Congealed Feelings...Thwarting Myself

Silver Swarm

i walked the dog to the beach this morning, stopped to sit, let myself feel the sadness wash over me. Watched the tugs at a distance, looked across the water, watched the waves crash, still crying, feeling alone, so tiny, angry, insignificant, wondering why it hurt(s) so much. I keep talking about this, maybe i just need to to dissipate the power over me. Like my personal hydro. Trying to let off some of the radioactive steam so I don't melt down, but although i am not a nuclear reactor, I still feel the toxicity of the outlay all around. An utter lack of faith in myself. Thinking only of despair for the future, a future of failure, always looming, waiting for it to come. Or maybe i do try to bring it on myself to ease the limbo of waiting. Our survival instincts are always working, assessing. But I don't see any plan, no way out. Looking up at the birds, a distant curiosity fills me, what for? What the fuck am I doing here? There is no need for me. I just hurt. I'm wasting precious air.

And of course weighing heavily is the issue of abuse and how it gets passed down like some ill conceived heirloom. Children who are beaten, terrorized, berated by their damaged parents for the smallest imagined blunder. Vowing never to be like their parents, but missing the key: they don't know what the alternatives are, and by the time adulthood rolls around, the choice to abuse not only appears to be the only solution, it feels like the right one, the normal one. Then we are confused when our behaviour does not elicit the response we want. We are trapped the angst of disloyalty. Must not speak the truth of it. The cycle continues. Alternatives feel too scary, ancient congealed feelings feel too scary. Do not go there. Punishment lurks. Abandonment lurks. I feel the anger surge inside, the injustice drills in to me, floods in really. All the world a series of injustice. Molecules of injustice as microcosmic clones. and all the while, the tugs tug, the birds fly, oblivion or denial? The former as pinnacle, the latter as waystation.

The neglect by the trusted ones feeds our toxicity, subliminal whispers of how we might seek revenge, doesn't tell us the consequences, lures us with images of payoff,  the empty promise by which we are fooled. The hole in the fence where we hammered in the nail. The hole that remains even should we manage to pry it out. The lesion.  The fence forever altered. Is this what is happening in my brain? Is this the irreparable damage? Is there hope in neural plasticity? Solace in medication? I fear it i too late for me.
I try to understand in a way that is balm. But its homonym surges forward. I don my protective coating and carry on. I continue to hope through the despair, it is all I can do to thwart the lure of the edge.