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Monday, November 1, 2010

Mind Sedge

Healthy and unhealthy behaviour.

Do I ever hate being told what to do. Someone giving me *advice* is not greeted graciously. As with most everything I seem to do, fear is my guide. Is it because when someone notices something I am doing, I feel afraid and immediately paranoid, just because i have been noticed? such that I cannot hear the kind (hopefully) intent behind what sounds mean-spirited. Sometimes people give good advice and I'm not ready/able to hear it. It has to get past my censors first, my scorn detectors, my critique detectors. Sometimes maybe the advice is inappropriate. Sometimes it's what the advisor should consider doing, not doling.

I have lots of experience hiding in the wide open. Much of my life, this has been a successful strategy, convinced no one has seen me. Being seen exponentially increases the risk of being harmed. I could play cat, remain unseen because others remain unseen. Most of us go about our day only seeing what we need, want to see, or that which is necessary to completing the day's tasks. Thus a lot gets missed. It's what I depend on. With attention comes the call to interact, to answer questions to come up with suitable social connections. I can't dwell at the surface for too long, I crave intensity - so that I can then receive care for my hurt? So circular, such trappings, it goes nowhere, it grows not, only leaches away. Spinning, not toiling. Eroding what care I have.

It's a hard line wanting to be valued while remaining a ghost. I've been reading other peoples' blogs: tales of personal horror, such dignity, honesty, clarity, humanity in the face of the worst imaginable instances. I want to crawl into a crack in shame. These are the markers by which I judge my worth. Where  I come away feeling ineffectual, useless - a poser. Pretending to be human. Adopting a character defined by loss. I cannot count myself among the hurt. I cannot. These are the people whose trauma and anguish is founded in reality, people with real, raw events scoring their psyches. In my desperation to belong I see the potential for care as a person who has lived in trauma. My vicariously derived troubles pale against the stories of others. There is no bell curve that includes me.

I'm in a crack of my own making. No one else can fit in. It's far removed from all else. I don't know where I belong. Humans feel don't they? Animals feel? My feelings are imposters. At most I'm a slight irritation. When I put on my game face I'm larger than life, because I'm actually smaller than life, I exist around life's edges.

So this is mind leaching, writing what pops out/up. Tears come. I wish I knew where from. Technically an indicator of feelings I am given to understand. There just doesn't seem to be an adequate explanation. to what can this slight dampening be attributed? Burning behind the eyes, air passage clumping  what the fuck is going on????? I just need to know where I fit, what is my place? It's not selfish to want to be at peace is it? I want a life I can feel proud to live. Not this shuffling around, dreading each new dawn, clockhounding, hiding killing the hours till I can go back to bed. I don't think this is what my body is meant for, what a waste, thankless wallowing. Someone  else should have this body, I'm not using it properly. Some else should have these things I have, I'm not using them, I am not grateful nor gracious. I'm not alive. This can't be what it's supposed to be. I hope to hell there are some people who can say they are living, that they have lived. I want them to tell me what it's like. I don't know. I'm just sedge. Former and future plant life. Compost before I hit the stage. Sound and fury signifying nothing.

Just what is the fucking point. Someone tell me so it sinks in. Someone make it make sense. I can't. never mind, I won't believe you anyway.


  1. There is no point.
    You get what you get, you use what you have, that's it.
    There is no proper way to use our lives. That's the beauty of it.
    Besides, we're ALL just future compost.
    You might as well do what you want with life because it's yours and yours alone. This at peace stuff is over-rated and probably doesn't exist - not until we truly are compost.
    So fuck it.

  2. I'm with Cathy. This entry is so familiar to me. I recognize your feelings of emptiness, worthlessness, nessnesss ness etc. This is NOT advice! Just an observation about myself - when I'm in those places I try to remember that it's a place in my mind, a stage, that I don't aLWAYS feel so... nothing. It's part of a bigger whole. You don't have to justify your pain. To me you sound like a more finely-tuned human, one who feels keenly the ridiculous horror of the wars (mostly) men make. You sound wounded. If your wounds were more obviously physical would you feel the need to justify your pain? Walking is good for me too. Thank you for writing.

  3. To my favourite veteran, who has paid just a heavy a price as any who fought in any trenches, I wish you love and peace this Remembrance Day.