articulate
"The most important things are the hardest to say, because words diminish them." - Stephen King
I wish I was articulate enough to explain exactly how I feel: the love, the anger, the hurt, the frustration, the friendship, the loss, the happiness, the fear, and the depression-- without having to use music or song lyrics or metaphor.
I could write a song. I could write a story. Hell, I could write a novel. I could draw a picture, my fingers could carve out a sculpture, I could do a million things to express all of how I feel about everything right now, but none of it would suffice.
I have so much bubbling up inside me, and most of it I push aside because I have no way to actually face it head-on. I listen to music, I sing along in the car as loud as I can, hoping I can push out all the emotion from deep within and come to terms with it: the good and the bad. I read, I pray, I think. I lose myself in things that have nothing to do with feeling at all. I drink. I drink some more.
I can't drink more than half a beer with certain persons around lately. I don't feel the desire for it, but when I'm out with others or by myself, a beer or four; mixed drinks, shots... it's all fine. (Wine I'm still slow as hell about drinking.)
I don't know who I am anymore. I am nothing more than a collection of songs. I feel like I'm outside myself, watching everything. I've felt like that since the end of February-- the last thing I've really experienced was the tube going into my throat. I've tried to actually care and push myself, but the honest truth is that I may not have physically died then, but I think everything else in me did. I tach, and the pain is numb. I hurt myself, bruise myself, whatever, and I don't even notice. I eat mostly out of habit, an intellectual stimulus saying "it's time for food". I spend time with other people in a hope that somehow I'll find myself again.
There are sparks of light in the grey-- moments where things become clear for just an instant. But like motes in a sunbeam, it's gone before I can grasp onto it.
This weekend I'll be working all day Saturday, and then Sunday spending time with Jake and Gigi. I'm going to try and force this out of a stalemate. I'm going to refuse to allow my body to continue to dictate terms to me: I'm eating meat this weekend, waking up tomorrow before work and running two miles, and ignoring any protests my body attempts. What does it know? It's still alive while the rest of me has been long dead. If the shell insists on staying, then it will make itself useful.
I want to know myself again. I want to be someone worthwhile. I want to be good enough.
I know I am good enough, somewhere inside. Maybe the haze will dissipate. Maybe I'll figure out how to say those things that are so important that I can't find words for them.
Or maybe I'll just delude myself into thinking that I'm ever going to be able to express it all-- perhaps all of this was never meant to be expressed, and I was meant to exist in the grey fog that permeates my soul.
I wish I was articulate enough to explain exactly how I feel: the love, the anger, the hurt, the frustration, the friendship, the loss, the happiness, the fear, and the depression-- without having to use music or song lyrics or metaphor.
I could write a song. I could write a story. Hell, I could write a novel. I could draw a picture, my fingers could carve out a sculpture, I could do a million things to express all of how I feel about everything right now, but none of it would suffice.
I have so much bubbling up inside me, and most of it I push aside because I have no way to actually face it head-on. I listen to music, I sing along in the car as loud as I can, hoping I can push out all the emotion from deep within and come to terms with it: the good and the bad. I read, I pray, I think. I lose myself in things that have nothing to do with feeling at all. I drink. I drink some more.
I can't drink more than half a beer with certain persons around lately. I don't feel the desire for it, but when I'm out with others or by myself, a beer or four; mixed drinks, shots... it's all fine. (Wine I'm still slow as hell about drinking.)
I don't know who I am anymore. I am nothing more than a collection of songs. I feel like I'm outside myself, watching everything. I've felt like that since the end of February-- the last thing I've really experienced was the tube going into my throat. I've tried to actually care and push myself, but the honest truth is that I may not have physically died then, but I think everything else in me did. I tach, and the pain is numb. I hurt myself, bruise myself, whatever, and I don't even notice. I eat mostly out of habit, an intellectual stimulus saying "it's time for food". I spend time with other people in a hope that somehow I'll find myself again.
There are sparks of light in the grey-- moments where things become clear for just an instant. But like motes in a sunbeam, it's gone before I can grasp onto it.
This weekend I'll be working all day Saturday, and then Sunday spending time with Jake and Gigi. I'm going to try and force this out of a stalemate. I'm going to refuse to allow my body to continue to dictate terms to me: I'm eating meat this weekend, waking up tomorrow before work and running two miles, and ignoring any protests my body attempts. What does it know? It's still alive while the rest of me has been long dead. If the shell insists on staying, then it will make itself useful.
I want to know myself again. I want to be someone worthwhile. I want to be good enough.
I know I am good enough, somewhere inside. Maybe the haze will dissipate. Maybe I'll figure out how to say those things that are so important that I can't find words for them.
Or maybe I'll just delude myself into thinking that I'm ever going to be able to express it all-- perhaps all of this was never meant to be expressed, and I was meant to exist in the grey fog that permeates my soul.