When i wake up every morning, I know I am not myself. “how can you tell?” Because I don’t feel alive. Instead, i feel scared. Is scared being alive? I’m not sure, but I know that I am not myself. I resist the morning call of the sun. I refuse to answer that mysterious tune that begins right outside my window played by an enigmatic feathered musician who I haven’t taken the time to discover. I loathe, ardently, the sound of bass footfalls in the hallway and the cacophonous chiming of the alarm residing next to my pillow, one of the denizens of my bed, my only sanctuary. I cower from that world lapping at my sandy bed shores. I am scared to taste it’s saltiness. I used to be brave, brandishing my tongue and stealing tastes of life, but too many unwanted, enormous gulps of brine water have caused terror of suffocation and my tongue has retreated, whimpering, foolish, covered in brackish blisters back into the pink cavern of my mouth. It will not be trying that saline solution again for sometime I fear.
My comforter, a colorless, billowy, cumulous shield from reality provides refuge that I cannot locate anywhere else. Here I am honestly emotional. Here I can dream of better days, a better life. Here facts are held at the door, by my bouncers, cuddly and bearlike, and I am free to pretend that I know who I am. But I do not, because I am not myself.
My mind, no, my entire being, has been infected by an unnamable illness and it’s impossible to remember what it was like to not be ill. Chicken pox thwart me from seeing my true self, confusing and distracting me with itchy little volcanoes of milky fluids. What was it like to be clean and fresh and unmarred? I cannot remember. The oatmeal ointment of passiveness does not assure me. The Heedless Anti-Itch Salve only blocks the prickly past for half hours at a time. I cannot heal with either, oatmeal or salve, passiveness or forgetfulness. Not entirely, anyway. No, these weapons against pain merely keep me barely conscious, like a drunkard who’s had seven too many beers and two too many shots. They do not aid me in being myself. They simply keep me aware enough to know that I am still here, though I do not know who I am or what “here” even indicates.
So, I lie in my haven, listless, languid, defeated, pestered by bristles of bad memories, wrapping the feather-stuffed invisibility cloak tightly around me, hoping against all odds that if I stay here long enough, the world will forget about me and recall it’s insistent waves to go harass someone else, someone easily seen. Sometimes, I’m lucky enough to fall into visions of my preferred reality. Other times, I find a continuation of the dark, hazardous, foggy hallways I slide through in my slipper socks, the days I merely pass through like a glimmer of a being. But, ultimately, I am always yanked out of bed like a splinter from a finger, expected to face the day.
Powers that be, if you’d let me, I’d be happy to stay in bed forever. Ms. Haversham makes sense to me now. I cannot blame the recluse for finding a clandestine alcove within the gloomy, safe corridors of her own home when I dread feeling my feet touch the unfamiliar floor of my temporary room in my dead Zachary’s parent’s house.
I built many strong, original relationships in my lifetime, before I was not myself. Looking back, the majority of them have ended, but two were not voluntary. Two ended without anyone’s approval. Samantha was lost after our college graduations. She adventured too far into the guardrail of a walking path in a garden while roller blading one day. Zachary, oh Zachary. The only pillar of strength still standing after my Samantha induced depression burned every other one down, fulfilled the adage “curiosity killed the cat” when scratching an itch to see a little bit further down a waterfall. Humans do not have “spidey” senses, after all, and he wasn’t able to react fast enough to save himself from his inevitable, literal fall from glory. Both of these relationships were deceivingly built on the notion that they would never end. Made of faux steel, they rusted with a sudden ferocity and broke with only my halves lasting and Sam and Zach’s halves crumbling back to dust. We, all three, have been cheated out of magical, blissful dreams of futures together. Samantha on the same street as me with her family, my maid of honor, my sister from another mister, my ever-lasting confidante, there no matter the situation, weather, season, or elemental form. And Zachary, the truest love I have known yet. The father of our never to be begotten children. Fully accepting of all my faults because he wanted everything I had to offer, he showed me what it was like to really live. Zach’s acceptance paired with Samantha’s dependable reception of whatever notion swayed me, I found an oasis containing crystal, still lagoons of knowledge about who I was. Who I really wanted to be.
They were taken from me within two consecutive, long, harsh, deceptive, traitorous years. These incidents, these tragedies, these downright crimes of life, have hurled me into a complete, utter state of confusion. Who the hell am I without them? And how am I expected to figure it out without being able to consult them? I’d rather abscond into never never land than to muster the strength required for self-realization. “Wholiana”, the Spanish pronunciation of my name, never seemed so fitting an appellation. My confidences and aegises against pain have shattered and cannot be glued back together, no, not even with gorilla glue. No shops I wander into offer replacements. Materials have not been provided to create them anew. I am not myself. I am not safe to be myself. I am scared to rebuild, because I rebuilt before and was ruined again. Being kicked by the donkey twice is not learning, they say.
Nevertheless, I fear that as I am incapable of investing anything, my personality has split and the other one of me is taking command. While my outright self is on auto-pilot, barely successfully engaging with each day, an enraged, courageous self is acting behind the scenes. Pulling the strings to make my appendages work, it somehow successfully took the GRE. Mysteriously and surprisingly it applied to my grad school dream school. The puppeteer has also produced two paintings for me within a month. This is abnormal. When I could take care of myself, I only produced one painting a month, and at a sluggish, almost reluctant, indolent pace. This inner, passionate bearer of my before-the-bad-times hopes has not managed to invest in others, however. I am, despite being surrounded by people, alone. I cannot bring myself, any part of myself, to truly care or..at least express care for anyone. I cannot set myself up for devastating failure. Not again.
This inability to love, this selfishness, is unwanted, because I cry all the time, in solitude, desperate for physical comfort that can only be received from a trustworthy, patient savior who I’ve confided in enough to really allow them to know what’s required to rescue me. But i cannot confide, not honestly. I often omit, afraid of rejection. I dance around topics, especially if I fear they will conjure hurt feelings, pride, etc. I am not straightforward, I am round about, curvy, topsy turvy. I fluctuate from sentence to sentence, often. I oscillate from hour to hour. I think of myself this morning and am shocked by my behavior, though I clearly remember being certain of it at the time. I am a wind up doll. I act. I do not think. Five minutes ago is lost to me. Stories cannot be appreciated any longer unless they can be surmised into one concise phrase. I am incapable of keeping up. I forget the minute immediately after it passes. I am too full of too many bad minutes. I don’t want to chance collecting any more.
This story will hopefully improve. I cannot say for sure, because as life has seared into the back of my hands, eyelids, too, I do not know the future. Despite my fear to BE, I hope harder than a five star rated sudoku puzzle that I know true laughter again. Happiness. What you are about to embark on is my journey. Don’t worry if you feel you are being left behind, I myself am in the same boat. My bed is my vessel of safety, the world around me is the treacherous, shark ridden waters threatening to topple the only diminutive protection I have. But, if I can churn up the courage to swing my legs over the side and slip into those uncharted waters, I have a tiny, moonbeam of hope that I can make it to the tropical, exotic island of euphoric self-awareness, no matter it’s size in the grand scheme of things. Out across the angry sea, I hope to die in ecstasy.
No comments:
Post a Comment