a work in progress

being myself’ seems to take more effort than for most.  it appears rather uncomplicated for others – even when it’s complicated.  for me it’s a vicious cycle of misdirection, lost identity, and sobering wake-up calls.  it’s very easy for me to veer off course if for even a fraction of a second i stop monitoring my breaths and/or steps with a vigilance. more than once i have found myself navigating cliff-like terrain with no relief in sight and absolutely zero recollection as to how I got there.  or equally scary, down a well-manicured path surrounded by shiny, pretty things that i’d also had no intention of travelling.  i find that if it’s too easy or too scary, something’s wrong.  i’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere and need to double back the way i came.

there really, truly is something to be said for the silence.  there is always an answer once I’ve identified the question.  aging was scaring me for a while there.  i was terrified not so much of getting old but of not being young anymore.  i remind myself though, that growing is not a privilege afforded to everyone – not even everyone who ages.  

i still have terrains i’m yet to tackle.  the worlds of men and sex; food and addiction; love and approval.  all are challenges for me.  but the better i get at returning to and listening to myself, the easier it is to identify these challenges as separate from me; instead of identifiers of me.  i think I’m meant for really little things of vast importance.  i think living hard and sharing my lessons are what i’m here for.  

deep down one of my biggest fears is my own selfishness.  both (but in unequal quantities) that i have nothing to give and that what i have to give i am unable to.  mostly the act of giving makes me terrified that i’ll become so insubstantial that at some point i’ll fracture and splinter until there is nothing left of me.  i hold onto myself so tightly it makes relationships difficult.  i suppose it’s why i fear others’ offerings; because in my heart i know giving should be reciprocal.

unconsciously i would always choose the lonely life.  there is a quiet sadness to such a life, but also a graceful ease with which i’ve become so comfortable.  too comfortable.  because i know what i crave most of all, coupled with being most fearful of, is being known.  intimacy.  writing is my way of breaking the sound barrier.  running naked through the streets screaming blood-curdling murder.  it’s the choice between cannonballing into the icy waters or easing in, slowly: i’ve always chosen the former.

these days i am failing vividly, conscious through it all, and it’s terrifying.  to no longer have the gift that is ignorance to your own fuck ups, but to practice full-self immersion. fighting the desire to interfere, the challenge being not to fix but to free fall.  to grip nothing.  to swallow the discomfort and allow it to travel to each of your extremities with no guarantees it will ever dissipate.  to experience fully what i’ve spent a lifetime being told to avoid and just how to do it.  i’m free falling and just praying that’s a parachute and not a designer distraction i’ve strapped to my back.  and time seems to be the only thing that can release me but, unfortunately, it is also my only jailer as well.