It’s an angsty time for me. Not sure why. Change of season perhaps? It’s also coming up on the year anniversary of destroying my ankle, which was followed by another drop down into the abyss of depression. I’m fine now, a year later I’m riding and training horses again and am just as active as I ever was. That’s not to say I don’t have pain in that leg and I dread the inevitable arthritis, but whatever, this is life and I’m trying to live it the best I can.
So, this morning, this blog kinda poured out of me. And like always, this is my therapy, the writing, the spilling of my heart. I thought about not posting it, but that’s not me. I publish or post everything I’ve ever written. My ten fans will attest to my growth as a writer. Below was today’s catharsis for my lonely heart.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how much I miss the year following my breakdown. Not the angst or torment I felt, but the anonymity and utter lack of expectations from those around me. That was when my writing career began, and I wrote hundreds of thousands of words in that year, once again, all without pressure or expectations. I miss that. I can apply enough self-induced pressure to motivate. I don’t need it from others.
I’m in a place of questions. I know it’s all a cycle of learning, growing, changing and then the plateau of rest before the next installment. In this moment I am confused. I’ve tried giving up completely. I’ve tried grabbing hold and giving it my all; mind, heart, soul. I refuse to ever be insane and expect something different without first changing my patterns. So I change, and I change, and I change. It’s exhausting, and nothing else is changing. Those around me are static as ever. My life is the same as it was before; perpetually broke and worse than alone. Still I share my existence with the supporter who not only under appreciates me, he also emotionally and tactilely starves me.
I’m fully aware that being with another is not the answer to my malcontent. My crave is actually to be alone, entirely, no expectations from any other soul. It would be easier to be truly alone than this feeling of desperation. Of course, that is only possible if I were independently wealthy, which I am not, nor do I expect it to happen within this lifetime. So, I am nothing more than a servant to those who support me. An unappreciated servant. Yes, the expectations are numerous now.
I can see why some choose to stay in the land of mental illness. It’s a comfort zone devoid of anticipations, potentials, and yes the expectations of others. If only.
I often feel much too sane for the insane world within which I dwell.
I’m unsure why they call it a nervous breakdown. I was not nervous at all when I was falling apart. It was almost the opposite for me. I remember a serenity and peacefulness as it overtook. Why did I grab hold again? Why didn’t I just stay there? I could have succumbed to the doctors and prescriptions and just let it go. I shouldn’t have been so determined to thrive.
Here I sit, approximately six or maybe at this point its seven years after I spiritually broke. I’m now mended. The weak places fortified, the mental solidly intact. No drugs, no crutches, and I’m fully involved in life once again.
I’ve recreated myself. I am now an author. I do love writing and I’m quite good at it. I’m busy with various odd jobs, (all servitude to others). I’m busy trying to promote my work, (exhausting, tedious and mundane!)
I’ve been gifted with horses again, although part time; at least I’m getting paid for something I’m expert at. So, yeah, all good in the hood.
Why then do I feel so empty and as if yet again I’m waiting for my life to begin? This is my curse I suppose. The constant waiting. Always the satellite, never landing, always in orbit around those who dwell solidly in their lives. I hate the discontent that brews within my heart. I hate the ache that never leaves. There is a cry inside me I cannot silence, “Find me. Please find me. I’m dying here.”
But nobody comes. There are a lot of words. A lot of cerebral speculations. Many who want me, none who claim me. I am the watcher and observer and servant to many. Will my time ever come? If only I didn’t care. If only I could dwell in the abyss of apathy yet again. It’s so soft in there. So easy, but so not me!
I’m forever at a crossroads. Unwilling to be insane. Unwilling to smile and pretend. I’m neither happy, nor unhappy. I just am, and I hate it. I want to see and feel myself in another’s eyes. No words, just tactile expressions. No pretense, no falsity, no other agenda apart from the—us. I want to have permission to bow, surrender and submit to someone more powerful. And yet, it never happens.
My ache for anonymity is not truly for aloneness. It’s for separation from the expectations of all but one. The elusive one who never shows up. The faceless one I know I belong too. The one who is also missing me as the other half of their puzzle.
I feel the decay of age setting in. I wish my mind would follow my body. I wish I could give up and be happy with my lot. The life quest to be found and to find, has not waned, and here I sit, still crying out into the darkness, “Find me. Please find me. I’m starving.”