter, take a break or tend to more pressing matters. The internet was simply another way to escape from the madness that surrounds me.
Before I knew to how to attach formatted, edited, spell checked versions of documents, I would often begin writing in cyberspace only to find that I addressed it incorrectly, or worse, copied the very last person I would want to know exactly how I feel.
There have been times when I have accidentally hit send a little too soon. When I review some of my past journal entries written online, it is easy to see the raw emotion that pours out of my soul into the physical world. There have been countless times I have found myself so completely caught up in the writing process that I get stuck to the keyboard for hours (sometimes even days) and yet there I am—- asleep at the keyboard— again!
Writing "live" can be dangerous—it is far too easy to come off as a raving lunatic who cannot hold one train of thought long enough to keep the web browser from timing out!
If only I could retrieve some of the messages that hit cyberspace...
Will I ever be able to coexist peacefully? Play well with others? I still work at my own pace— sometimes in my own world, always in my own head... I like to think I might flourish in some other man's world and tell myself I could exist in some other reality—but those who see through me know this is my last defense, and however sad, I must believe that if I am to go on.
However, be warned that I may, someday, somewhere, decide to stick around for a while. Could you be my neighbor? Would you be my friend?
Could you? Could I? Can I ever stop running and being afraid? What must I do, what I must learn, or who must I become to make you believe that such social grace and honest beauty have always come naturally to me?
When will this act ever subside? I developed an entire persona based on fear alone. How very sad. The cheerleader that never was. The child that never knew safety, peace, or security. A woman who existed in a world of silence— until now, I suppose.
Somehow, I must learn to embrace the fear. The fear of being discovered for the person that I am rather than the person I often pretend to be.
Regardless of the mask we put on when we go out in public, we all feel insecure, lonely, isolated, and afraid at times. Unfortunately, for me, I feel that way more often than not. I live with the kind of self-doubt that most people outgrow in early adolescence. The older I got, the more isolated I felt. Shouldn't I have outgrown this by now?
So now I have to become the person I used to be. The person I was meant to be. The person who existed long before the realities of life set in. Someone with hope, someone with a purpose. Someone who believed woman who existed long before the shadow of fear and failure ruled my every waking moment and took over the sleepless nights.
Yes, I can. Sometimes.
Fear of believing that I deserved to be loved and never finding it. A human being entitled freedoms, and a woman who knows how to make choices. I am already stronger than I ever wanted to be.
I was blessed with strength.
Strength! Who the fuck wanted strength? Who wanted fear? Who wanted freedom???? There are people who love me-- they may not know it yet-- or may have forgotten me by now, but I need to stay put and live within my own skin again for a while just to see how feels.
Just stop running.
I have been challenged in ways that most people cannot even begin or understand-- and for me I must accept that there simply is no justice. So as I am, there is nothing that can replace what I have lost, not inside myself. I do not believe in revenge.
How ironic. How bazaar. Tragic. No one else cares. Who gives a shit? Why seek revenge for its own sake? How would that help? Nothing can replace what has been lost, not within myself.
But what if you are right??? What if--IF-- it is possible to let go of my anger? What will become of all that rage and turmoil I carry around with every waking moment? Can I exist peacefully within my own body? And what about the pain? I mean the hard the hard-core physical pain that hits me when I am most vulnerable? Can I live with the pain?
Can you promise me that it will have been worth it in the end? And, what if, after all is said done, I find myself to be an old woman with no friends, no ties, just a worn out memory of myself as I used to be—or who thought I might become. An old woman who lived far too long and too hard to realize that her act was done one-half a century ago.
Can you make it all worthwhile? Can you live with such responsibility?
Can I ever recapture enough of my former self to become a sexual being rather than innuendo? Can that person coexist in the same body that has brought me so much pain? Will anyone ever sift through the grime to find me? Will they ultimately feel it was just a waste of time? Will he hate me for it? Will he hate women as a result?
Can I ever learn to accept my physical pain without feeling compromised as a woman? Can I ever learn to accept my emotional mind without feeling compromised as a human being?
Do not tell anyone, but I can remember what it was like to enjoy sex. At what point can I allow myself to long for the sensation of human touch without being too optimistic? I don't want to get addicted. Sex will never be enough for me. I dream of loosing myself in a man's body. I dream about complete and absolute absorption.
I shall find mediocrity! Keep your labels interpretations and judgments to yourself. Control your need to soothe my fragile psyche or your need to "cure" me. I must find mediocrity. There in, I hope, lies the self. The everyday, the lull, the common person: rhythmic sanity and flattened affect. Dulled emotions and satisfaction. Satisfied, dull, boring, everyday. God—please!!! Where do I sign up?
Yes— okay— sometimes, it scares me to be so utterly alone, but what purpose does that serve? Even I know how despicable self-pity is in others and in myself. Especially for someone "like" me-- whatever that means! Great—so not only am I sad, but now I am feeling guilty too. And ashamed. And embarrassed. And Fear. And nothingness
Sometimes I wish others could understand the silent, peaceful, uncomplicated absolution that dawns with acceptance and resignation.
My goals have become so convoluted, yet here I sit, 13 years later, and my computer is still my best friend. My search for mediocrity continues. I am still looking for comfortable safety and a place of solitude before I can fulfill my "destiny"... to become whatever it is I was meant to be. Before I was reduced to nothing more than a shell of a person beaten down the Powers That Beat.
A journey on the road towards (Maslow's) self-actualization. Is it too late to build the strong foundations I lacked as a child? To feel secure enough in my physical surroundings and trust that my most basic needs will be met. Can I successfully transition into a world of unknowns without any understanding of the world as it is?
Maybe others have taken this path before me-- or maybe someday, someone might inadvertently wander into this sanctuary I call home. A place where nothing seems as it but exactly the way it is supposed to be.
Look at us-- who we are, what we do, and how we survive... all the people everywhere... All of us with limitless potential yet none of us know it-- irreverent disregard for what is real and complete disrespect for the rules that have thrust upon us.
This is the easy part-- restating economists and social scientists of days gone by-- so it is here that I can rest my head and my tired fingers. Why do I feel this shit? I actually *feel* this shit. As I sit and write (and eventually hit delete) I am bound to the streams of consciousness-- irate bouts of ranting and raving-- knowing how easy it is for people to silence such carrying-ons.
Upon writing my first piece ever-- a poem about motherhood, childhood, and the woman-child, my mother tried to have me committed. What a reality check! At 22, 1 put side my fear and wrote a simple poem for myself, to myself. It was straightforward, simple and direct, and almost landed me in an insane asylum. Are my words that dangerous? Are my feelings so far beyond the norm that I need to be removed from society altogether?
Yes, with a copy of my journal in hand, my mother's shrink showed up at my door-step to express her "grave concern" about my perception of reality. Not the first time, and it definitely would not be the last. As the years went by, I learned that my words would be used against me as a testimony to my madness. Only after years of therapy have I come to understand that it was not my words that were so dangerous, it was my ability to use them correctly. Perhaps it was not my sanity that should have been called into question...
I called my first piece, "On Not Being Able to Write." So simple, so eloquent, and so honest. After that little encounter, I learned about secrecy, symbolism, and self-censorship. I learned to write in riddles, live in puzzles, and think in circles. It kept others out-- but left me afraid. Afraid to be seen for who I am. Afraid of how my words were being received and how they would be interpreted. And now that things have come full circle, I am making a welcome return to honesty and a much needed reprieve from my riddles.
Let there be boundaries. Let them be impenetrable, secure, and bold. Obvious boundaries-- this is my path-- and you may not come with me. You must learn to find your own!
I think I shall buy a paint-by-numbers kit at the toy store. Simple. Impossible-but only because I can not paint!!!!