The Small Stain of My Existence

My numbness envelopes me. Channelling cocoons with no commensurate butterfly.
Non-transformation.

I have lived in fear since I became conscious. Fear of being wrong being different - yet at times celebrating my weirdness. Confusing.

So still am I.

The waves of shame slam into me, force my head under.

where next, how next? I am just done now? Is there no making left? Some ideas came, left unrealised. My head hurts me with its recriminations, accusations, judgments. The y are endless, tireless, devout. Killing me cruelly, little nicks, vast chunks of me fall away.A phantom lingers, in and out of bed, wearing a path into the house landscape.

So much potential, thwarted, wasted, eroded. So little left to offer. Doesn't that mean it's time to die? What positive do I bring to this world? Just something to worry about. The relief that would come when I finally die, that is what I believe. Grief then relief. Because people must move on and live their lives. I will be a small stain perhaps.

My brain is wasting away, losing power, losing the power of deduction. Losing logic.

I would be all sadness save I am numb.

Waiting.

stupid fucking shit

Feeling sorry for myself just found out that someone that I keep inviting to come and visit is going to visit somebody else. I don't get a lot of visitors and honestly I'm torn between wanting to have visitors and wanting to be alone. The great paradox.

Trying not to make it into a statement/evidence of my inherent badness aka why would anyone want to visit me? Still, it's my default. Willing myself not to call someone and complain, that is, ask what is so awful about me that I rarely receive visitors. After all, I'm the one who moved so far away, it was my choice. I feel hurt though. This in my bones feeling of unworthiness, of unloved-ness.

Hey write a song about it!

What did I do?
To hurt you?
You say it's not about me
Why don't I believe?

I crawl further into my rancid skin and weep for the sorrow that is me.
No reprieve.

Can I look into the void, won't it just show me the reflection?
Won't I be misled?

I don't feel close to fine (thank you I.G.).
Instead am clothed In a dipole, shocks and shards piercing , impaling, swirling within and without.

Little me cries

it started with a metaphor, honestly

Too far away from the sea
To keep an open heart and mind

We've willfully forgotten to be kind

It's harder to be kind, it takes effort and you have you check in at an internal check stop, you have to change direction you have to step out of your history to see yourself in someone else

i keep thinking about a song, one of social conscience. It can be done and done well it seems.

I stripped some more wire today and maybe I will start to weave my next thing.

Therapy was long and arduous this week, entered into the realm of admitting to things I feel great shame about, things I actually did wrong (that I didn't imagine). These tales wanted to come out. So more will follow and perhaps these toxins also will be finally released harmlessly.

A woman can hope.

Toes as Scouts

rain and wind  - storms without as well.

Yesterday was therapy and art therapy, me tired. Yet, for the first time, I think I finally succeeded in grounding myself, bless my little feet of cocktail sausage toes for their infinite wisdom. They are my advance scouts (is that redundant?). It was soooo slow, the movement and it moved throughout my body, this slow, settling calm. Unreal and, finally, real. How quiet, lovely.

And we laughed and caught the moments whenever I went to my standby, my head, forever the explainer of all things (known or unknown so it would seem) and this was very good practice of being present. Then it was on to the art therapy (insert dramatic music).

Painting, to Enya (she [art therapist] had my favourite CD of Enya). Now I usually am too distracted by music to really connect to making art, but I went for it, I guess the word for yesterday was "Try" (and thank you dear old friend CH for your message: "If you don't know what to do, do something, see what happens". So I did, almost 3 hours of talking, painting then dialogue with what I had painted. Skeptical, quasi-detached then fully committed and connected, it was a moving and helpful experience. She helped me identify when the creative "block" happened, and at first I didn't know, but now I do, I was in full flow and then felt the world slammed shut in my face and the message I heard was "We don't want you". Sadly, a familiar message, harsh and powerful, felt like truth. No one said this, what they said had nothing to do with me, I know that in my head, yet my little sweet self who only wants to be loved despite her/my strangeness, decoded "you do NOT belong". Yessirree, that there's a block.

So there is movement. Despite my jadedness,  it did feel good to talk to the paintings and see what I had inadvertently made, there was a glorious yellow bird (well, pterodactyl) soaring, there was a recumbent (yes, super-chill) dragon helping me understand the possibilities and limits of fire, and some walls and a sweet little turtle swimming in joy. It was all me, all of them, all with messages and encouragement and reassurance and support, yet all from me. Glorious indeed. Thank you L.

Then this weekend I am going to  a friends to maybe make music, but at least talk art. So feeling most fortunate.

Music and Art are crucial for my survival and sur-thrival (ok, made that one up)

OK

Brutal Black Comedy.

morning
rain  and mist, winter on the island. I do love to live here. possibility surrounds me, opportunity keeps knocking, maybe I'll answer. The kicker is it's up to me to knock on my own door, it's not that I don't hear myself, i"m not sure why I do not answer. I wonder if it's the fog of meds. Don't know.  I feel mostly detached. It's a brutal black comedy when my therapist oh so gently invites me to sense wherein in my body is the source of the pain. What sensations am I feeling. It's like I'm not even in there.  She is very kind and encouraging. Yet I am a ghost haunting this poor organic missive.

I am looking forward to being in the water, how I have missed it. And like my art friends say, maybe it's where I need to be for now. I love the support, the freedom it gives me, the power I feel. Already my arms and legs are stronger. It's helping my shoulder too, which is gratifying. It is a challenge to be around so many other people, all in the same water, but that is where we all exist ultimately isn't it?In the water we are all a massive misaligned battery, imagine what we could generate if all at the same pave and thrust, none of us know our real power, or perhaps a lucky few. Channelling that into creative thought and action and creation, how wondrous would that be for us all, what an earth we could be? Like that planet on star trek TNG where the people live for hundreds of years and they spend their vast time as apprentices; learning an art, a craft, and these pursuits are valued.

Get strong I guess. Get stronger. There's a storm here.

Peace in.

Scrape the Mould off the Cheddar

in trouble again, just an endless line of self-bait and switch. Now I'm binge watching, I mean I'm still bingeing, tv shows. what a waste of time, what others wouldn't give to have the precious left to them, time I squander endlessly, 10-12 hours then to bed, ill sleep, rise, repeat.

I guess this is me choosing the easy thing, poor impulse control sure, how about don't get hurt? I'll spin it that way. I'm full to brimming with hurt, and haven't been releasing it. Except in ill-chosen bursts fuelled by the catch basin of anger. Filling my days with some small brights spots, walking the dog, without said dog I would be in bed or sitting 24/7.  I guess this is depression, I guess this is being on meds that keep me safe.

I want to be safe and I understand why that it, yet I am lifeless and dull. Not showering as much. Drinking more. Yes, that's right because I don't have the consequence of instant brutal headache as with previous meds. sigh.

Writing to reach into my feelings , ease them into the air. Typing instead of picking, jabbing, cutting, tearing. It's all the same source, all the same driver. It's like seeking out the correct printer driver. I can feel them there, beneath my skin, swarming, vibrating, seeking and exit, now I've disturbed the hornet's nest.

I could just start walking and it would be the same source. Numbing. the great ebb and flow. sines waves of feelings, of activities and utter stillness.

where is the drive that others have seen?commented on? admired even?  it's blanketed , it's in sedimentary layers of protection.

deep in my head I lurk, waiting for the danger to pass. danger lurks within too. it seems I must enter into this great ecosystem or die. It will kill me, we all will die, yet this current choice of the slow death is outside the growing forces of the universe. I am instead the unnatural scum, the dust settling, the mole to be scraped away. "Scrape the mould off the cheddar Manuel".

Time to shower then walk my dog.

peace out, or rather in, for a change.

Please don't thank me for my service.

Whine time.

Another remembrance day come and gone. People saying thank you for your service. Some kindness is nice, always. Yet I begin to understand when I had heard/read other vets saying they don't feel comfortable about being told"thank you" and I was feeling that yesterday and today. Hence crabby.

I think what  would help me more is someone calling me and asking how I am and further being willing to hear the ugliness that ensues. Because I do not feel very proud of the mistakes I have made and while I can say there were times i did feel I actually helped people, most of the time I felt a failure, thus I cannot authentically accept the thank you(s). I sent my family a link to an article written by a combat vet, different from me, but one which resonated. In retrospect, that feels like a mistake as I could see it being a request for the ever reviled "attention".

I feel alone, unworthy, angry, abandoned, ashamed, cowardly, ad nauseum.

If you care, just call and just be willing to listen. There is NOTHING anyone can say to me. Yet, a willing ear, that would be a gift.