at war

It's a phobia of sorts. Claustrophobia. But not a body enclosed in a small place. Rather a small place enclosed in a body.

I feel as though I can trust almost no one, let alone entrust anything of worth to another.

I am at war with my body again. Not seeing the beauty that was once revealed to me.

I want to shrink. I want to expand. I want to starve. I want to binge. I want to feel. I want to be numb. I want to scream. I want to stay silent.

I cannot see what others see. Just disgust at my humanity. My flaws, my functions, my weaknesses. Incessant needs and wants that cannot be quelled for long enough.

The Current Weather Report

It is as though my mind is crawling out of my skull through my eye sockets, to be quite frank.
Like my subconscious or unconcious is screaming inside a small glass box.
I can see outside, but I cannot partake of what is going on around me and no one can hear me.
I have this quiet nagging telling me that I cannot censor myself all of the time like I have been doing.
It is exhausting and dishonest.
But at the same time I don't know how many people I want to see what's really behind my eyes and actions.
I am coming to find that being an artist is a constant battle.
Between (narcissism & selfishness) AND (self-punishment & self-loathing).
My ability to produce and my production level in my art is directly linked to my mental well-being.
If I do not produce, I feel worthless, therefore feeling worthless, I do not produce.
It is a cycle so hard to get out of.
But then again even if I am producing, more often than not, I don't approve of the final outcome.
I have reached a turning point where I can shut out and shut down or I can reach out.
But I am afraid of hurting others and of others hurting me.
I do not have many ways to self-medicate, which is a good thing in one sense, but leaves me searching.
I am simultaneously compulsive and stagnant.
But I guess today is not so bad.
It is better than it is at night.
I wish I could sleep.

Journal Entry- Letter to You, Dearest

I feel so distraught by the fact that I do not know how to function. I sense some sort of death, but am not blessedly numb from the effects. I gave so much. You took too much. And now, so much of what I knew before is left in my childhood and is just an illusion that I cannot even perceive in others. I have none of what I began with. My vulnerability, my trust, my innocence, my ability to love without reason or repay, even my belief in love itself. I was questioning it before all of this occurred, but there is not the smallest scrap of hope left for it.

I do not mean this to sound totaly dire or crushing. I am sure you will never see this, actually. But I don't know how else to cope with my everyday than to write it out. All the things that nag at me and will not leave me be, I must exorcise it all somehow.

I do not sleep anymore. I simply enter another world, where anything is possible in the ways that you wish would never be. There are no rules of logic and physical limitations. The hours while I sleep are just my other self trying to find something or trying to unlose myself. I am constantly searching... for people, for destinations, anything that seems of worth. It is an exhausting trek that leaves me feeling asleep when I am awake and awake while I am sleeping.

I keep grabbing onto whatever manages to save me for the moment. Little temporary grasps at sanity. It pauses for a second. But I keep unraveling a little more each day. It does not get better. It cannot get better. I try, I do. But I am planted where I stand.

I hate that I have to convince myself everyday that it wasn't a lie. I hate that I still question whether or not you ever really loved me, if you ever even knew how. I gave everything. Everything. My time, my thoughts, my effort, my affection. Now what do I have? I am not one to give those so easily to those who do not deserve it. So I hope so badly that it was for some purpose. But I do not have the ability to do it again. I don't think I ever will. It takes so much to let someone in, my mind and personality do not allow it without much in return. I think now that I much prefer the solitude and quiet. It may make the constant flow of thoughts louder, but I have no one to tell me it is not legitimate.

I honestly do not know how people can do it over and over, by choice. The only conclusion that I can come to is that not as much is given and it lessens each time. Not that that means anything positive about me. Just that I am foolish enough the put it all in one person without much question.

I am lead by my emotions, not by my body or even my head, though it sure tries. I do not know how to see past myself, my throbbing heart that has been in a dull ache for longer than I care to remember. Sharp pangs hit me when I hear your name, when I see a place we had gone, when a song takes me back to a moment that I cannot have back.

I am so angry. I want desperately to hate you. I know no reason why I should have any desire to see you again. It scares me to death, the thought of running into you. But it scares me even more to think that I will never see you again. I never thought that you wouldn't be a part of my life. But I don't know how to be some apathetic, platonic being in relation to you. I have felt too much, said too little.

I wish I had had the courage to tell you how much I loved you. I wish I could tell you so many things. I feel as though I am cut off from my own body part. I didn't want this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. But I can do nothing to change it and I will not try to any more. I've learned in the last year or two that no matter how much you strive to sway another person, it doesn't really matter unless they want to be swayed.

I hate that I am writing this or posting this for that matter. Not that almost anyone will read it. I keep these blogs very private for this reason. I know you are not completely to blame, SO much of the blame lays at my feet. This is just as much of a chastise on myself.

But I'm sorry that I wasn't enough. I'm sorry that I couldn't be what you needed. I'm sorry I said so many things in anger. I am not one to deal well with jealousy of any sort. I'm sorry I gambled and lost. I'm sorry I was foolish enough to believe whatever you told me. I'm sorry I let myself be so blind. I'm sorry if I hurt you. I'm sorry I let you hurt me, more times than I can count.

I'm just holding on to the fleeting hope that there will be nights when I won't cry and there will be days that I will laugh and mean it. I'm holding on to the few things I have left that you can't take away.

The Golden Cage

So in continuing with the last post (personalities being the subject), I have been having a particularly hard time lately at staying focused on anything that isn't artistic. I've never really loved working in offices, but I've noticed that not long after the one year mark, I get antsy. At first, for the beginning 12 months or so, I am occupied enough to not notice the constantly nagging creative side because I am learning new things and that happens to be one of my favorite hobbies. I've always said I am good at a lot of things but not great at anything (with an emphasis on the second part, just in case there was a need arising to call me Narcissus). This is due to the fact that I truly do love learning new things, whether it is by reading or watching or doing, I pick up many fascinations that consume my brain for months at a time. Some last, some become a little less important, but either way I research the hell out of it before it gets set aside.

I know that one has to have a job or occupation that simply pays the bills, whether I like it or not, but it depresses me to no end. I wish constantly that I could have been lucky enough to write and create in the 40s or 50s or 60s when one could practically live on one's art (albeit modestly), even when poetry was the primary focus, which is completely unheard of now. Most poets aren't even known well by name, let alone lucky enough to make money off of it.

I keep trying to conform at least a little bit to make it easier on myself. But every time I head in a direction that requires some sort of mediocrity and/or boredom, I just keep fighting back with fists raised. Actually, as a result, much of my art reflects this mindset. I can't even count how many poems and lyrics etc. are about not wanting "the box", about striving to live some sort of Bohemian strain of a lifestyle in a technology soaked world. I feel like with every paper I file and every day I stare at a computer for 9 hrs, my soul shrinks and I won't be able to get it back.

My one relief in my day-to-day trudge is the fact that I have an Ipod glued into my ears for the majority of the duration of the day. I close my eyes and feel the bass line pulse through me and drum cymbals crash and resonate through my head and it is my only salve. I enter my fantasy world where I'm playing music 7 days a week, working to finish some great project with a handful of dedicated musicians. I sit in a studio, replaying previously recorded tracks and writing new parts to alter the last take. I travel and play in tiny cafes and large venues all over the world. And I just bask in it. A delicious wave of accomplishment washes over me and then I open my eyes to realize I am still in the suburbs in a tiny cube worrying about medical insurance and retirement funds.

I know it is silly to think that I could be one of the lucky few to play music and write stories & poems and just do that. Nothing else. To only worry about whether or not the muses smile upon me (which is already a constant worry) and to care nothing for 9-5 deadlines or broken printers. Every nerve and fiber in my body aches until I get the next taste of it- whether by playing a show, writing a new story or jamming in the studio. I'm like a junkie, perhaps, but it is the best kind of high, the orgasmic release of creative rush.

I may not be the best at any of it, but I feel like I have so much to offer if only I had the opportunity to do it and share it. It is in the core of me, it is the very nature of me... to take someone on a journey in their mind, so that maybe they too can leave their buzzing, tapping cubicles for their ten minute morning break shutdown.

Speaking of which, my break is up... so more on this later.