Week 1
Tuesday
Complete waste of time to write if incapable of writing honestly. Don't want this ancient front, shield, wall, mist to come between me and writing truthfully. But there it is, as it is in contacts with others, though extremely unsuccessfully because when around people (family) for a few days I feel like a slug in a bucket of salt.
New Year's Eve at my sister's house I had to go upstairs and lie down in a dark room, crying for over an hour just so I'd be able to be with my family in the living room again.
Most of the time I feel some kind of numbness, flattened feelings; either I don't have feelings anymore or the wall is thickening instead of lessening. Other times - when not alone - I'm that slug and unable to 'just' be myself.
Too many sleepovers at sister and mother: three in two months, plus a concussion. Things seem worse. I seem farther removed from 'where' I want to be. In the past weeks my character flaws seem worse. I don't like what I see but I know these things surface more when I am around family. Can't dissipate unless they surface I guess, but frustrating. Lonely. Close to giving up hope of ever going places again, of moving abroad, travelling, writing, earning money, painting, creating beautiful things.
[Just now, on the radio, someone is telling the audience that cows can walk up a staircase but are incapable of walking down again. Oddly comforting.]
I'm scared that this will be the rest of my life. Total artist's block (such a WASTE), living in the same drab town, going absolutely nowhere for the next forty years and then death, which by then will be a minor detail, a trivial thing at the end of a trivial life, completely wasted and useless.
Wednesday
Forcing myself to see the progress. Created a nice, neat, colourful little bedroom for myself and bought a new mattress - first time in twenty years or so that I'm sleeping in a single bed. No need for more, cos no relationships and sex. Bedroom is nice (very nice).
Maybe this is a mid-life crisis. Or my life is petering out. Everything worthwhile (bedroom + mattress excluded) seems to have gone.
Or maybe the problem is my hopes and dreams.
I really thought it was going to be great and all the suffering and work and reprogramming (de-programming) myself would lead to something awesome: a goal, a purpose, a destiny.
I'm afraid to let go of these hopes and dreams. They are all I have. But maybe they're all that's standing between me and not-me-anymore. I don't know. I can't surrender, apparently it's not something you can actively do, it has to happen naturally, by itself, after removing everything in its way.
There were two or three moments of softening, relaxation in the chest area in December. This could have served as a release valve for that enormous amount of pent-up old stress and fear and hurt.
If this is the pace of change I might be completely rid of fear by the time I'm 167 years old. Wouldn't it be nice if something resembling a life would come before then.
At least I'm a total success of being a complete failure in every area of my life, (hopefully) other than the de-programming. I remember reading that in "Damnedest" and how it made me cry with relief.
I don't feel that relief right now. Just a gnawing in my chest.
Thursday
"What is life worth when all you're doing is trying not to die?"
Woke up with that question, still half-dreaming several separate dreams about someone dying. Hopefully this indicates parts of my character/personality dying, and not just the nice things seeping out of my life.
What I thought to write last night but couldn't because pen and paper are still lacking from my lovely little bedroom:
Indifferent to stories. I am not surprised anymore by people's adventures and life stories, not as much as I used to be. Mildly amused and that's it. Like I've heard it all before. I do still cry when someone achieves a lifelong dream, partly because I am with them in the moment (while looking at these complete strangers on tv) and obviously because I wish that to happen to me too and their success gives me hope.
Still scared to kill off hope. Don't have the balls for it yet.
There's a clear line between two completely different lives. The first part ended with living in Greece, the second part started with my return to Holland and living in this town. The first part was (re)action packed, and the cause of all fear & stress & depression which are being worked through in the second part.
Would be nice if there were more parts - part three: success, blossoming, expanding, etc etc.
Oh right. Something else I was wondering about: is this part of my life a cocoon? First part: swirling, horrific activity, this part: inertia. A hermit's cocoon, all ugliness on the surface, on the outside, whereas before it churned inside me.
During the final quarter of 2015 I was stuck on the two memories of my father kicking the shit out of me and the way my sister dreamily reflected on the abuse, saying I was 'difficult' at the time. Thank God I was. It didn't break my spirit, it made me rebellious - on the inside, invisible but very effective nonetheless. Huge amounts of fear and grief and depression (not just by this abuse), all on the inside, but it didn't break or numb me, I carried on out of sheer stubbornness. (...) See? Still a bit stuck on that condoning comment of hers.
After this I started fearing everyone's death, mostly having to deal with the practicalities of arranging a funeral/cremation and having to be around other family members at these horrible, cramped affairs.
On the one hand it seems to me it would be easier if my whole family died in a plane crash, on the other hand I don't see how life would be worth living without my sister. The whole point would be lost on me. Futility.
But that's how it is right now. Everything changes, so that might too, despite the inertia of this second part.
Am I being honest?
Or am I rambling. Honest rambling?
Friday
Cocoon or not, this has been a period of turning away from life: concussion and partial deafness of the past 3 months expressions of a concealed wish to shut myself off from the outside world.
I don't let life in because it hurts so much. Thereby also closing the door on creativity and other good stuff.
Horrible dream last night. Lend-a-Cat came to me with a muffled "meow" because of her swollen jaw and mouth. Her ear was torn in half and a chunk of her skull was missing so you could see her brain-matter. Horrific. I wanted to call for help and tried to hold her very gently.
I woke up amazed by how some people are capable of helping wounded animals without having their hearts torn to pieces. Families. Children. The horrible things that can happen to children and animals. I'm often afraid that it would just split me in two if something (else) happened to the kids. I don't know how people can be so brave and have kids.
Anyway, that's the road my thoughts took, coming around to the realisation that I am trying to minimise the possibilities of getting hurt/damaged any more than I already am.
It's scary, I don't want to let everything in at once, that's too much. But a slight turning-towards instead of a turning-away-from might be doable and after that things will probably take care of themselves.
I want to be able to laugh at myself again, not take myself so seriously. Get out of this mental cramp. Lose the pressure I put on myself in everything I do. Enjoy things again. If I can enjoy drawing instead of having to create an instant masterpiece, things will start flowing again.
I am the boulder in the stream.
The broomstick up my ass.
And my liberator.
All the ice and snow melted overnight. How about that, nature's timing. Tentatively dipping my toe in, in this new light. I think this willingness will be enough. Will do the trick. No diving in head first, not me. Something is happening, let's leave it at that for now.
Complete waste of time to write if incapable of writing honestly. Don't want this ancient front, shield, wall, mist to come between me and writing truthfully. But there it is, as it is in contacts with others, though extremely unsuccessfully because when around people (family) for a few days I feel like a slug in a bucket of salt.
New Year's Eve at my sister's house I had to go upstairs and lie down in a dark room, crying for over an hour just so I'd be able to be with my family in the living room again.
Most of the time I feel some kind of numbness, flattened feelings; either I don't have feelings anymore or the wall is thickening instead of lessening. Other times - when not alone - I'm that slug and unable to 'just' be myself.
Too many sleepovers at sister and mother: three in two months, plus a concussion. Things seem worse. I seem farther removed from 'where' I want to be. In the past weeks my character flaws seem worse. I don't like what I see but I know these things surface more when I am around family. Can't dissipate unless they surface I guess, but frustrating. Lonely. Close to giving up hope of ever going places again, of moving abroad, travelling, writing, earning money, painting, creating beautiful things.
[Just now, on the radio, someone is telling the audience that cows can walk up a staircase but are incapable of walking down again. Oddly comforting.]
I'm scared that this will be the rest of my life. Total artist's block (such a WASTE), living in the same drab town, going absolutely nowhere for the next forty years and then death, which by then will be a minor detail, a trivial thing at the end of a trivial life, completely wasted and useless.
Wednesday
Forcing myself to see the progress. Created a nice, neat, colourful little bedroom for myself and bought a new mattress - first time in twenty years or so that I'm sleeping in a single bed. No need for more, cos no relationships and sex. Bedroom is nice (very nice).
Maybe this is a mid-life crisis. Or my life is petering out. Everything worthwhile (bedroom + mattress excluded) seems to have gone.
Or maybe the problem is my hopes and dreams.
I really thought it was going to be great and all the suffering and work and reprogramming (de-programming) myself would lead to something awesome: a goal, a purpose, a destiny.
I'm afraid to let go of these hopes and dreams. They are all I have. But maybe they're all that's standing between me and not-me-anymore. I don't know. I can't surrender, apparently it's not something you can actively do, it has to happen naturally, by itself, after removing everything in its way.
There were two or three moments of softening, relaxation in the chest area in December. This could have served as a release valve for that enormous amount of pent-up old stress and fear and hurt.
If this is the pace of change I might be completely rid of fear by the time I'm 167 years old. Wouldn't it be nice if something resembling a life would come before then.
At least I'm a total success of being a complete failure in every area of my life, (hopefully) other than the de-programming. I remember reading that in "Damnedest" and how it made me cry with relief.
I don't feel that relief right now. Just a gnawing in my chest.
Thursday
"What is life worth when all you're doing is trying not to die?"
Woke up with that question, still half-dreaming several separate dreams about someone dying. Hopefully this indicates parts of my character/personality dying, and not just the nice things seeping out of my life.
What I thought to write last night but couldn't because pen and paper are still lacking from my lovely little bedroom:
Indifferent to stories. I am not surprised anymore by people's adventures and life stories, not as much as I used to be. Mildly amused and that's it. Like I've heard it all before. I do still cry when someone achieves a lifelong dream, partly because I am with them in the moment (while looking at these complete strangers on tv) and obviously because I wish that to happen to me too and their success gives me hope.
Still scared to kill off hope. Don't have the balls for it yet.
There's a clear line between two completely different lives. The first part ended with living in Greece, the second part started with my return to Holland and living in this town. The first part was (re)action packed, and the cause of all fear & stress & depression which are being worked through in the second part.
Would be nice if there were more parts - part three: success, blossoming, expanding, etc etc.
Oh right. Something else I was wondering about: is this part of my life a cocoon? First part: swirling, horrific activity, this part: inertia. A hermit's cocoon, all ugliness on the surface, on the outside, whereas before it churned inside me.
During the final quarter of 2015 I was stuck on the two memories of my father kicking the shit out of me and the way my sister dreamily reflected on the abuse, saying I was 'difficult' at the time. Thank God I was. It didn't break my spirit, it made me rebellious - on the inside, invisible but very effective nonetheless. Huge amounts of fear and grief and depression (not just by this abuse), all on the inside, but it didn't break or numb me, I carried on out of sheer stubbornness. (...) See? Still a bit stuck on that condoning comment of hers.
After this I started fearing everyone's death, mostly having to deal with the practicalities of arranging a funeral/cremation and having to be around other family members at these horrible, cramped affairs.
On the one hand it seems to me it would be easier if my whole family died in a plane crash, on the other hand I don't see how life would be worth living without my sister. The whole point would be lost on me. Futility.
But that's how it is right now. Everything changes, so that might too, despite the inertia of this second part.
Am I being honest?
Or am I rambling. Honest rambling?
Friday
Cocoon or not, this has been a period of turning away from life: concussion and partial deafness of the past 3 months expressions of a concealed wish to shut myself off from the outside world.
I don't let life in because it hurts so much. Thereby also closing the door on creativity and other good stuff.
Horrible dream last night. Lend-a-Cat came to me with a muffled "meow" because of her swollen jaw and mouth. Her ear was torn in half and a chunk of her skull was missing so you could see her brain-matter. Horrific. I wanted to call for help and tried to hold her very gently.
I woke up amazed by how some people are capable of helping wounded animals without having their hearts torn to pieces. Families. Children. The horrible things that can happen to children and animals. I'm often afraid that it would just split me in two if something (else) happened to the kids. I don't know how people can be so brave and have kids.
Anyway, that's the road my thoughts took, coming around to the realisation that I am trying to minimise the possibilities of getting hurt/damaged any more than I already am.
It's scary, I don't want to let everything in at once, that's too much. But a slight turning-towards instead of a turning-away-from might be doable and after that things will probably take care of themselves.
I want to be able to laugh at myself again, not take myself so seriously. Get out of this mental cramp. Lose the pressure I put on myself in everything I do. Enjoy things again. If I can enjoy drawing instead of having to create an instant masterpiece, things will start flowing again.
I am the boulder in the stream.
The broomstick up my ass.
And my liberator.
All the ice and snow melted overnight. How about that, nature's timing. Tentatively dipping my toe in, in this new light. I think this willingness will be enough. Will do the trick. No diving in head first, not me. Something is happening, let's leave it at that for now.
posted by M. at 3:34 PM
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