writing is my way to speak. my way to dream, to escape. to be someone. when things are really bad in my life, i stop writing. i deprive myself of the particular joy and sense of purpose it gives me. there's a kind of famine inside. right now, is the first time i've been able to write anything for too long of a while.
i've been moved. there are lots of things that move me. music. books. movies. nature. photographs and paintings. when i am being self-destructive as i had been, i hide from the things that move me. i become immoveable and numb to everything except pain. and then pain takes over and rules my existence.
not physical pain, not necessarily. i live my life in physical pain the way normal people live without it. i don't have a choice in this, so i have adapted to fit it. my body has certain things wrong that will always cause me pain. fine. i have learned to live around the physical pain. that's not what scares me anymore. what scares me, is the emotional pain. mental pain. and that, i heap upon myself when i self-destruct. i heap it on like you wouldn't believe.
until recently, i got caught in an ugly mess of a destructive cycle. i did everything i could to sabotage myself. i degraded myself and let myself be walked all over, hurt and demeaned. i lashed out at people i care about and tried to please the people i didn't care about. i surrounded myself with company that made me squirm inside. i behaved in ways that those who know and love me, would never recognize. and then, the physical side came crashing down. i am still dealing with it currently and won't know much until tomorrow, when i meet with my surgeon. i hope that whatever is going on, is something that won't require surgery or anything drastic. i know that some part of me believes i deserve to lose certain things that mean so much to me. i am trying to fight against that part of me with all that i consciously can.
i guess i should say what moved me recently. finally. i finally hit rock-bottom in my self-destructive cycle and realized i could go no lower. the whole thing was complete. i was finally done. i had enough to remind myself of, enough to cringe over, for a long time. once that was finished, i began picking pieces of myself back up and putting them in a drawer for later- for when i would feel capable of trying to put myself back together again.
time went by where i just existed. until recently. several things happened. one of them though, was that i started reading "the fountainhead" by ayn rand. don't roll your eyes. while you may have to tolerate rand's ideals to read "atlas shrugged" perhaps, "the fountainhead" is purely a work of fiction and can be enjoyed (and yet still moving) as such. i saw myself looking into my own soul when i read the character of dominique francon. and i began to understand. that book has inspired me and lifted me, and also reminded me of why i love writing. there's a lot of beautiful language to be had for someone who knows how to use words- and that is one thing i've always been able to give myself. i know how to use them. i'm a born wordsmith. it's the one thing i never let go of even at my most self-destructive. i deprive myself of writing, but because i know that i CAN. there is never any doubt of that.
right now, i feel simply grateful that something reached me. that since reading that book, i have been able to feel moved by the things i love again. no matter what happens with my health, i have those things. i have writing. i am done being self-destructive because i've finally been able to admit to it, and more importantly, to the WHY.
if anything i ever write, accomplishes what that book has accomplished for me.....it will be worth everything i've put myself through to get there.
finders keepers.
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