Rebellion

Here I am . Another day. Another night. Another missed opportunity of a day gone by. No regrets, but drowning in disappointment. I was a good kid, a nice kid, quiet, thoughtful, respectful. I pulled straight A's my senior year of high school, had a job, never snuck out, never drank or "tested the waters." But the minute my parents expressed to me that I should BE MORE, I rebelled. They had no idea what all the other kids were doing. They had no idea how thankful they should be. No idea that up until then I lived to PLEASE them. No idea that any insecurities I had before were now dangerously doubled.

If you forget the past, or pretend it's not there and never happened, what good does that do you? Maybe momentary 'safety.' Maybe. But when it's a parent(s) who does not acknowledge... that's not the right word... but I don't have another one...a parent who knows the evils that have been done to their child, the things a child should never face...and yet goes merrily along hoping perhaps the child was too young to remember... that it would all be forgotten. The child knows. Consciously or subconsciously that child knows. I know. And growing up I tried to please my parents and keep them happy, remain in their good graces, hoping against all hope that THIS would mean I would be worthy of protecting.

And as I grew up and the memories became more vivid, and the anxiety increased, so did my devotion to my parents. I knew they loved me. That was not the problem. I just needed them to validate silently that they KNEW what had happened, how many times, and that they cared. I didn't need them to talk about it. I just needed to know that I was not alone. Come then end of high school and there's no pleasing the parents even with perfect grades and being a 'good kid.' It was not enough. Why the fuck even bother to try? If I wasn't good enough for them when I was being good and attentive, then screw this!!!! I'm going to go rebel. I'm going to go out there into the world and EARN back what was taken from me. Because now it was on MY terms. Even if I thought I was getting them back, I was only hurting myself.

What is it about rebellion that intrigues me so? Not meanness or hatred. Not the anger or pain. It's more of the feeling of having justice served. Not taking it as it comes, but reversing the outcome of the assumed.

In the end, I've shown nothing but my own weakness. Gained depression, more anxiety, and disorders.

All in exchange for losing my identity.

Day to day challenges

Why is it that I am painfully insecure around people I know and love. Yet I can be confident around people I don't. Maybe cause if they don't really know me, I can pretend to be anyone I want. Put on the air of something more. Try on a new hat and see how it works. I'm scared to death that the people I do know and love are so critical of me that I'd much prefer to just BE. Not talk, not express opinions, not draw attention. Wouldn't it be wonderful to be transparent and have nothing at all to hide? How freeing and pure. Isolation feeds on itself. What a ridiculous rut to have to dig myself out of then. Constant and pessimistic. I am capable of being so much more than just this. But my pain is volatile and deep and nothing that I can share with another being. I hide the dark truths and try to find a way to justify not bringing it to the surface. Meditation and breathing exercises are one of the few ways I find momentary balance. Is there anyone else out there? I wonder what it would take for me to talk. Even if you asked and confronted me, I'd lie. I think it's killing me from the inside out.

Being me

I think if I can use this blog as an outlet of all the things that I carry inside and share, that then maybe I'll at least have a way of processing my life and not just hiding it away. What a sad way to be. But I'm trying to make it better, make it work for me. And so I throw myself head first into this next year with aspirations and dreams that will never come true, but at least I'm looking up. Looking out. There's happiness to be had in this world and dammit some one's got to get some of it, it might as well be me.

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..." -Jack Kerouac

I like steamy pavement, the smell of lemon grass tea, soulful singing, when there's just enough hangers for clothes I need to hang, warm feet and cold pillows, my grandparents love letters, reading books that are so completely unlike my own life, clogs, being alone, taking a burning hot shower and then turning it to cold for the last minute, putting quarters in someone else's parking meter, hoping that I'll make at least one person happy or proud during this life, handwriting, drawing and creating, and being me. It's the hardest thing I've ever done, but I'm going to figure it out.

More than this

Seems last night was just a fluke. Too many meds, and too little compassion from the ever attentive wifey. Gosh that makes me feel good. Not. And today has been completely normal. Really. The hate hate that was boiling over wrenches me back and forth. How much am I to blame for this? Maybe I'm bipolar. How much is he to blame for this? Why is he the one with the "disease" and I am the one dealing with it. He chose to drink, and then it became excessive. He is recovering and I'm holding the fort down. But still a day like today is practically perfect. I couldn't ask for a man who was more caring, compassionate, loving. He can go off the deep end and I am expected to pull it all together. Wouldn't it be grand to have a man who could respectfully lead a family, be a bread winner, blah blah blah so on and so forth. Is chivalry really dead? I'm a romantic at heart. I like the idea of a man who takes control, who can be accountable. Did God make men masculine for a reason? Their bodies perfectly sculpted and strong. I know this falls on deaf ears. I wonder why I can't be happy with what I've got? I can momentarily and then the mind begins to wander and wonder what life would be like like this and like that. This isn't how I want to live my life. There's got to be more to it than this. I wonder how much mental illness is actually an illness. Or all we all crazy and all putting on a show to appear normal as possible. What if everyone was able to be who they really were on the inside and show it on the outside. I'd no longer be strung around by lies and games. At least I'd know the truth.

No one else

No one else would listen to these ramblings. No one else would understand the swirling, the confusion that hangs on every thread of my life. A constant coercion of intersecting points that keep recreating the past and never allow me to move forward. Things may have gotten better, and I don't like to complain, but if I keep pretending it never happens, I'm only adding to the confusion and feeding the lies. I don't drink and don't do drugs. Thought I'm really thinking that might be an easy fix when I'm feeling so damn low. I never gave into those temptations, but he always did. For years and years he did. Every time I'd have strategy and try to rationally handle the situation. Never did it work, not even once. Then he stopped, after a long drawn out production, very needy. I feel like I can trust him, but even though I don't feel it in the back of my head, if I can't find him, if he doesn't answer, I fear the worst. Always. I don't mean to distrust, but it must be hard wired into my defectively over analytical being. God forbid he actually has a minor slip, I tear into him with all the anger I've built up for years. Is it fair? No. Does it feel good? Yes at the time. Do I feel bad after? Yes. Do I think he'll remember any of the horribly mean things I say to him? No. And then part of me yes. I want him to KNOW and to HURT just like I have, as I've been putting up with his sh*t for far too long. I've got enough of my own garbage, I don't need his too. Not when he's like this. I want to be taken care of. It must be wonderful to be able to completely trust someone. Someone else to run errands, make the money, pay the bills, take the cars in, make the meals, do the cleaning, make my appointments. Instead I sit here in a writing frenzy while he sits there talking not making a bit of sense. I know he's had it hard too. But dammit I guess life isn't fair. He's trying not to fall asleep in his pizza, saying "we don't have an attic," and "there's too many people here." He's right we don't have an attic, but who is he saying it to? It's just me here. No body else. Maybe we're made for each other. Two people with no one else in the world to understand them.

PS: Just noticed he hung back up the Christmas lights that had fallen down. Now I feel like an ass.