Let’s pick this up where we left it….

 

It has been 8 years (minus 1 day) since I wrote my last post. What a strange coincidence that I was pushed into finding my blog on this day eight years later. Eight is a critical number for me for many reasons. My life can be defined most simply as highs of highs and lows of lows. I rarely find anything in the middle, anything mediocre, anything that doesn’t come with extremes. Maybe it is not my life really, it is how I am, how I view it and what I have made of it. Eight is also, what they call, indicative of infinity because of how it’s written and when rotated 90 degrees represents the mathematical infinity symbol. I think that’s how I see my life now. Infinite pain, infinite hopelessness, infinite darkness, infinite wreckage. One could argue I must see the possibilities of infinite hope, infinite beauty and wonder, infinite love, infinite happiness. But we all know that all those highs are followed by devastating lows. And lows are the events that stick to me irreversibly. I let them define me on the inside because on the outside, I have to let the highs define me to live on through this.

When I look back at the date of my last post, I recall that 2013 was a good time for me - relatively speaking - despite all the chaos that I see in my 2013 unpublished posts. So much has happened since then, highs of highs and lows of lows. Tragedies, deaths, accomplishments, love, betrayal, pain, denial, acceptance, despair. The wheels stop, the wheels move. Events that have happened since then have defined and morphed me in a life-altering manner that often doesn’t make sense to my broken spirit. What does make sense is how I felt back in 2013, or 2008, or 2000 – all of that has come together as pieces of a puzzle that burns to keep its pattern alive. Big strikes to my weak mind in 2003, 2009, 2015, 2019 and beyond assaulted my crumbled existence over and over and over again. I plough through all of this deafening noise of the screams of my soul. I lose myself in my ambition. I work through the devastation. And I take chances in life again, only to be tossed violently across a dark web of disintegration. People may term it Kismet. To me it is letting go of control of the course of one’s life. Maybe if I let go, it won’t bring me so much agony.

It’s getting darker and the walls are closing shut. I feel I can’t breathe again. A black smoke fills the leftover space in the room. The ceilings drop. A car comes and hits the small tight box that I now am trapped inside and pieces of my body are flung in the air like confetti.

I wish life was simple, like everyone else does. I wish I cease to exist in anybody’s mind or heart or life. And I hope to see the stars, the galaxies, the black holes and know no pain. No pain of loss, of broken thoughts and promises, of failures, of trauma, of lost love, of beautiful memories, of missed opportunities, of distraught times, of unaccomplished goals, of any significance. The highs of pride, love and ambition have covered so many open wounds for so long but they didn’t stop bleeding and didn’t scab over. And here we are. Frozen, broken, in a tug of war of emotions and events, in our own sort of insane reality.

When one lives with pain for so long, it becomes them. And as soon as we lose that distinction, we lose ourselves. That happened to me years and years ago. Maybe even over a decade ago. Maybe even longer. I should have seen the red flags. I should have known that what resurfaced again and again weren’t memories, they were the living remains of what I buried very very deep. The pain is still blinding and it still hits me like millions of needles piercing through my naked, cold, almost dead body. Almost.

I am slipping into this black waterfall of liquid soot, it’s thick and sticky. It covers me and pulls me under. I am at the edge; I wish I would either crawl out or fall in. I am scared to find what is at the bottom of this darkness but I also am worn out and don’t want to resist falling in.

Grief broke me into a million pieces. Trauma lingers in the air every second while I try to pick up my pieces to put them together into a functional existence in my desperate futile attempts. I had to reassemble myself and I am all warped now. I see faces and colors of my loves and losses and how different they were. How alive they all are. How sad my life has become. How weak and useless my existence is without having my core intact. A core that was lost many times during several of such re-assemblies.

Love that has no place to go becomes grief. I drained my heart out in tears at every loss but I guess that wasn’t enough heartache. It needed to bleed more, hurt more, so all of it is back now. I wish the devastating ruins brought upon me didn’t dig the well of pain so deep that it became unending. How much more pain can I take? How many people can I grieve? How many failures can I swallow? Kismet will decide that. I just have to let go.

In my darkest hours, I am not sure if I will choose love or ambition or death. Death feels more permanent and secure. A dark hug that pulls me under with no promise of return is better than any mortal goal or desire.

I feel silly but I also feel I deserve this. Maybe if and once I am through this deep dark tunnel of pain and hopelessness, I will be able to forgive you and forgive all versions of myself. I don’t want to count on that pathetic possibility though.