Several weeks (months?) ago, I spoke with a fellow blogger about some of the things going on in my life and in my head. After giving him a couple of my symptoms, he mentioned a lot of them correlated to the dreaded DIABEETUS. He has it and knows the adverse affects of the disease.
I never thought even thought about having it but it's always a possibility.
You know, I walk around and do my thing and feel these crazy thoughts and wonder about the source of my psychosis. For the longest time, I thought I was depressed. But I never felt comfortable with that label because it feels like an "easy" diagnosis. Someone has a bad day and they have depression. I have bad days every day. I don't feel good about anything. I float through life, my nerves pinched to numbness. But I can also get out of bed each day and don't feel those aches and pains associated with depression.
Diabetes can make you feel bad, too.
So, what's the deal? Is it diabetes or depression that makes me feel like such a basket case?
Or what if I really do just play the victim? Or what if things are a bit heavier? What if theres' a third "D" swimming around my gut? What if I really do have a demon inside? Holy crap. I just want to know what's wrong with me.
How does anyone know what's wrong with them? Does anyone ever get to the heart of the hurt? Or do we flail around and fudge our way through our frustrations? Depression is an easy answer. Diabetes can be a catchy conclusion. Even possession, while not as practical, is possible.
Writing has been one of the most effective ways of trying to figure myself out, to organize my thoughts and fears and lay them out in an organized manner so I can identify and try to solve my problems. So far, all I've managed to do is express how I feel without getting to the heart of why I feel the way I do. I've got to figure out the cause before I get to the cure. Is it a creature or is it chemical?
How do we ever know? How do we find out? And how do we go about solving the strain of sugar and spirits?
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
in spite of the frost
"You're not alone, you'll never be
just like the stars lay over sea..."
-Jem, You Will Make It
"This could be a movie, this could be our final act,
we don't need these happy endings..."
-Funeral for a Friend, Drive
Hands 10 and 2.
He watched the broken yellow lines slide beneath his car, one after the other, hypnotic in repetition. Gliding through liquid time and space. The drive, the road, the interior reaching different levels of quiet calm. The kiss of wind. The lulling hum of the engine. The soft squeak of leather from shifting matter and a thumping chest. He turned up the music and exhaled as the tempo traced 'round his ears. Steam from the coffee in his cup holder rose and twirled in the air.
He felt the warmth in spite of the broken heater and the frost outside. It wrapped around him. Around them.
He reached across the caffeine and crumbs and slid his hand in hers. He kept his eyes on the road, his concentration on the yellow lines, his skin on the other, foreign skin. Cashmere atop tendons. Cool and fragile. A burst of nerve cell signals.
He had written this scene so obsessively, dreamed this dream for so long, a dream miles away from reality. Was it possible that when she came to him, materialized in bones and blue eyes, he had willed her into being? Had he etched her into the interior of his retinas, cones and rods vibrating, crafting her shape and angles? Or had the divine hand peeled back its palm and formed her with featherlight lips and sent her to him?
Did such mercy exist?
As far as his memory could reach, he had traveled with a knife in his neck. It was a pain he knew better than himself. An old companion. A disease he wore like a winter coat. And then she came and withdrew the blade with breathtaking ease. Without the obstruction, he was able to look up away from the dirt and into the sky. Eyes opened with a mobile spine. This was how humans lived, how they felt. This was the way it always could have been.
He was a pauper turned to a prince. A bug into a boy. He wasn't used to such delectable treatment from anyone. It was scary and unnerving and unrelenting. It was decadence and sugar and flooding. It was a revelation, a religious awakening. God existed in the space between pressed lips and pounding hearts.
Despite his resolve, he smiled, sank into the seats and into the moment, fleeting pleasures of pavement and porcelain. The sun was spinning back around to find him but for those moments, the world was asleep and they could sneak away to enjoy the shadow sky, just the two of them, reveling in the moonshine and kissing under the holes poked through the charcoal veil of heaven.
He said if only they could escape the sun, driving off the path and into their own world, from gravel to grass to galaxy, they'd be free of it all. She whispered something but the music drowned out her words, consonants cut up and lost in the percussion.
He felt her touch withdraw. He looked down and noticed the cold coffee. He looked to his right but only saw a blur of green from the passenger's window as the trees rushed past him, felt the jolt of a popped valve, smelled the black streak parallel to the yellow lines.
He found his answer.
He watched, suspended, his neck tensed, as the trees lifted off the ground and tumbled in the sky.
just like the stars lay over sea..."
-Jem, You Will Make It
"This could be a movie, this could be our final act,
we don't need these happy endings..."
-Funeral for a Friend, Drive
Hands 10 and 2.
He watched the broken yellow lines slide beneath his car, one after the other, hypnotic in repetition. Gliding through liquid time and space. The drive, the road, the interior reaching different levels of quiet calm. The kiss of wind. The lulling hum of the engine. The soft squeak of leather from shifting matter and a thumping chest. He turned up the music and exhaled as the tempo traced 'round his ears. Steam from the coffee in his cup holder rose and twirled in the air.
He felt the warmth in spite of the broken heater and the frost outside. It wrapped around him. Around them.
He reached across the caffeine and crumbs and slid his hand in hers. He kept his eyes on the road, his concentration on the yellow lines, his skin on the other, foreign skin. Cashmere atop tendons. Cool and fragile. A burst of nerve cell signals.
He had written this scene so obsessively, dreamed this dream for so long, a dream miles away from reality. Was it possible that when she came to him, materialized in bones and blue eyes, he had willed her into being? Had he etched her into the interior of his retinas, cones and rods vibrating, crafting her shape and angles? Or had the divine hand peeled back its palm and formed her with featherlight lips and sent her to him?
Did such mercy exist?
As far as his memory could reach, he had traveled with a knife in his neck. It was a pain he knew better than himself. An old companion. A disease he wore like a winter coat. And then she came and withdrew the blade with breathtaking ease. Without the obstruction, he was able to look up away from the dirt and into the sky. Eyes opened with a mobile spine. This was how humans lived, how they felt. This was the way it always could have been.
He was a pauper turned to a prince. A bug into a boy. He wasn't used to such delectable treatment from anyone. It was scary and unnerving and unrelenting. It was decadence and sugar and flooding. It was a revelation, a religious awakening. God existed in the space between pressed lips and pounding hearts.
Despite his resolve, he smiled, sank into the seats and into the moment, fleeting pleasures of pavement and porcelain. The sun was spinning back around to find him but for those moments, the world was asleep and they could sneak away to enjoy the shadow sky, just the two of them, reveling in the moonshine and kissing under the holes poked through the charcoal veil of heaven.
He said if only they could escape the sun, driving off the path and into their own world, from gravel to grass to galaxy, they'd be free of it all. She whispered something but the music drowned out her words, consonants cut up and lost in the percussion.
He felt her touch withdraw. He looked down and noticed the cold coffee. He looked to his right but only saw a blur of green from the passenger's window as the trees rushed past him, felt the jolt of a popped valve, smelled the black streak parallel to the yellow lines.
He found his answer.
He watched, suspended, his neck tensed, as the trees lifted off the ground and tumbled in the sky.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
avoidance
I admit I've never been the best at social relations but throughout the years, I think I've come a long way from being painfully shy in front of everyone to being able to crack jokes with strangers on occasion. As much as I've progressed, I realize I still have roadblocks, like when people converse with me on subjects I don't give a crap about.
How do you squirm your way out of inane topics? Do you pretend there's an emergency on the other end of your "vibrating" phone call?
"This debt ceiling discussion is fascinating but my son got his penis stuck in the swimming pool filter. Again. The doctor said he could circumcise himself the next time this happens!"
Do you feign a bathroom emergency and politely excuse yourself from the topic at hand?
"My apologies. I'd love to hear about the grooming habits of your ferret but I've got to go to the john and pinch off a loaf."
Or, as I've been forced to do, do you stand there and take your punishment?
People are always talking to me about their kids or home improvement projects and frankly, I don't give a crap about either. It comes from place of a lack of commonalities between me and the people I interact with on a daily basis. I'm weird and I'm into weird stuff. I don't have kids. I don't like kids. And I don't like HGTV so the chitchat about your electrical sockets gets lost on me.
And if the topics are boring, their unbearable, like when people want to tell me about dead animals.
Being an animal lover, I don't want to hear horrific encounters people have had with furry creatures, like how their pet goats were violently ripped apart by a pack of wild coyotes or how their fluffy new kitten crawled into their dad's engine and the mess it made when he started it up that morning or how they hit a deer with their car and it's leg got caught in the carburetor and it was dragged three miles until the tendon finally snapped, leaving the poor thing wailing and writhing in the road. And then they finish off with h a sensitive, "At least it didn't ruin my paint job."
Every time someone starts up with a dead pet or abused animal, the ASPCA commercial starts rolling in my head and the Sarah Mclachlan soundtrack drowns out stories of slaughtered shetland ponies or drowned puppy dogs.
As I've said before, my job isn't physically hard. But the mental exertion of pretending to be engaged in conversation with customers wears down on me. To protect my sanity, I usually tune them out and employ the usual head nods and verbal cues to continue their stories. All the while, I'm wondering when they will stop, or if they ever will. Is this my hell? Replacing the inferno with insufferable stories of potted plants and parenthood? I just don't have the energy.
It's sad to admit I often evade these types of people. If I see them coming (or in some cases, hear them, because their incessant laughing is so booming), I hide behind fixtures or walk in the opposite direction. I've even ducked into a fitting room like I'm dodging a grenade and waited there, holding my breath until I hear them pass.
Now imagine having to do this dance daily. And imagine getting caught like a fly in a spiderweb of stupid stories, tightly bound by social niceties, squirming on the inside but knowing it's futile. You stand there and give up, laugh out loud and let the poison infect and numb your skull.
How do you squirm your way out of inane topics? Do you pretend there's an emergency on the other end of your "vibrating" phone call?
"This debt ceiling discussion is fascinating but my son got his penis stuck in the swimming pool filter. Again. The doctor said he could circumcise himself the next time this happens!"
Do you feign a bathroom emergency and politely excuse yourself from the topic at hand?
"My apologies. I'd love to hear about the grooming habits of your ferret but I've got to go to the john and pinch off a loaf."
Or, as I've been forced to do, do you stand there and take your punishment?
People are always talking to me about their kids or home improvement projects and frankly, I don't give a crap about either. It comes from place of a lack of commonalities between me and the people I interact with on a daily basis. I'm weird and I'm into weird stuff. I don't have kids. I don't like kids. And I don't like HGTV so the chitchat about your electrical sockets gets lost on me.
And if the topics are boring, their unbearable, like when people want to tell me about dead animals.
Being an animal lover, I don't want to hear horrific encounters people have had with furry creatures, like how their pet goats were violently ripped apart by a pack of wild coyotes or how their fluffy new kitten crawled into their dad's engine and the mess it made when he started it up that morning or how they hit a deer with their car and it's leg got caught in the carburetor and it was dragged three miles until the tendon finally snapped, leaving the poor thing wailing and writhing in the road. And then they finish off with h a sensitive, "At least it didn't ruin my paint job."
Every time someone starts up with a dead pet or abused animal, the ASPCA commercial starts rolling in my head and the Sarah Mclachlan soundtrack drowns out stories of slaughtered shetland ponies or drowned puppy dogs.
As I've said before, my job isn't physically hard. But the mental exertion of pretending to be engaged in conversation with customers wears down on me. To protect my sanity, I usually tune them out and employ the usual head nods and verbal cues to continue their stories. All the while, I'm wondering when they will stop, or if they ever will. Is this my hell? Replacing the inferno with insufferable stories of potted plants and parenthood? I just don't have the energy.
It's sad to admit I often evade these types of people. If I see them coming (or in some cases, hear them, because their incessant laughing is so booming), I hide behind fixtures or walk in the opposite direction. I've even ducked into a fitting room like I'm dodging a grenade and waited there, holding my breath until I hear them pass.
Now imagine having to do this dance daily. And imagine getting caught like a fly in a spiderweb of stupid stories, tightly bound by social niceties, squirming on the inside but knowing it's futile. You stand there and give up, laugh out loud and let the poison infect and numb your skull.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
english is my second language
While at work a couple of months ago, my high school AP English teacher came in to shop. I walked up to her, excited to tell her about my newly acquired passion for writing. I haven't seen her since I graduated high school in 2004 and thought she'd be happy to hear about my venturing into her field of expertise.
After we caught up for a bit, I told her I liked to write now and she smiled a small smile and I told her I was even published in my college's literary journal. Not a huge deal but it was something. A good start. I might have made a misstep, however, because I said her class helped me enjoy writing and I thought my writing grew while under her guidance. I even bragged a bit and said I thought I wrote some pretty good essays during the times I had her in 11th and 12th grade.
She smiled again and mentioned my science teacher's daughter, who was one grade above me.
"Yes, I still remember her essays. She was one of the best students I ever had."
I didn't understand why she chose to compliment some random girl who had nothing to do with me but I pressed on and casually asked her if she would like to read some of my writing. She was retired by this time and so I thought not only would she have the time to read it but I hoped she'd be interested to see how I've grown as a writer.
Instead, she let out a sigh.
After we caught up for a bit, I told her I liked to write now and she smiled a small smile and I told her I was even published in my college's literary journal. Not a huge deal but it was something. A good start. I might have made a misstep, however, because I said her class helped me enjoy writing and I thought my writing grew while under her guidance. I even bragged a bit and said I thought I wrote some pretty good essays during the times I had her in 11th and 12th grade.
She smiled again and mentioned my science teacher's daughter, who was one grade above me.
"Yes, I still remember her essays. She was one of the best students I ever had."
I didn't understand why she chose to compliment some random girl who had nothing to do with me but I pressed on and casually asked her if she would like to read some of my writing. She was retired by this time and so I thought not only would she have the time to read it but I hoped she'd be interested to see how I've grown as a writer.
Instead, she let out a sigh.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
homewrecker
Several days ago, work girlfriend (WG) told me she and her fiance got into a big blowup...over me! She said her fiance picked up her phone and noticed a text message sent by me and he got jealous.
I mean, I can't help she wants deez nuts, ya know what I'm sayin'?
Just kidding. But he wasn't happy about us sending each other text messages and she actually stood up for me and said she's known me longer than him and I'm her favorite person to work with and he was just going to have to deal with it.
I was surprised.
But his unhappiness must have affected her to some degree because the texting has decreased. And since the holiday hours are over, we don't work the same shifts and therefore don't have lunch with each other anymore.
I actually don't mind. Her constant texting got in the way of me writing and working out and stuff so it's a bit of a welcome relief. The only problem is I'm hesitant to text her anything at all, even if it's work related, because I don't know when her fiance is with her and if he's going to pick up her phone and get upset. I definitely don't want to be the cause of their problems...but I have to admit it's interesting to have my name on lovers' lips.
For so long, I've walked around impervious to passion, my solitary status set in stone. I was not the object of infatuation or jealousy. And now I kind of am.
But things are definitely changing. The mutual enjoyment of each other is slowly fading.
I expected it, knew it was only a matter of time since she "announced" her engagement.
I'm fine with it. There's plenty of deez nuts to go around.
I mean, I can't help she wants deez nuts, ya know what I'm sayin'?
Just kidding. But he wasn't happy about us sending each other text messages and she actually stood up for me and said she's known me longer than him and I'm her favorite person to work with and he was just going to have to deal with it.
I was surprised.
But his unhappiness must have affected her to some degree because the texting has decreased. And since the holiday hours are over, we don't work the same shifts and therefore don't have lunch with each other anymore.
I actually don't mind. Her constant texting got in the way of me writing and working out and stuff so it's a bit of a welcome relief. The only problem is I'm hesitant to text her anything at all, even if it's work related, because I don't know when her fiance is with her and if he's going to pick up her phone and get upset. I definitely don't want to be the cause of their problems...but I have to admit it's interesting to have my name on lovers' lips.
For so long, I've walked around impervious to passion, my solitary status set in stone. I was not the object of infatuation or jealousy. And now I kind of am.
But things are definitely changing. The mutual enjoyment of each other is slowly fading.
I expected it, knew it was only a matter of time since she "announced" her engagement.
I'm fine with it. There's plenty of deez nuts to go around.
Friday, January 18, 2013
simple moves
I have to say, I've been working out consistently and killing it during many of the sessions. Just like I did last year, I started out on January 1st and got up and put my trainers on and poured sweat and shredded muscle tissue.
It was actually a lot easier this time around, too, because I'm used to it now.
YES. I'M USED TO IT.
Prior to last year, working out was equivalent to eating dog crap but now it's no thang. It's weird but kind of awesome.
That's not to say I haven't had my bad days. I'll get up and go through the motions sometimes. And I used to feel bad about it because I feel like if I'm going to work out, it needs to count. I don't want to waste my time flailing around and not burning enough calories to matter. But I saw a quote on Facebook that said something like the only bad workout is one you didn't do. Made me feel better. Made me realize it does matter. It does count.
But, as I said, sometimes I really put 110% into the workout and by the end, I'm drenched in sweat and my body hurts and when I wake up in the morning in pain, I like it. I know it's actually not good for you to be sore like that but it makes me feel like I really did something so I welcome the pain.
It was actually a lot easier this time around, too, because I'm used to it now.
YES. I'M USED TO IT.
Prior to last year, working out was equivalent to eating dog crap but now it's no thang. It's weird but kind of awesome.
That's not to say I haven't had my bad days. I'll get up and go through the motions sometimes. And I used to feel bad about it because I feel like if I'm going to work out, it needs to count. I don't want to waste my time flailing around and not burning enough calories to matter. But I saw a quote on Facebook that said something like the only bad workout is one you didn't do. Made me feel better. Made me realize it does matter. It does count.
But, as I said, sometimes I really put 110% into the workout and by the end, I'm drenched in sweat and my body hurts and when I wake up in the morning in pain, I like it. I know it's actually not good for you to be sore like that but it makes me feel like I really did something so I welcome the pain.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
job limbo
Last March, a co-worker of mine walked up to me with the biggest smile on her face.
"Heeey, what's up?" I asked, unnerved.
"I have a question for you and I want you to keep this between us."
"Okay..."
"I know I'm not supposed to do this but I am starting up a business and I want to take you with me."
"SIGN ME UP," I said. I didn't know what the business was. It could have involved me fisting dwarves on the Internet for the website humantootsiepop.com. I was up for it.
She smiled even wider. "Excellent!"
"Heeey, what's up?" I asked, unnerved.
"I have a question for you and I want you to keep this between us."
"Okay..."
"I know I'm not supposed to do this but I am starting up a business and I want to take you with me."
"SIGN ME UP," I said. I didn't know what the business was. It could have involved me fisting dwarves on the Internet for the website humantootsiepop.com. I was up for it.
She smiled even wider. "Excellent!"
Sunday, January 13, 2013
gunshot residue
Yesterday, a police officer came in to work and bought a blazer. I saw his holstered gun and it actually made me nervous. It was odd. I'm a violent guy. I love the stuff. But only in movies. In real life, I get squirmy.
If I was so nervous seeing a holstered gun, I wondered how freaked out I'd be if it was pointing straight at my head. It's kind of amazing how your perspective on life changes the instant you're staring into a tiny hole that harbors hell. I'm sure I'd cry hysterically and probably beg for my life. I guess that means I don't really want to die. It's weird, though, because I'm not too jazzed about living, either.
Despite my negativity, bad mood and PLAYING THE VICTIM all the time, there's still this microscopic seed of hope waiting to swell and burst, a needling feeling that something good might actually happen to me. Maybe things might actually work out.
Maybe I'll get published or fall in love or, at the very least, find a job I don't hate.
And I don't want to exit before that mysterious magical moment happens because I don't want life to leave a bitter taste in my mouth after I'm done with it. I'll need something good to hold onto while I'm being raked over the hot coals.
I just need to know there's more to life than bad luck, bad body image, and bad breath. I don't think there is but no one can really know now, can they? So, with that inkling of a chance, I stay here and work on myself and my writing and hope I'll work up to, or stumble upon, something significant. I just need to feel better about all the time I wasted.
There's some positivity for ya.
Cheers.
If I was so nervous seeing a holstered gun, I wondered how freaked out I'd be if it was pointing straight at my head. It's kind of amazing how your perspective on life changes the instant you're staring into a tiny hole that harbors hell. I'm sure I'd cry hysterically and probably beg for my life. I guess that means I don't really want to die. It's weird, though, because I'm not too jazzed about living, either.
Despite my negativity, bad mood and PLAYING THE VICTIM all the time, there's still this microscopic seed of hope waiting to swell and burst, a needling feeling that something good might actually happen to me. Maybe things might actually work out.
Maybe I'll get published or fall in love or, at the very least, find a job I don't hate.
And I don't want to exit before that mysterious magical moment happens because I don't want life to leave a bitter taste in my mouth after I'm done with it. I'll need something good to hold onto while I'm being raked over the hot coals.
I just need to know there's more to life than bad luck, bad body image, and bad breath. I don't think there is but no one can really know now, can they? So, with that inkling of a chance, I stay here and work on myself and my writing and hope I'll work up to, or stumble upon, something significant. I just need to feel better about all the time I wasted.
There's some positivity for ya.
Cheers.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
victor/victim (i love to complain)
The co-worker who played the race card all the time also called me out the other day. I said something about how he and the other co-worker who moonlights as a preacher had all the luck with customers. They always ran into receptive individuals who treated them warmly while I got stuck with the disgruntled, disheveled, and diarrhea prone.
He smiled and said, "Come on, man. You play the victim."
His words struck me like a slap to the face because that's what my counselor said to me when I was in college. At the time, I thought my counselor was full of crap and didn't understand what I was going through. And here was this guy, having only known me for a couple of weeks, giving me the same diagnosis. He already had me pegged. Am I that transparent?
Maybe I am. Maybe I do play the victim and it's something I've subconsciously done and I never realized it and yet it's plain to everyone else.
It's painful to see myself like that but it's also necessary if I want to correct it. In some ways, I feel I've made peace with my pain. We are all hurting. We didn't choose to be born but yet we were thrust into this cruel world. We are all victims but some are just more vocal about it. No one's pain is more important or unjustified than anyone else's but we continually negate other people's negative feelings. Sure, I agree some people do have it worse than others. I've said multiple times that I don't even have it that bad. But does that mean I should strap on a smile and act like everything is fine?
I think there's a fine line between being grateful and being gross about it. At the end of the day, if we and our families are safe and can feed and clothe and house ourselves, we really have nothing to complain about. And yet, we all complain. And then we get annoyed when other people complain. How many of us really examine our situations and realize we have it better than probably 90% of the planet and then and immediately put an end to our own rants? I'd venture to guess not many, including those who complain about others who complain. It's all relative, really.
I complain to vent. Sometimes, it's how I get through the day. It doesn't mean I'm not grateful for what I have. It doesn't mean I think I have the worst life ever. But sometimes I get pissed off about things and I need to express that. I express myself. I complain. I piss and moan. It's what I do. It's what feels good. And I'm darn good at it. But it's not all I'm about. If I had something good to express, I'd express that, too. It just so happens I haven't had much good to express lately.
And just because someone seems like they have it all together, don't make the mistake of thinking they actually do. My outside world might seem fine, but on the inside, it's on fire. It's not so much a physical suffering but an emotional/spiritual one that not a lot of people outside of my blog have access to. It's that silent and unseen slicing that gets a lot of people. It's the hurt hidden in plain view. It's the fear of the consequences of complaining. We are taught to get up and get over it. Quit yer cryin'! Stop yer complainin'! There's starving children in Africa, for God's sake! We should be grateful we can breathe, they say, even if we're inhaling hell.
Ultimately, I think a lot of us can be less whiny, including me. And a lot of us can be more compassionate as well.
I've tried to be more accepting of the nature of my being. Some people are just more unfortunate than others but with bad luck. Some are unfortunate but the odds are in their favor. Some people are naturally happy and some are born bleeding. Yep, I'm the hemophiliac. I've made a conscious effort to stop blaming God for my troubles. It's conceited to think he'd single me out and send a mack truck full of crap barreling into me. At best, he loves me. At worst, he doesn't care. Either way, it's not helping my condition. What is love without action? If I don't know about it, does it really count? Not in my opinion.
I'm just trying to learn to take the blows and keep it moving. And I complain to get some of the pain off my chest. It helps and I don't care. I don't have to justify myself to anyone 'cause no one knows the extent of my imbalanced brain. But I try to justify myself anyway. And I vent to people because I want them to know I'm not a victim and bad stuff really does happen to me. I point out specific examples, sometimes as they happen, to show them I'm not making it up or playing a role.
But am I trying to convince them or myself?
He smiled and said, "Come on, man. You play the victim."
His words struck me like a slap to the face because that's what my counselor said to me when I was in college. At the time, I thought my counselor was full of crap and didn't understand what I was going through. And here was this guy, having only known me for a couple of weeks, giving me the same diagnosis. He already had me pegged. Am I that transparent?
Maybe I am. Maybe I do play the victim and it's something I've subconsciously done and I never realized it and yet it's plain to everyone else.
It's painful to see myself like that but it's also necessary if I want to correct it. In some ways, I feel I've made peace with my pain. We are all hurting. We didn't choose to be born but yet we were thrust into this cruel world. We are all victims but some are just more vocal about it. No one's pain is more important or unjustified than anyone else's but we continually negate other people's negative feelings. Sure, I agree some people do have it worse than others. I've said multiple times that I don't even have it that bad. But does that mean I should strap on a smile and act like everything is fine?
I think there's a fine line between being grateful and being gross about it. At the end of the day, if we and our families are safe and can feed and clothe and house ourselves, we really have nothing to complain about. And yet, we all complain. And then we get annoyed when other people complain. How many of us really examine our situations and realize we have it better than probably 90% of the planet and then and immediately put an end to our own rants? I'd venture to guess not many, including those who complain about others who complain. It's all relative, really.
I complain to vent. Sometimes, it's how I get through the day. It doesn't mean I'm not grateful for what I have. It doesn't mean I think I have the worst life ever. But sometimes I get pissed off about things and I need to express that. I express myself. I complain. I piss and moan. It's what I do. It's what feels good. And I'm darn good at it. But it's not all I'm about. If I had something good to express, I'd express that, too. It just so happens I haven't had much good to express lately.
And just because someone seems like they have it all together, don't make the mistake of thinking they actually do. My outside world might seem fine, but on the inside, it's on fire. It's not so much a physical suffering but an emotional/spiritual one that not a lot of people outside of my blog have access to. It's that silent and unseen slicing that gets a lot of people. It's the hurt hidden in plain view. It's the fear of the consequences of complaining. We are taught to get up and get over it. Quit yer cryin'! Stop yer complainin'! There's starving children in Africa, for God's sake! We should be grateful we can breathe, they say, even if we're inhaling hell.
Ultimately, I think a lot of us can be less whiny, including me. And a lot of us can be more compassionate as well.
I've tried to be more accepting of the nature of my being. Some people are just more unfortunate than others but with bad luck. Some are unfortunate but the odds are in their favor. Some people are naturally happy and some are born bleeding. Yep, I'm the hemophiliac. I've made a conscious effort to stop blaming God for my troubles. It's conceited to think he'd single me out and send a mack truck full of crap barreling into me. At best, he loves me. At worst, he doesn't care. Either way, it's not helping my condition. What is love without action? If I don't know about it, does it really count? Not in my opinion.
I'm just trying to learn to take the blows and keep it moving. And I complain to get some of the pain off my chest. It helps and I don't care. I don't have to justify myself to anyone 'cause no one knows the extent of my imbalanced brain. But I try to justify myself anyway. And I vent to people because I want them to know I'm not a victim and bad stuff really does happen to me. I point out specific examples, sometimes as they happen, to show them I'm not making it up or playing a role.
But am I trying to convince them or myself?
Thursday, January 3, 2013
devil on your back
"And every demon wants his pound of flesh..."
-Florence and the Machine, Shake it Out
Do we all have demons? Are we all required to claim a vice at the beginning of our lives? The world is stained red and we have to suit up with sex or alcohol just to make it through. We all feel the pull of pain and we choose different methods of self-medicating.
My method's with the marshmallows. I eat my feelings. I stuff down my pain with pasta. I'm fat. I'm in the fat group. That's my addiction. That's my comfort. That's my demon. And it's disheartening to know I'm a part of such a problem.
I'm the fat stomach the camera from one of those news segments covering "Fat America" zooms in on as I walk across the street. I'm the open mouth stuffing fries into my face. I am the target audience for diet pill advertisements and fat burning exercise infomercials. I am inundated with Burger King coupons and thin model magazines. I'm torn between the temptation and the torture. My brain is assaulted by all these mixed messages of decadence and deltoids.
The holidays hit me pretty hard. I have to admit, despite my weight loss and my new healthy attitude toward food, I'm still addicted to the (good) bad stuff. And for the past two months, I have shoveled food in my mouth at any given opportunity. Naturally, I let myself go during Thanksgiving and Christmas but I also went wild in the days between. Let's not forget my birthday was also wedged in there so I had to celebrate with a gigantic pizza and cake. I ate a lot of fast food and couldn't wait until dessert so I could dig into marble cake with whipped icing or Mom's homemade peanut butter balls with almond bark. I ate with abandon and didn't give a crap.
I always justified my eating habits by saying it was a temporary holiday thing and I would go back to normal after Christmas. But now that it's the new year, things are hard. All I want is more cake and that's something I wouldn't have dreamed of five months ago. Did I somehow change my chemicals by eating healthier and then changed them again by eating garbage?
If so, the transition begins yet again.
-Florence and the Machine, Shake it Out
Do we all have demons? Are we all required to claim a vice at the beginning of our lives? The world is stained red and we have to suit up with sex or alcohol just to make it through. We all feel the pull of pain and we choose different methods of self-medicating.
My method's with the marshmallows. I eat my feelings. I stuff down my pain with pasta. I'm fat. I'm in the fat group. That's my addiction. That's my comfort. That's my demon. And it's disheartening to know I'm a part of such a problem.
I'm the fat stomach the camera from one of those news segments covering "Fat America" zooms in on as I walk across the street. I'm the open mouth stuffing fries into my face. I am the target audience for diet pill advertisements and fat burning exercise infomercials. I am inundated with Burger King coupons and thin model magazines. I'm torn between the temptation and the torture. My brain is assaulted by all these mixed messages of decadence and deltoids.
The holidays hit me pretty hard. I have to admit, despite my weight loss and my new healthy attitude toward food, I'm still addicted to the (good) bad stuff. And for the past two months, I have shoveled food in my mouth at any given opportunity. Naturally, I let myself go during Thanksgiving and Christmas but I also went wild in the days between. Let's not forget my birthday was also wedged in there so I had to celebrate with a gigantic pizza and cake. I ate a lot of fast food and couldn't wait until dessert so I could dig into marble cake with whipped icing or Mom's homemade peanut butter balls with almond bark. I ate with abandon and didn't give a crap.
I always justified my eating habits by saying it was a temporary holiday thing and I would go back to normal after Christmas. But now that it's the new year, things are hard. All I want is more cake and that's something I wouldn't have dreamed of five months ago. Did I somehow change my chemicals by eating healthier and then changed them again by eating garbage?
If so, the transition begins yet again.
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