Hated myself when she wasn't around (uncomfortable, uncomfortable)
Time seems to go faster as I age. Honestly, very confusing, as I'm not any smarter. In fact, I have transitioned to a more embodied & corporal state of existence, rather than the purely intellectual "brain in a jar" I erroneously & narcissistically prided myself on prizing previously.
I contemplate youths so much more. Not as my old-ass friends, having babies and getting married and making substantial improvements to our rented spaces that can technically be reverted--anyway, youths! Cool people who may want my guidance! Like siblings but they haven't gotten tired of me yet.
My theory now is: Adults are as useless as I suspected because we've automated so many more biological functions. People who are younger have a flexibility to them most of my age-mates seem to lack. But after 25ish, 'forebrain' (societal consciousness?) comes fully online and we develop an inborn sense of consequences. Thus, we get boring because we're scared! We begin to contemplate our own mortality, and because our brains aren't stimulated by the act of being alive on its own per se, this kind of callus develops: controlling, insidious nature of ossification tempts adults: You know everything, calcify and survive. We get bored, then blasé, then betray who we swore we'd be.
( “Anyone who is not a republican at twenty casts doubt on the generosity of his soul; but he who, after thirty years, perseveres, casts doubt on the soundness of his mind.”)
My body does not wish to adult, ignored and abstracted and reliable. I-body demand my-Self's attention. My past needs acknowledgement, processing, not just that habitual defensiveness-oblivious shields on full and jokes fired everywhere.
My callus developed as a shield to hold the others away, but now it shields deprogramming their bullshit narrative from me, and holds panes of glass between me and who I want to connect with. Through windows, only. Could be sometimes flippancy is a gift, glib gab, but others I need a gobstopper-and to stop, and to listen.
I am scared and there is so much pain in being afraid.
Normally when I'm afraid, I charge like a bull, my private Pamplona, satisfaction demanded by my sharpest bits. Y'know, there are very few things or times in my life where I haven't just decided to go full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes, but-but here we are again, worried because this isn't a fight I want to pick if I don't absolutely have to.
I want to nurture myself. I am scared, I acknowledge. How was there pain in being afraid? The memories slip themselves back to my conscious mind from my body- here, this tension from being chastised about being sick, here this burning lung for the illness itself, here this ache and sadness and sour stomach.
Deep breaths, honey. The body-sheltered feelings and disengagement come at a cost-the effort & ability has to come from somewhere, nothing in life is free. I traded my ability to believe in magic and trust other people for holding back all the pain, and I'm here these few years later to say it's not worth it.
Feeling my feelings, I hate it. IT SUCKS. Fuck this shit!
Still. I'm finally old enough to know myself, and-well, I hate everything the first time I try.
How do I manage to go back for seconds? All this self-control had to be good for something. Originally posted at Dreamwidth. Comment there (
), or feel free to comment here.
I contemplate youths so much more. Not as my old-ass friends, having babies and getting married and making substantial improvements to our rented spaces that can technically be reverted--anyway, youths! Cool people who may want my guidance! Like siblings but they haven't gotten tired of me yet.
My theory now is: Adults are as useless as I suspected because we've automated so many more biological functions. People who are younger have a flexibility to them most of my age-mates seem to lack. But after 25ish, 'forebrain' (societal consciousness?) comes fully online and we develop an inborn sense of consequences. Thus, we get boring because we're scared! We begin to contemplate our own mortality, and because our brains aren't stimulated by the act of being alive on its own per se, this kind of callus develops: controlling, insidious nature of ossification tempts adults: You know everything, calcify and survive. We get bored, then blasé, then betray who we swore we'd be.
( “Anyone who is not a republican at twenty casts doubt on the generosity of his soul; but he who, after thirty years, perseveres, casts doubt on the soundness of his mind.”)
My body does not wish to adult, ignored and abstracted and reliable. I-body demand my-Self's attention. My past needs acknowledgement, processing, not just that habitual defensiveness-oblivious shields on full and jokes fired everywhere.
My callus developed as a shield to hold the others away, but now it shields deprogramming their bullshit narrative from me, and holds panes of glass between me and who I want to connect with. Through windows, only. Could be sometimes flippancy is a gift, glib gab, but others I need a gobstopper-and to stop, and to listen.
I am scared and there is so much pain in being afraid.
Normally when I'm afraid, I charge like a bull, my private Pamplona, satisfaction demanded by my sharpest bits. Y'know, there are very few things or times in my life where I haven't just decided to go full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes, but-but here we are again, worried because this isn't a fight I want to pick if I don't absolutely have to.
I want to nurture myself. I am scared, I acknowledge. How was there pain in being afraid? The memories slip themselves back to my conscious mind from my body- here, this tension from being chastised about being sick, here this burning lung for the illness itself, here this ache and sadness and sour stomach.
Deep breaths, honey. The body-sheltered feelings and disengagement come at a cost-the effort & ability has to come from somewhere, nothing in life is free. I traded my ability to believe in magic and trust other people for holding back all the pain, and I'm here these few years later to say it's not worth it.
Feeling my feelings, I hate it. IT SUCKS. Fuck this shit!
Still. I'm finally old enough to know myself, and-well, I hate everything the first time I try.
How do I manage to go back for seconds? All this self-control had to be good for something. Originally posted at Dreamwidth. Comment there (
), or feel free to comment here.