Last year, one of my friends told me: “All your fears are lies.” This is something I’ve believed for a while now but I’d never really thought of it in such a stripped-down, obvious concept: Yes! Those restraints holding me back in the form of tangible fear are fortress walls that simply do not exist. Not only do they not exist to anyone else, but they don’t exist to me, either. This is one of those things I repeat to myself daily.

However, there was a second level to the principle that my self-provided lies held me captive, that I recently discovered has been an even bigger contributor to/foundation of my general mentality and motivations for a couple decades now. And I don’t know if it necessarily applies to everyone, so I can’t make a grandeur universal statement about it like the one my friend brought to me. So instead I’ll just try to explain.

For no discernable reason whatsoever, I’ve always had this inexplicable habit of subconsciously assigning everyone I meet with a level of “Importance.” This doesn’t necessarily mean that they’re good people, it doesn’t mean that they’re intelligent people, hell, it doesn’t even mean that I like them. But, for whatever reason, in my mind, every person I come across gets placed on a scale of “Importance” and, from then on, I keep this status of them in my mind from then until forever, allowing them the appropriate level of respect or clout.

Okay, let me stop right now and explain profusely that I honestly don’t know where in hell this came from, why in the hell I do it, when exactly I started doing it, and what in the hell it all means. It could be a product of that inevitable/imperative time in adolescence when some alpha-dog bully wrangled power away from me and controlled my emotions, it could be based in some bizarre biological recognition of societal survivalism principles, or it could just mean that I’m a hypercognitive wackadoo. But, whatever the case, I’ve aaalways been one of those people who allotted a hierarchy to everyone in my immediate surroundings and adhered to these completely fabricated rulings as if everyone I knew was aware of and participating in this specific political structure as well.

[Though, to be observational for a second, I believe a lot of this exists/begins in superficial social situations like high school or Hollywood. For example, a bunch of people think So-And-So is pretty so everyone else goes along with that inherent belief even if they don't necessarily agree and she ends up winning Homecoming Queen every year or being invited to parties by people who don't even really enjoy her company, etc. (This isn't something I'm proud to say I relate to by any means, but I think it's about as close of a parallel as I can draw to what I'm talking about.)

But, outside of the aforementioned superficially-based environs, the best example of people having assigned others around them to a personal level of "Importance" to which they adhere is found in abusive relationships. Any man or woman who would abuse their partner is disgusting to begin with but there are so many times where a victim tolerates the abuse of someone who is nothing short of repulsive (in intelligence, appearance, competence, motivation, etc.) because they believe that person is "Important" or, at least, moreso than themselves. (I'm speaking in generalities here, although I have had enough friends prostrate themselves and take entirely too much abuse from hideous, uneducated, self-centered morons who would be attractive to nobody with objective taste for me to believe that this is more than a coincedence. But then, attractive, well-educated, self-aware men/women don't hate themselves enough to be abusive, so it's all cyclical, I guess... ANYWAY.)]

In hopes to find a remedy, I sat down a while ago and made a list of all the people who I’d subconsciously deemed as “Important” at any time in my life and noted how that invisible caste system had effected how I reacted to events in my relationships with them, how I thought about myself, how I made my decisions, etc. And once I’d gotten the obvious people out of the way, I started assessing every single person that I’d ever been in some personal relationship with (friends, family members, co-workers, professors, etc.) and was shocked when I realized just how screwed up my mentality had been for forever, it seemed. There were people who had the ability to make me feel unimportant or full of self-doubt who contained every single horrible trait that I loathed, and yet, they had remained on my subconscious “Important” list and I’d never stopped to think that maybe they didn’t belong there. Meanwhile, there were people who have never been anything but amazing to me and who go out of their way to love me and never say otherwise whose combined gestures of kindness couldn’t cancel out one gesture of one of the crappy people on the “Important” list in my fucked-up mindset. What the hell?!

Needless to say, I was pretty embarrassed. Especially because none of this was really news to me but, because I’d never looked at all of it objectively and admitted “I give people I don’t even like more sway on my emotions than people who actually respect me.”, I was willing to dive into drama with people I genuinely thought were gross wastes of time instead of doing anything else - including being with people who were awesome to be around… or just doing nothing by myself… again. Anything. Anything else. - just because I’d at some point deemed these people “Important”. For no valid reason. I was willing to shrug off my morals and dignity and time on people who just didn’t matter at all. And I’m not even talking about the Big false-”Important” people, but also about the more minor players of that category, like distant family members who made me feel insecure for the half hour I saw them annually or asshole former acquaintences who were mutual friends with one of my Facebook friends and would attempt to pick fights with me via “Status” commentary. The whole thing was just so stunted and backward, I felt like a naive 3rd grader who just realized that all adults don’t know everything.

So, in order to rewire my brain and reverse the current, I started over by making two new Lists. I know. I know it seems ridiculous and even more juvenile than the first subconscious “assignment system” but I figured I had to undo the procedure in an equally effective method. I literally spent a few hours going through every person I’d been in some form of contact with in the last 10-ish years and put them on a list of “Important to Me” and “Not Important to Me”. (The “to Me” part was included because I’m sure everyone is important to someone else. Just not to me. I can’t be a judge of their overall importance, you know?) I was pleased to find that the “Important to Me” list far outweighed the “Not Important to Me” list, but the few of those who were in the grey area received the benefit of the doubt and were put on the former of the lists. (Everyone’s “Important” until they prove otherwise to me. Everyone.)

I started to wonder if this categorization method, too, was unhealthy but then I realized that everyone has people who are more important to them than others. This doesn’t mean that everyone walks around and judges everyone else’s Importance (and it definitely doesn’t mean that everyone has a list sitting around of who’s “In” and who’s “Out”), just that everyone values each other differently. And I needed to work out my own personal economics for once without getting involved in everyone else’s exchange rates…

The funny thing is that when I sat and looked at the “Not Important to Me” list, I was shocked at how many of these people had not one appealing trait. Most of the people on the list sucked very very badly, but had at least one or two decent qualities to make me doubt their “Not Importance” from time to time. However, the handful of those who didn’t were just another glaring reiteration of the power of my personal agreements, especially evidenced in the way my mind automatically flipped completely over to “Yuck!” mode once I physically moved those names onto a “Not Important” list. Seriously, it was kind of bizarre. I’ve had this thing for a while that, when I find someone both annoying, intolerable and physically unappealing, I cannot make eye contact with them anymore. (I know. That is just an awful thing to say out loud. When I get to hell, I’ll get Kathy Griffin’s autograph for you.) I’ve done this my whole life, actually and it’s just something I can’t fix [or don't want to yet.] I can watch any sort of sick video you can whip out (I literally just watched a video of a girl having sex with a giant teddy bear before murdering it with a knife. Not kidding. -Thanks, Brody!) but put me in a room with someone I think thoroughly sucks and I’ll involuntarily cringe and look away the whole time. So, within a matter of a few hours, people I’d always deemed to be somehow worthy of persuasive powers and general attention became mentally unbearable once looked at objectionably. So it actually worked.

God, this whole thing reads as kind of nuts, but personally I wouldn’t have done it any other way as it’s seemed to work. And in the many months following this, I’ve made assessing the value of the people I choose to keep around me a regular practice, as I’ve chosen not to waste any more of my time on people who aren’t important to me. (Obviously, this doesn’t mean I’m not ever going to make any friends or give to charity ever again; again, I think everyone is “Important” until they prove otherwise. Isn’t that kind of a given, though?) And I am pleasantly surprised at how much better I feel in my daily life and in my relationships… although I’m still pretty embarrassed it took me this long to get to this step.

When am I going to start “getting” things when everyone else does? Why are common realizations so easy for other people but it takes me months of overzealous deliberation to understand the most basic social concepts or implement the most obvious habits? Is every Great Life Realization going to take this kind of mental defragging procedure for the rest of my life…

::shrug::

Schmeh. Better late than never.

I have one relationship in my past that I tend to make a lot of references to.* At this point I am able to discuss this person and this situation and even who I was at the time without any sense of emotional connection, which I really consider to be healthy given the amount of time that has passed and the amount of contemplation and active therapy I’ve participated in. And, while I can site this relationship for being the base of a lot of my behaviors and lasting mentalities, I don’t sit around and blame it/him for my problems or addictions anymore as I’ve gotten to a mental state from where I can identify how my choices affected me and how any outside influences could’ve been handled differently.

However, up until 7 or 8 months ago this wasn’t the case and that really really started to bother me, especially given that, not only has this relationship has been nonexistant for years now, but I’m in a much better place with a much better life and a whole new sense of self and healthy habits that I never really felt myself capable of maintaining or posessing. In fact, given how embarrassed I was by the association to that specific person and/or the actual relationship, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I had this need to keep revisiting the situation and trying to make sense of all of it. I’d exhausted myself with therapy and introspection and sobriety and even talking it over with this specific ex (who can site everything he did wrong but continues to do the same things to his partners today.) And then one of my friends suggested I get involved with an Emotional Abuse Survivors Support Group.

This sounded ludicrous to me. First of all, I wasn’t even in this relationship anymore and I’d been going to therapy for eeeeverything that was fucked up in my life anyway so surely this tiny element would’ve been taken care of already. Secondly, while the situation I was in was unbelievably unhealthy, shockingly insane and tumultuous, and had many singular episodes of undeniable abuse, it couldn’t have been categorized as “abusive” because I kept going back to it and inviting it back into my life… surely I was just as in control as the other party, if not just as much at fault. Plus, me still not getting this whole “removal of ego” thing [necessary for full recovery from major fuckeduppedness] had me still believing that I was somehow immune to having been in a full-scale “abusive relationship.” I mean, I wasn’t locked in a basement or told to remain silent in public or even beaten on a regular basis… So, sure, I was in a codependent relationship with a lot of powertrips and mindfuckery and infidelity and dishonesty and other general dysfunction but never an “abusive” one. Somehow, even though I had spent years prostrating myself and taking emotional beatings from a genuine self-loathing idiot, I still thought that that sad, subservient, grappling wreck of Me that I was was still too proud or self-aware to have been susceptible to an “abusive relationship” as if those were reserved for people far worse than me.

However, I thought I’d at least check out the criteria just so I could go back to my friend and have hard facts to back up my assertion that my former relationship was not abusive. So I checked some online literature and smiled with a sense of relief when reading first and foremost that abusive partners have real jealousy issues and control issues… actually, I laughed out loud. My former partner didn’t give a shit where I was or who I was with most of the time and he rarely bothered to call when he said he would, so he certainly didn’t fit that stereotype. But then I kept reading and I felt my stomach bottom out with the familiarity of the symptoms:
My partner had blamed me for all the problems in our relationship and even his own abusive behaviors.
(“I wouldn’t have lied to you about seeing my ex if I knew you wouldn’t get mad about it.”)
My partner did make fun of and/or belittle me to his friends/acquaintences.
My partner did treat me so badly that I became embarrassed to bring him around or even tell people when we’d gotten back together.
My partner did withold sex and emotion from me.
My partner did cheat on me repeatedly.
My partner did make me feel like I would never do any better than him and was lucky to have him at best.
My partner did leave repeatedly and then come back, begging for forgiveness.

The list went on and on, even as I moved from site to site, hoping to find one list that had little to no relevance to my particular situation. It was only when I read about the characteristics of an abuse victim that I felt my eyes fill with tears and I had to push away from the computer in order to catch my breath. All of these things applied directly to me… I wouldn’t have been surprised if the person writing these articles knew me personally.
I did take all the blame for what was wrong in the relationship.
I did contemplate/attempt suicide.
I did have clinical depression.
I was pretty much textbook in pecking-order chastization and battering.
I did withdraw from my family.
I did defend my partner’s abusive actions to people around me.
I did repeatedly leave my partner (and constantly planned to.)
I did feel like I loved and hated him all the time.

In a frenzy, I spent the next month collecting and reading everything I could about mentally/emotionally abusive relationships (and not all from the internet, either. Imagine!) and, even more than being surprised or dismayed, I was increasingly embarrassed. Mortified, actually.

I was already embarrassed that I had been so codependent with an average-looking, uneducated, emotionally stunted child for so long but then when I read words about our situation and how his manipulations were just another form of brainwashing, I felt hopeless and worthless all over again. I realized that all that time I had been the very malleable, idiotic stereotype who was just as pathetic as I’d always feared. I was “that abuse victim” who “couldn’t” leave [for no apparent reason], which was a character I’d always been frustrated and disgusted with.

And all this was even more distressing to me because I was in a great relationship with someone who wasn’t even capable of this sort of mental destruction and here I was feeling the ramifications of something I’d pulled the plug on years prior. This wasn’t relevant to my life anymore! This had nothing to do with the people I’d worked to surround myself with in the aftermath! This was something I’d worked really really hard to be fucking done with! I was pissed to have to be dealing with this already-belabored situation[/man] again, when it[/he] was never worth any of my time in the first place. And the very last thing I wanted to do was to beat the [assumed] dead horse even further by talking about it more and having to delve back in to all the wounds and emotions and shit I’d worked to fucking get over. More than anything, it just seemed unfair and unwanted.

When I started talking to other women in an online support group, I was kind of in the same mentality that I was when I started going to AA meetings; I don’t fucking want to do this, I know everything I need to know about this, how is this going to effing help me, etc. I mean, seriously, how much is there to talk about? As it turns out, there’s a lot. And there are a lot of things that I had experienced in my former relationship that I’d never even stopped to think about that these other women brought to my attention. And it was amazing to talk to other women who were on the “other side” and had all the same feelings about it that I did: Why wasn’t it so easy to just leave even when you’d known you should for months/years? Why can’t you get other people to understand the need to leave even when you’ve been in their place? When do you stop dealing with the emotional bullshit of all of it? What’s the best way to present this to your children as a life experience? It seems like the more I talk to women, the more I realize that I’m among many many women who didn’t realize they were in what would be considered “abusive” until long after they were out of it. Many of us considered ourselves empowered, educated neo-feminists and were certain we were going to be joining a support group of women with whom we had nothing in common.

And, although painfully predictable to the theme of this essay, it’s been really amazing. We’ve gotten to the point where we can talk openly about the relationships we’re in now and ask each other to keep us accountable for our actions and the situations we’re in. We’ve told our individual stories and even pulled out pictures of these abusive assholes to have a group “WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?!” laughing-fit-style cleansing. It’s been really great.

Because of this, though, I’ve gotten to that point where I can casually discuss this former relationship as just a marker in time for reference’s sake like I would with such phrases as: “When I was 9…” or “On September 11th…” or “During my pregnancy…” To me, it doesn’t come with conflicting emotions or that underlying frustration of me needing to figure it out or right it.

This became evident when I was speaking to one of my ex’s ex-friends (who still keeps in touch with me, obviously) during this last weekend. While it’s been amazingly validating to have a handful of former friends of his go out of their way to stay in touch with me (especially after all the horrible things he made sure to say about me) and hear their similar complaints (although never as intimate as mine), I’ve really gotten past that point where I’m trying to show off how awesomely I’m doing in case they happen to talk to him or where I love to indulge in gossip about how terrible he’s doing or how awful he’s treating those around him and can just enjoy having a friend that I delight in the company of who - ohbytheway- happened to be a friend I met through a former romantic partner. There’s a real sense of triumph and recovery in the simple act of physically getting our new families together and talking about everything great that’s going on with us without ever mentioning the god-awful circumstances/person that set up our friendship in the first place.

Strangely, it’s the realization that those old, tyrannical emotions aren’t even bothered with anymore that has given me the most pride and sense of accomplishment of anything else in my years of therapy and recovery. I never thought apathy could make me feel so good about myself.

*This is something I won’t be doing after this entry. Promise.

Once upon a time, many years ago, there was a Boy who loved me very very much. In fact, this particular Boy loved me more passionately, with more unabashed zeal, attentiveness and dedication than any other man in my life ever did, right up until three years ago. This superior love far outweighed anything I’d ever experienced, including that of The Other Guy I was currently in a long-term relationship with.

It all started out very harmlessly, as these things always do. We went to tiny local concerts together and made mix tapes and wrote postcards for each other when we were apart during the summer and there was nothing romantic about it or evident of any sort of ulterior motive. We both had significant others that we loved and we talked about them regularly, although more often than not his shared anecdotes were more pleasant than mine as I was prone to crying on his shoulder, sobbing about how The Other Guy had lied to me again or had been overheard talking badly about me or was just not giving me what I wanted in general. Over time, however, his words of encouragement and reassurance became more intimate than friendly and I found that mine were following suit. Suddenly, we realized we were in the throes of very deep, very unexpected emotions.

Soon, we were spending even more time together and flirting with the idea of “where this could go” and really becoming overwhelmed with emotion and excitement of new love. And then he pulled out the stops and broke it off with his girlfriend to offer himself to me exclusively. On my birthday that year, he lined all 10 miles of the major highway route to our school with signs that said “Happy Birthday, Elle!” and planted a banner in the front with the same message. He stuffed 20 empty glass bottles with varied hand-written loveletters and gave them to me for Valentine’s Day. He adored my family, he came around whenever he could, he always kept up with how I was feeling, what I needed, what I would need… he was everything I had ever wanted and I was enamored with him.

And there wasn’t much not to like, really. He was one of those kids who came from a rough upbringing and somehow beat the snot out of the status quo. He was more determined and driven than any single person I’ve ever met to this day but, even more importantly, he kept about him this constant attitude of optimism and joy. He was a spiritual guy who always kept that at the top of his list, even though there was no parental figure holding a gun to his head to do so (This was a new concept to me.) and he was proud of that aspect of himself. He even took me to my first and only Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. He was open-minded, healthy, successful, friendly, joyful, spiritual, ambitious, creative, resilient… the list could go on.

The problem, of course, was that I was an emotional wreck of biblical, Jericho-like proportions. Usually, these stories have that pathetic theme: “Girls only want bad guys and nice guys finish last.” but this time it doesn’t apply at all, surprisingly. The truth was that I’d always wanted to be with someone like him; who doesn’t? And, specifically, I wanted him. But I - being submerged and brainwashed with self-loathing and general desperate insecurity - was positive that I was not deserving of this sort of happiness, that somehow I was going to screw it all up and only be reminded of how undeserving I was in the aftermath.

And me, never being one to pass up the opportunity to fulfill a personal prophecy, went ahead and did just that.

(WARNING: This is where the Crazy kicks in. Also, the Pathetic. I sound like a complete, psycho-ex-girlfriend-stalker-type loon from here on out. Just be forewarned.)

So, in unbelievably predictable fashion, I cowardly sprinted back to The Other Guy in the “safe” dysfunctional relationship I was familiar and “comfortable” within. (For those of you who haven’t spent years in therapy and/or 12-step meetings, this is textbook codependent/addict behavior. The more you knooow.) My heart ached as the Boy kept coaxing me to come with him and let him make me happy after I’d told him my decision, but once I’d finally settled on my choice, I transformed into something very very sinister and hideous.

From where I sit now I can only come up with one theory as to how my mind possibly justified my behavior immediately after this, but that doesn’t make it any less excusable or blatantly insane. I guess because I was genuinely ruled by the staunch belief that I was worthless, unimportant and undesirable, my mind concluded that anyone who would bother to try to romance me was a moron. I’ve discussed it before, but for years I had a very Eeyore vernacular, always thanking people for paying attention to me or thinking of me and always wondering why in hell I was included in any sort of social engagements at all. When I started dating The Other Guy in my earlier high school years I was just amazed that any male would find me desirable at all, so I settled for that and assumed that I was lucky to have even obtained that much. So, when I see the Boy continuing to go out of his way to make me feel wonderful and show me his affection and shower me with adulation, I start to think there must be something wrong with him.

Soon, I’m treating the Boy like a pathetic, lost puppy who is intent on over-romanticizing everything and must be desperate to still be pursuing me. I start mocking him and emasculating him, both to our mutual friends and to his face. I ignore his calls, laugh at his attempts to talk to me like a concerned friend, and try desperately to swat away any remaining emotions I may be experiencing.

Jesus Christ, it just seems so arrogant and ridiculous from where I am now… anyway.

When we got to college a number of months later, I found myself feeling remorseful and missing his company but, still tumbling down a slope of self-destruction, my attempts at apologies were always overshadowed by my desperate loneliness and my hopes that maybe he’d come back and try to rescue me again. Any formal apologies I initiated always turned into a weepy, clingy drama fest in which I would be torn between desire and guilt while he would just be trying to figure out what the hell he could do to escape without causing me to implode. Naturally, his resistence in these conversations translated through my insecurity as blatant rejection and sent me into even more despair. (Like I said: I. Was. In. Sane.)

Honestly, I just thank God he had the integrity and self-assuredness to get the hell away from me instead of letting me drag him into a quagmire of Crazy. It’s one of those things that’s rather admirable about him.

Anyway, I left that college after I hit Rock Bottom: Episode I in 2003. We kept in touch here and there but it was always kind of strange and stilted. Frankly, I was so amazed that he’d waste any more time talking to me at all that I didn’t care what our meetings were like, but I always felt that he saw me as some sort of charity effort and I fought not to loathe myself for that.

Presently, we’re both married to people we’re insane about. All he ever wanted was to find someone to love, get married, and start a family and, like with everything else in his life, he did exactly that right after he graduated college. We speak when we can, although conversations are always in that cordial, scripted, “Hi, how are you, I’m doing well, it’s good to hear from you.” kind of language you use on loose acquaintences and your parents’ friends. While I know there will never be any more singing or giggling or sharing absurdities, I am quietly heartbroken at the knowledge that there will never be any reminiscience - happy or otherwise - between us and the realization that this is entirely my fault.

I found myself thinking about all of this after I recently came across a friendly “Hi, how are you…” message from him in my inbox from many months ago. And I realized that, even after all these years of real, intense apologies that I’ve had to issue to pretty much everyone I’d ever spoken to before I got sober, I never bothered to give him one. Yeah, there were a half-dozen of those drunken, blubbering apology sessions I previously mentioned but I’m positive those couldn’t have been taken seriously.

So, after 8 years I sat down and wrote him a letter in which I sincerely apologize as a sober, [mostly] sane, self-realized adult. Truthfully, I really hate doing that sort of thing after all this time because it kind of makes me look like some obsessive freak who can’t let things go and needs to rehash shit that other people have obviously laid to rest and gotten over. Most of the time I feel like I’d be better off just leaving it alone. And heaven forbid if this somehow gets misconstrued as me trying to instigate trouble or something else.

But, as per my Twelve Step practice, I know it’s something I’m responsible for and, even if I never hear from him ever again, he deserves to hear at least one sober, sincere apology from me. And frankly, if I went to my grave knowing that I didn’t grow a pair and give that to him, I’d never rest peacefully.

However, THIS? THIS is what we should be talking about in those government-funded D.A.R.E. programs. “Hey kids, you shouldn’t drink because one day you’re going to have to look at all the carnage in your rearview, pull a U-ey and clean it all up.”

I spend a freakish amount of time dissecting and scrutinizing myself, motivations, emotions, thought patterns, actions, etc. I’ve discussed it before but in my recovery I kind of took the whole “taking a daily self inventory” thing to an extreme. (I’m big on extremes; never much for moderation. This, too, I’ve discussed. Moving along.) Most of the time I’m not so much reviewing my actions as convincing myself further that I am an emotional disaster that even the Red Cross wouldn’t cover. I obsessively judge every single thought that crosses my mind and I tend to drive myself into a self-beaty-uppy frenzy more often than I’d like to admit. Honestly, I’m not just tough on myself; I’m fucking relentless.

Recently, however, I’ve been privy to a few different situations that kind of have stopped me in my tracks. A while ago I talked about the Universe momentarily dropping the veil between my life now and what it could have been hadn’t bothered with practicing active recovery and, since that didn’t seem to be enough to get the message across (I’m a slow learner sometimes), the Universe then began hurling at me more and more examples to support its point. I was kind of starting to get it, but apparently I needed an extreme example. Go figure.

So yesterday I’m folding laundry, washing dishes, doing other general housewifery and watching a documentary about women who are stalkers. I listened to women who were reformed stalkers and had gone on to live normal, sane lives and other women who were still proud of their actions and felt totally justified in their completely insane tactics. It was weird how some of the women on either side discussed a very real sense of purity and justice in their actions (even though the reformed ones have since realized that this was a mere illusion) and remembering how, in my craziest (usually alcohol-soaked) moments I felt the same drive. And then I thought about people that I knew/know in my own life who display this same kind of Crazy… and then I started thinking about the people I know who display a lot of Crazy in other forums.

And I started to feel really really good about myself for a change.

Here’s the thing. I still have tendencies toward the Crazy from time to time and sometimes they even get a little out of my control, which is scary. But I am always always working to get better and I’m consciously keeping them in check (or immediately wrangling them back into check should they momentarily escape.) And you know what? My Crazy isn’t ruining my life or the lives of those around me anymore. My Crazy isn’t bailing on my friends and family, isn’t busy trying to destroy myself with drinking or drugs or insane spending sprees or shitty relationships. My Crazy isn’t driven from fear or loneliness or selfishness or low self esteem anymore and I’m no longer perpetuating a shitty or even mediocre existence out of confusion or denial or anger or fear or anything, really. My Crazy doesn’t conduct any of the dramas that inevitably come into my life and I’m able to dismiss any unnecessary bullshit quickly and efficiently because the Crazy doesn’t rule my ego anymore.

In fact, if I can take a minute to fling humility by the wayside, I have a pretty rad life right now. And, given that this life is so much better than it used to be a few years ago, I’m pretty convinced that my work in therapy and sobriety and general recovery is directly responsible for building this around me. My family not only completely trusts me these days (a MAJOR change from the former) but they enjoy my company and have confidence in my abilities as a parent and as a competent adult (an even more major change.) I have a base group of amazing friends who constantly have my back and are always rightthere when I need them, without me having to ask. I have a functional, jealousy-and- [99%]- insecurity-free love life with a man whom I trust and love completely, who treats me the way my parents always told me I deserved to be treated, who is committed to growing and nurturing each other in our lives together. I have a healthy, happy daughter who is developing perfectly on schedule even though I know next to nothing about being a parent.

Apparently, even though my Crazy may always be on my mind and I may always be on guard for its attacks, it really plays a very very minor role in my life these days. My neuroses (and ensuing insecurities and then the resulting complications of such insecurities which cycle back into neuroses) are minor obstacles that crop up every so often instead of acting as guidelines and barriers in which to contain my whole entire existence. Proudly, I can admit that this is the very first time in … well, since I can remember… since 5th grade?… that I can say that. These days the things that used to cripple me and keep me submerged in a miserable life are just little mostly insignificant quirks to my character that are laughable among my close friends and family, instead of being exhausting and embarrassing to those around me.

This doesn’t let me off the hook, of course. I’m never off the hook, really, if I plan to keep growing and learning about myself and life and recovery and all that (which I do.) And I certainly don’t think I’m all figured out or have all The Answers or am somehow above fault or relapse or missteps. I’m not a conceited idiot. I’m sure I’ll continue over-scrutinization/criticism of myself until I’m old and grey (even though, like effing everything pertaining to my thought behaviors, I’m working to find a middle ground on that, too.)

But for just a second, I think I’m going to take a break to be a little smug and arrogant. (Again, I’m big on extremes.) ‘Cause I used to be Utterly Hopeless, Pathetic, Destructive Crazy, but now I really believe (supported with aforementioned evidence, of course) I’m safely in Self-Aware, Seemingly-Normal(-Whatever-That-Is), More-Than-Functional/Downright-Thriving Crazy. To the outside [of my head] observer I’m functional, capable, assured, competent, sane, trustworthy, normal-amount-wobbly, instead of being chronically catastrophic. Nobody’s making “Crazy Bitch” or “Crazy Train” the ringtone that sounds when I call them. (This actually happened at one point.) Sure, people may have terrible things to say about me (people always have terrible things to say about anyone, it seems) but they’re not locking their doors or putting restraining orders out because of me. (Frankly, I think anyone who may have a problem with me these days really just has to be looking for drama. Clearly they’re wasting more time/energy being pissy and resentful than I am, ’cause it’s clear skies on my end.) And I’m not covering my head in shame from my most recent stint of making a total ass of myself or loudly defending myself to a bunch of random people I may or may not have wronged a la “Springer”. Not having the Crazy at the ready is pretty damned liberating, relaxing even.

So yeah, I’m taking a minute to sit back on my laurels and indulge in a little schadenfreude toward the Crazies with whom I no longer share a category. Of course it’s morally wrong/bitchy/insensitive and an incredibly cocky, shameful fault to admit to publicly. However, this emotion will, of course, settle into a middle ground of healthy, normal, gratitude with which I can maintain a productive sense of humility. But for just one second I’m going to enjoy snorting and sighing at the Crazies around me with knowing pity, “Damn; that bitch/bastard is cah-razy.” without feeling too much like a hypocrite.

I’m probably going to start with my next door neighbor. It’s like having Springer’s show delivered to my home! (Actually, any reality TV is good for this.) And then there’s the crazy bitch that keeps harassing me via MySpace from 1,000 some miles away. Oh, I could do this for a while.

“I’m rich rich richrich rich.” - Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Validation

There is a girl

who cries out at night

and the only thing

that can soothe

her

Fear

Loneliness

Pain

is

Me.

<insert space here>

There is a girl

who knows nothing.

She knows not of

Time

Society

Death

and the only definition

of Love

that she knows

is

Me.

————————————

I’ve been having, as they say in the South, “a time” of things. Usually, the Depression comes in great, heaving waves of endless sorrow and feelings of worthlessness, bringing with it a barrage of loud, relentless reminders as to why I suck and why my life is useless, etc. that simply won’t be swatted away. After tolerating/battling this for months, I suddenly felt myself shut down. For the last three weeks or so, my mind suddenly stopped everything and I found myself in a state of foggy lethargy and aparthy. This resulted in my forcing 600 calories a day (when I remembered or was pressured to eat), and staring blankly at the wall as the hours slipped by, unable to complete simple tasks or basic sentences. After about two weeks of this, the clouds parted and I was able to get out a little, socialize with friends, bathe and put on some makeup and feel a little relief finally. And then I took a tumble into the haze again.

My doctor opted to change up my medication [yet again], and I found myself both in withdrawal AND in this state of elevated depression, which left me completely useless. I attempted to take on the task of running a household and watching my daughter to no avail, and, after a day or so of this, my mother caught wind of my condition and immediately leapt into action, taking over my mothering duties and scrubbing my filthy, neglected house from top to bottom. I fought off long-seeded feelings of guilt and uselessness on relying on my parents to bail me out [yet again] and spent the days sleeping in completely exhausted, painful fatigue. Occasionally I was able to drag myself from bed to a steaming bath, staring through the splotchy green haze of medicinal withdrawal and watching my limbs disappear until I realized I was shivering and the bathwater had turned cold long before I had the clarity to notice. I didn’t check my email, I didn’t pluck my eyebrows (both being manic habits of mine for a little more than a decade), I didn’t bother to read or enrich myself in any way. In fact, the only effort I was able to manage was a smile and forced (forrrrced) enthusiasm when my husband returned home every evening, terrified that he will soon become exhausted with frustration at my perpetual dysfunction.

(I think the thing that pisses me off the most about those people who don’t bother to understand mental illness or depression is their misunderstanding about the dysfunction of it all. To them, doing nothing or staying in bed all day is a choice that is one’s way of disappearing from life, which is simply not the case. If a person is physically incapable of completing thoughts and sentences and is losing track of time as though being stoned, it is nearly impossible to pull together enough clear cognitive progress to will one’s body out of stasis. It isn’t the same as being in post-breakup mode where a depressed person lies in bed all day and sobs over old love notes and mementos; it is a real disability that is part of the whole “mental illness” diagnosis. I digress.)

Today there is movement and a sense of independence again as my doctor has put me back on the amphetamines that allow me some energy, albeit artificial. I still feel as though I have nothing of use to write about, but I am forcing myself to do so in order to keep my recovery moving forward. (And yes, this entry has taken me an hour to write, whereas it would ordinarily take me twenty minutes. I am having to retype sentences and proofread to catch my incoherencies.) Today I am showering, putting on makeup, and leaving the house to meet a friend for lunch. This, I know, doesn’t sound like a productive day to many, but I feel it is a vast improvement from the blurry suspended reality of this last week.

My mind is quiet for now. For the first time in literal years, I am not bombarded with constant doubt and worry, I am not hearing my inner Opponent laugh at my intentions, I am not shirking away from forward movement because my relentless neuroses convince me that I’m worthless. I am not beating myself up for making my parents and loved ones carry me through my dark times or clean up my mental mess. I’m not raking myself over the coals for all the mistakes I ever made to anyone ever. This, too, is a major improvement on a number of levels.

But something still doesn’t feel right. I feel this sudden emptiness, like a veil has been lowered to keep me from feeling anything. Perhaps this is another stage in recovery, my mind shutting down and resting before slowly allowing itself the freedom of emotion again. Maybe this is The Hermit card incarnate, when I’m supposed to hibernate and store energy for the next chapter of my recovery instead of wrestling with the demons in hopes that they’ll be forced into submission.

Thankfully, however, there’s a tiny inkling of hope that has returned, which is the biggest relief of all. For the past few weeks, the apathy and lethargy has hosted a belief system of hopelessness, which was the most intolerable of all emotion. Even in my darkest moments of the past, there has always been a notion of hope. Even sitting in a mental hospital amongst the other crazies, I still believed there was a life better than this, a reality just out of my reach where claircognizance and functionality were a part of life. The daunting idea that this would always evade me, that there was no point to any of this, no use for any of our society or recovery or progress, no hope in any form for any one person or people was too much to bear. I don’t know where this sense of renewed hope and worth has come from suddenly, but I will consider it another blessing and not delve too far into my Higher Power’s motives in returning it to me.

(NOTE: I wish I knew a better way to describe the events of last weekend than what I’ve concluded. I’m sorry if this reads as just a vague outline, but I’m keeping specifics to myself so as not to exacerbate and publicly expose painful events of a private matter.)

Without warning, an unfamiliar demon crept into my home, slinked under my sheets and soaked into my mind. As it seized the helm, I suddenly found myself convinced of things I’d never before supposed, aware of realities that had never before occured to me. Unquestionably believing these notions to be true, I found myself standing, completely sober, telling those that I loved these horrible new ideas that had taken root in my psyche, as if overnight. Safe in the knowledge that these sudden notions were factual, I was able to construct entire backgrounds and arguments as to why they were indeed real, why they were residing in my mind all along and how I was supposedly only just finding the courage to release them now. Without doubting myself for a moment, I stood and confidently proclaimed these falsities on behalf of my Self, completely annihilating the trust and relationships I’d worked so hard to build and maintain. Fully aware and understanding of the upheaval my actions would cause in my immediate life and the hurt I would be responsible for, I clearly, soberly spoke the most horribly destructive revelations I’ve ever uttered without a shadow of doubt that what I was doing was pure, honest and right. I never wavered, I never second guessed myself, I just kept plowing forward, watching those around me listen in shock and devastation. 

This is a demon I wasn’t prepared for. One I never could have predicted, one I’m most terrified of, of all that I’ve encountered over the years.

Within a few hours after my erratic behavior, something inside me switched back to my Sane self and became immediately horrified at what I had done. What had I said? What had I done? Why had I taken such drastic, sudden measures? Where had these notions come from? Why would I have said such devastating things to those that I love in the knowledge that my words could literally decimate the life that I have now and destroy those who take the time to love me back? 

Immediately I ran back, apologizing for my massive misstep and searching for any explanation I could conjure as to why this had happened. Fumbling through excuses, I tried to explain this that I could not completely understand. Naturally, I took complete responsibility for my actions, although I couldn’t fully offer any sort of motive or explanation. My excuses sounded hollow and insane as I swore I hadn’t meant what I’d said, had no idea what had gotten into me, had no idea where this sudden urge had come from. One of my unassuming victims claimed that I talked about the event as though I was describing myself in third person, and I tried to explain that this is exactly how I felt, watching someone else come into my mind and convince me to ruin my life. Those that love me nodded in sympathy and forgiveness, assuring me that they would be okay and that they would still be there for me, no matter how psychotic and erratic I became. This, of course, made me feel even more terrible and undeserving as I struggled to make things right, to undo my words, to convince them that what I’d said wasn’t true, wasn’t how I felt, wasn’t even something I’d previously entertained, knowing all the while that the words I’d spoken and the actions I’d taken in my demonic possession carried far more weight than any apology I could ever offer. 

Somehow, I’ve been granted grace and forgiveness, although the wounds will inevitably be harder to heal and forget. As I look into the eyes of those that I most recently hurt, I know that this is something I will not soon forgive myself for, even though it felt completely out of my control. 

This is a demon I’ve never encountered and one I have never been more petrified of. I have never felt more powerless or more volatile than I do at this moment, and I’m living each moment terrified that I will become possessed again. 

—————

It seems pretentious and trite to say that one is exhausted at the young age of 26, especially when one lives in a prosperous country, in a fortunate lifestyle with every blessing she could want having been handed to her. 

And yet, more than exhaustion I feel the seeping-in of complete apathy at this battle. After all the resolutions and lifestyle changes and meditations and medications and prognoses and doctors and reforms and new habits and recovery Steps and therapy and sobriety, it seems my sick mind is still upping the ante, still pulling out weapons I could never anticipate, finding ways to wreak havoc on my life that I cannot predict or defend myself from.

And my mind feels weary and exhausted. I’m tired of the ever-present fighting to stay afloat, I’m tired of the doctors, I’m tired of those around me working to help and only being hurt, I’m tired of the loss, I’m tired of the hurting, I’m tired of the crushing obsessions and loud, screaming neuroses that keep me up all night. I’m tired of screaming back at those neuroses, fighting to silence my mind, fighting to be still and find a center in which to rest, if only momentarily.  I’m tired of the momentary happiness that gets interrupted by plummeting lows. I’m tired of waiting and tired of complaining. I’m tired of the pity and I’m tired of the advice from those who only love me and are trying to help. I’m tired of reading and learning about treatment options, I’m tired of trying something new in hopes that this time, this time something will give and begin to work. I’m tired of the feeling that my hope is worthless, my life is a burden. I’m tired of that familiar sinking feeling when more hope leaves my body and the light at the end of the tunnel turns out to be an oncoming train. I’m tired of the drama, tired of the heartache, tired of the frustration, tired of the weight, tired of slapping on a happy face so nobody worries. I’m exhausted from fucking talking and thinking about it, fighting it nonstop, constantly shushing my racing thoughts and fighting to function normally through mundane, daily activity. I’m tired of the constant war that rages on relentlessly, despite my changing tactics and allied strategies.

More importantly, I’m tired of the obnoxious monotony of thinking of and dealing with this battle every single day and the aching notion that I’m wasting my life in this relentless uphill fight. And I’m tired, most of all, of begging for strength and answers and guidance. I’m exhausted and embarrassed with my naive hope and childish faith, and I’m too weary to keep digging for answers on my own. 

And I realize that this exhaustive search has finally ground itself into an empty, deadening apathy.

My Gran used to call them “pity parties” to make fun of our human need to feel unabashedly pitiful every so often. Dane Cook talks about them in all their messy, redundant glory, pinpointing all the hideous, grotesque natures of them and our complete release of inhibitions during them. I’ve heard that we all do it and yet it’s something that happens only once biannually for me, something I never think to resort to even though it’s the one thing that can really make me feel both rejuvenated and exhausted when it’s all over.

The Great Cry was imminent.

Here I am. 36 hours into increasingly-melancholy sleeplessness and a strange hungerless starvation, days into abandoned hygiene, three-ish months into yet another battle with this stupid mental illness that just will not go away despite thousands of dollars in medication and doctor’s bills. The one-day pile of dishes in the sink is insurmountable, the daily “To Do” list is nothing short of impossible, the teething baby can’t seem to settle into a routine without wailing for constant attention. Every conversation is a massive undertaking, every action equivalent to hauling stones up an Egyptian Pyramid and the redundancy of this obnoxious mindset is enough to irritate anyone into insanity.

Still, though! I’m pushing forward! Valiantly! Getting out of bed! Bravely! Washing linens! Courageously! Caring for baby! Trying to make myself write essays for deadlines, make phone calls, respond to emails, help out an old friend, tidy up the house, mail letters, make grocery lists! Taking a shower! Nobly! Forcing food down my gullet! Fighting the good fight! Not letting my mind get down on myself! Yay, me, for beating back my stupid effing neuroses for one more day and doing what I needed to do to be functional like every other normal person in America can without extra effort!

Suddenly, It was upon me without any prelude or hint of warning. It was like the rug I personally crafted every morning in determination to face another day was suddenly yanked out from under me and I was crumpled on the floor, crying great, heaving sobs in unfiltered self-pity, exhaustion, and frustration.

I was shuddering in devastated agony, not just about the dishes or the laundry or even about my greasy hair or lack of sleep, either. I was sobbing about everything my mind could possibly manifest that has ever made me feel dilapidated, unsuccessful, and pitiful up to this point in my tiny, decent life. I cried about repressed personal issues I’d never stopped to explore my feelings about and stupid things I’ve delved into and cried about ad nauseum over years. I cried about times I’d royally screwed up everything and times I thought I’d screwed up everything that probably weren’t even a big deal to anyone else. I cried about how ill-equipped I feel to handle my daily life and I cried about how I have no idea what I’m going to do with my future as a whole. I cried because the clean clothes haven’t been put away and I cried because I don’t know what my purpose in the world really is. I cried because I want to be successful and then I cried because I’m often too terrified of various minor obstacles to let myself be successful. And then I cried because I felt so guilty for crying in the first place.

For about a half hour, I stopped putting on the happy face, stopped glossing over all my insecurities and outright fears, stopped fighting my underlying emotions, stopped making jokes, sat on the floor and let myself become a sniffling, helpless wreck. I really milked it, too. I kept feeding my mind all the pathetic, self-pitying notions I possibly could conjure until, gradually, the heaves became smaller and the tears slowed to occasional drips.

Finally, I helped myself to my feet, exhausted and still wiping drops from my puffy, blood-lined eyes. I brushed the wrinkles out of my clothes, took a single cleansing breath and was finished. There was no more energy for pity, no more interest in tears or doubt or nagging self-deprecation. The ever-present Critic in my mind was finally quiet. The frustrated lump that resides in my throat was somehow gone. I was suddenly buoyant with an unusual lightness, almost like I’d checked off that one giant task on my “To Do” list that I’d been putting off for ages. My mind was clear to think about being normal, functional and rational, my body wasn’t tied down to the racing thoughts of my overbearing subconscious. My body and mind were working together like a well-oiled machine for the first time in a long while, communicating between each other without getting tangled in the wire-trips of my fears.

Assuming that this specific episode is evident of the very worst my neuroses and memories and self-pitying/loathing can possibly make me feel, I realized that I had survived it without a single scratch or loss to my overall well-being. Which meant that even if I should encounter this level of insane, overwhelming, hysterical grief again, I would be able to embrace it in the knowledge that I’ll feel refreshed and cleansed afterward [instead of chronically terrible for the rest of my life, which I was somehow expecting.]

Makes me wonder what the hell I was fighting so hard to avoid feeling in the first place.

I’m not going to say I pwned depression or anything outlandishly brash, but I suddenly feel more equipped to handle the constant pressure of my oppressive neurotic thoughts, knowing that the worst self-inflicted feelings imaginable are all survivable. This massive wailfest doesn’t feel like a daily/weekly practice, of course, but more like a tremendous ritualistic release that I’m suddenly not so afraid of, should it crash over me again. It’s like having a secret antidote tucked into my arsenal for when shit really goes down. Actually, it seems like all the destructive power has been stripped away from those deeply-seeded subconscious mantras of mine now that I realize that they can’t really do anything worse than what I’ve already experienced firsthand. Wow, that’s liberating. I’m not saying I’m cured, but I’m definitely hitting a new level of optimism and not a moment too soon.

So, what I’m saying is: Bring on the Pain. I have another strategy to work with.
(Preferably after I blow-dry my hair, though. And take a nap.)

NOTE: I’m literally exhausted from the last few unbelievably mental-havoc-wreaked days, to be completely honest. I think it may be time to hermit myself away for a while and meditate quietly to myself for a change. If nothing else but to rest up for more of the same, although I’m planning on being more optimistic than that. (Depression makes for terrible blogging, I’ve noticed.)

Castallare ~

~  watches reruns of old shows when she can’t sleep.

~ still can’t fully grasp that she’s a mother.

~ is a brunette despite her best efforts otherwise.

~ guzzles green tea like she’s being paid by the cup.

~ flinches when she remembers mistakes she’s made, no matter where she is or who may be watching.

~ likes the smell of gardenias.

~ hurts when those emails and letters go unreturned for yet another day, after the hundreds before.

~ misses the floating feeling of chemical release.

~ procrastinates.

~ can’t believe how quickly she’s getting older.

~ is afraid that losing weight will make her a smaller person in general.

~ likes sweaters and sacred hearts and the color green and African elephants.

~ keeps secrets better than she used to.

~ doesn’t regret many things that she’s said in the heat of the moment.

~ spends too much money on mascara.

~ wonders what people would say about her if she were given a “roast”.

~ doesn’t catch fireflies anymore out of personal principle.

~ thinks of him when the wind is strong, even though she tries not to anymore.

~ likes the way she looks in black.

~ gives more than she gets in a lot of instances.

~ whitens her teeth to counteract all the tea and coffee over the years.

~ is distrusting of anyone who claims to have The Answer(s).

~ confesses things she probably shouldn’t.

~ has a thousand ideas daily.

~ loves his nose, his smile, and his kind, clear eyes.

~ smokes one menthol cigarette every six weeks or so and thoroughly enjoys it.

~ feels her heart skip a beat when she sees their names.

~ used to overpluck her eyebrows but doesn’t anymore.

~ wonders what personal reinvention actually looks like… if it truly exists.

~ listens to certain songs on repeat for days and days.

~ may have only seen real beauty a handful of times.

~ envies people more than she should, but never for their possessions.

~ wants to get to know her Gran better.

~ is patriotic again. Finally.

~ has to redefine her agreements in order to move forward.

~ likes the idea of oblivion when she’s not terrified of it.

~ can’t learn or remember math terminology and practices, no matter how hard she tries.

~ lights candles every day.

~ can jump on a pogo stick for hours if needed.

~ listens when people think she isn’t.

~ loves reuben sandwiches and Shirley Temples.

~ wants to live in a third world country and experience real struggle for a change.

~ longs for surprises and romance and excitement and passion more than anything.

~ prefers handwritten letters to any other form of communication.

~ stays up all night some nights, hurting for things she’s lost.

~ is running out of things to say.

For about the last six months, my dreams have conducted three separate affairs with three separate men in a series of rather steamy encounters. This is humorous to me, not because I find humor in extramarital affairs (quite the opposite, actually), but because my mind actually supposes that I could possibly conjure enough discipline to have even one discreet long-term operation. And so the idea of possibly having the discipline for three is absolutely hysterical.

I don’t really care what the subconscious implications of such a strange mental phenomenon are, to be honest. I just think it’s interesting because my mind is able to keep track of each affair from dream to dream, remembering instances and quotes from each dream and transferring this knowledge to the others. The gentlemen my subconscious has chosen are equally as bizarre as none are particularly important male figures in my life. In fact, all of them are brief character blips in the overall synopsis of my life, but my mind has, in the course of the last half-year, created entire relationships between myself and these men who are only nonfiction in name and appearance. What I mean is that in addition to creating completely fictitious relationships, my mind has delicately crafted these men into complex characters (maybe caricatures, actually) that I am apparently unable to resist. Again, the men involved are people I really don’t know, but I [creepily, freakishly] have developed these entire personas subconsciously that inevitably have nothing to do with the people they actually are today.

Anyway, just about the time I forget about the terribly erotic affairs I conduct while asleep, another will crop up and run its course for about a week and I wake up feeling strangely rejuvenated, but also incredibly guilty, as if I’ve actually been unfaithful to my husband.

I’ve been having a bit of an existential dilemma recently…so much so that I’m halfway expecting Dustin Hoffman and Lily Tomlin to start digging through my trash. About once a day for the last two months, I’ve started looking around at all my things and my life and my actions and wondering “What is the point of all this?” and, even as I’ve progressed past the crippling depression that was holding me captive again for a while, this thought continues to plague me daily.

I know; sounds like too much work for a Friday afternoon. Imagine having all the following notions flood your mind at least once a day for a couple months. (Now, imagine that with poopy diapers being changed and baby toys strewn about your living space and that’s my life.)

I don’t mean to sound pretentious, either, but in the last few months I’ve started feeling genuinely awkward and confused when I receive gifts because I’ve been strangely bothered by consumerism and the desire to have/possess things. I can’t appreciate a fabulous pair of shoes anymore or even how someone “saved so much” on a fabulous new handbag. It all just seems so trite, like we’re owning things to cover up the realization that we have no idea what the hell is going on. And then it seems like that’s why we do anything. Because we have no idea what it is we’re here for. Some people busy themselves with working on their social status because they’ve somehow agreed that this gives our lives meaning. Others work to acquire wealth because that seems to give their lives meaning, others work to help others because that seems to give them a sense of purpose, some cloud their lives with causes to benefit others because that fills the void, many attempt to fling their lives into public view in order to validate their existence, many others seek the rush of intoxication to give them the bright feeling of manufactured bliss… It all just seems like we’re creating distractions from just being. Because at the end of the day, all that can be taken from us and then, what really is the point of being?

It’s like, for the last few months, my mind has been muddied with these thoughts every day and I’ve tried to brush them aside, but they keep coming back to haunt me. It makes me wonder what selfish, distractive motivation I have to keep writing my thoughts on a public blog, for example. Do I do it so that I can make my name more recognizable and therefore validated? Do I do it because I’ve always written and this is just a way of databasing my thoughts and life? Do I write at all because I have anything to say and what exactly is the element that makes my writing worthwhile? For that matter, what is it that makes anyone’s writing worthwhile? What is it that makes anyone’s life important, validated, productive? Can’t be happiness; many people never find that. Can’t be creativity or innovation; many people are remembered who aren’t creative or innovative at all. Can’t be notoriety; some of the most important people who ever existed are those who were never documented publicly.

Is the point of existing to build a reality that we’re peaceful existing within? That just seems so self-servicing, even if our existence is to serve others…What about those people who live life just to exist on the bare essentials; are their lives somehow more pure and optimistic than those of us caught up in “mattering” and “having purpose”? Is pondering the meaning of life just one of those things that Westerners made up because we’re bored in our own luxuries? Should I get rid of all the luxuries my society/culture have agreed are so important and necessary so I no longer have to deal with wondering why in the hell I’m on this planet to begin with?

Yes, these are the thoughts that creep into my mind daily. These are the ones that make me look at my life and go “Eh. There has to be something deeper, something more than what I’m just looking at or living within right now.” And yeah, they’re exhausting. I go between wondering if the point of being around is to help others and thinking myself extremely selfish for wasting my life taking care of myself and wanting a career and cultivating an art and procreating, to thinking that maybe the point of life is self-sustainability, to thinking that none of our individual concerns matter and that we should all work to become more communal and blissful within each other’s company, as per the Native American civilizations. And lemme tell you, my mind is easily changed at least seven hundred times daily.

My problem with just not letting things “be” is that that seems purposeless as well. That seems cowardly and indecisive, like those people who are agnostic simply because they’re too lazy to explore any sort of spirituality at all (I’m NOT saying all agnostics are like this, by the way.) There’s a very large part of me that believes that “I don’t know” is too apathetic a way to live a life. But then, there’s another part of me that knows that there’s something very peaceful and surrendering about living in the “I don’t know”.

I like to think I live in the “I’m not sure, but I’m still looking.” I think that might be the healthiest way for me to exist, because it means I’m likely to keep a sense of humility about me and I’m likely to continue growing. I’ve honestly never trusted people who think they have it all figured out, because that just seems too cocky and ignorant to me. I gravitate toward people who are ever-searching, never-settled, ever-moving.

But still, I wonder why this curiosity has been piqued recently and why it isn’t just sitting in the background of my thoughts where it usually does. Because frankly, a break from redefining my core values thrice daily would be really nice.