For years, I've wanted to be totally insane... wanted to
have to depend on others just to survive. I've wanted to be broken,
busted, and overall useless to the world. My perceptions of reality
often shift and switch like the sands of a desert, or the waters of a
sea. The surface was never the same, but what was deeper often was, even
though I couldn't easily see it. Usually, the only times that I came
face-to-face with what was below, I was choking or drowning on sand or
brackish waters - sometimes both at the same time. I realise now... just
how often I use metaphors involving drowning, and I'm beginning to
connect that to the few times that I nearly drowned in my childhood,
keeping me from learning how to swim until I turned 9. I only learned
how to swim because of my bipolar mania egging me on, taking away all my
inhibitions. I'm beginning to realise just how relevant all these small
events are in my life.
And water really is a great descriptor
for me. Sometimes, life becomes very... very silent and calm... like
when the water has filled your lungs and your consciousness begins to
fade, your body sinking slowly into darker and darker waters. The water
is cold, and yet you don't feel cold... You feel... feel... happy.
Everything slows down, becomes so peaceful... But, if you're lucky,
you're pulled out of that delusion, things suddenly go black and then
white as the water you choked down comes pouring out of your lungs.
You're no longer under the surface, drowning, but coming back to the
world with air back in your lungs. You feel pain... such... sharp pain,
much unlike the soothing calm of drowning slowly. Unreality is a
terribly... soothing - horrifyingly so - thing. Reality is always sharp
and cold like millions of tiny razorblades cutting deeply across your
insides. Waking alive, or fading toward death - reality and unreality.
I
like to fade into oblivion... “Illusions allow us to feel good instead
of bad,” I believe I’m paraphrasing Freud a bit. But the problem with
illusions is that they aren’t real. Or are they? It gets too
fucking hard to tell, sometimes. What’s one person’s reality is rarely
another’s, and connections are often forged over the few times that two
people’s realities overlap. But instead of flat, transparent sheets,
which can be laid one over the other, my realities are warped and
contorted in ways that don’t often allow others to see eye-to-eye with
me, or vice-versa, and yet I can often contort it just enough that it
does suitably overlap, even if it shouldn’t. Do I forge false realities
to create false similarities? Share experiences that never actually
happened?
I occasionally and periodically have these tears
from reality like jumping headfirst into that pool. The waters break
and burst as I fall in and rip through that thin, yet powerful, barrier -
the skin. If I hit too hard, I smack it like cement, but if I dive or
gently fall in, I glide right through and into the other realm. I may
not quite get psychotic where I’m hearing voices and seeing things that
aren’t really there - not anymore - but reality does change and become
difficult to grasp. It becomes like water and pours through my fingers,
not meant for holding it. My dreams start to fade into reality, and
reality into dreams, until I can’t so easily distinguish. And when I
wake? Soaked, like I came out of a pool... It’s like I came back out of
that lullaby-like drowning state and returned to the realm of the
living. But I’m soaked in the dream and can’t get it out of me... It
blurs with my daily perceptions. It blurs with what I think to be reality.
Really,
in the end, the most I want to do with my life is have someone to love
and who loves me back... My love would be unconditional - I know it for a
fact. I’d live my life dedicated to that person, have a family if
possible, and love the children unconditionally, as well. I’m just a
sucker for love, in the end. I feel like I would do just about anything
to find it, and there are nights that I just stay up longing for it...
I
don’t have anyone like that... No one to show my affection to, to move
on in my life with... No one to fight for: both my own personal battles,
and our shared battles. I have no one to live for, to dream for, to
hope for, to fight for... I have no muse to keep me waking up each day,
and bring meaning to my life. I have an empty shell just waiting to
become filled and invigorated. Nah, vigor is something I utterly lack.
I’m just a step or two from dead inside, with those seeds begging for
water and good soil to dig roots into. If I could find that water and
soil - my life and foundation - then my seeds could take root and grow
into vast, lively trees or ferns or bushes... a plant that blossoms,
basks in the glory of the sun, and loves life, as well as helps create
it. I’m a romantic without any romance... a lover without love. I’m
becoming so terribly, embarrassingly desperate for human connections
that I sometimes actually think about slicing my arms wide open, just
because I’d want to feel the love of a worried family member... or
anyone who would offer it. I think time and time again about getting the
razor - not to end my life, but just to elicit something from others
and from my own heart. It would be like a defibrillator, shocking my
heart back into existence, but with cold steel and scarlet tendrils.
Empty, lost, alone... These words I’d use to describe myself. But what words would I want to describe myself with? Loving, joyful, warm, compassionate, endearing, soulful... Oh, how I can dream.
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