Tangle of Thoughts
I'm an introvert, I'm telling myself. I'm not a "social" person, in fact I'm scared of people. Other human beings scare me in a way that not much else can, that deep down stomach-churning soul freezing sort of scared. They always have. I have an anxiety disorder. I have Post Traumatic Stress. All day long I am wrestling myself, debating myself inside my head.
I've been invited to a party. I've agreed to go to the party, which is being held by, and for, a dear friend of mine from high school. It's her birthday, she'll be 29; I have barely seen her since 17. I want to reconnect. This is what I'm telling myself when I'm not busy telling myself that I really should rather stay home. So the argument goes for most of the day.
I've secluded myself entirely. I've been laid off, and my life revolves around myself and my own precious little family unit. Sometimes I'd like to picture myself in a cocoon, wrapped up safely away from the world, nestled up in comfort. At some point I realized though, that cocoons are meant for growth, not hiding, and that eventually a butterfly does emerge, more splendid than it ever was before. Not like me, not by a long shot. Instead, I struggle out like I'm broken, afraid and tentative. Dragging myself along really, like I'm my own mother, scolding myself that I know what's best. I do know what's best, and what's best is to get on with life and stop acting like a scared child. I often feel of two minds, the one that drives for more, better, now, and then there's the one who drags behind, who fears, full of anxiety, the one who drags me down.
In the end, my mother mind wins. I tell myself I am going and that's final.
So I arrive at the party, and put on my most confident face. People I don't know arrive at the same time as me, I busy myself saying goodbye to my children. I bring my gifts inside and talk to the birthday girl for a little while, for as long as I can really - before she shoos me out into the backyard with a beer. My heart flips and flops and I can barely breathe. I don't know who's out there and every fear I've ever had comes screaming through my mind, and they're all stupid. "What will they do to me?" "What will I do wrong?" "What if nobody likes me?" "What if nobody talks to me?" and best of all "What if they laugh at me?"
I'm nearly 30 years old and I have the same fears about people that I had in 2nd grade.
I practice reworking my mental playback. I tell myself that nobody is that mean anymore, they aren't out to get me, and I'll do fine. I give myself a little pep talk, and then I paste on my best face again and do my best to amble on out like I belong.
To my relief, I know people there. I settle into a chair, drink beer and chat. The night wears on, and the more I drink the more comfortable I feel. The crowd begins to turn over, some leave, some arrive. I'm having a great time.
I wish this was simply my convoluted way of patting myself on the back for forcing myself to go somewhere that I knew, deep down, I would enjoy. But the story doesn't end here.
Somewhere during the night, I find myself seated next to one of the new arrivals. Everyone seems to know him, I watch him while he talks and laugh at his jokes. He's got long scraggly hair and some random metal t-shirt on, the kind of guy I would've been friends with 10 years ago. The kind of guy I probably would've dated back then. When things die down a bit I get to talking to him, about music of all things. Music is everything to me, I take it everywhere I go. It wasn't until I learned "grounding" techniques, in therapy, that I realized that I had been medicating myself with music all along. It's powerful to me, it can get me going, make me feel better, put me to sleep. Music is a friend when I need one, something that understands every complicated thing I feel and can't put into words. Music is magic, and its language is universal.
Of course it was metal. And I like metal, albeit symphonic metal more than anything. We agreed on how all-encompassing music is. We talked about how many layers there are to metal specifically, there's really something for everyone. I listened to a few notes of a song on his phone. We seemed to be getting along, and I was, truthfully, more than happy to find someone as excited about music as I am.
Fun guy, I thought. When my husband came to gather my less-than-sober self from the party, I told him about this cool friend I'd made. When I woke up the next day, I realized I hadn't asked him for a contact, facebook page or anything, but shrugged it off. It's a small town, everyone knows everyone anyhow.
As luck would have it, everyone does know everyone. A few days later I noticed him commenting on the status update of yet another friend, and I wrote him asking him about the music he'd played for me. So we became facebook friends, but didn't really speak again.
This morning I logged into facebook to find that this almost-friend of mine is dead. Died a couple days ago, in a car accident.
I feel sad. And I don't. I feel conflicted.
The thought came to me that there are so many gawkers when it comes to death. It seems insulting, in my opinion, as if they play a part in a play that nobody else knows they're in. They play the part of the mourner. And they belittle the pain and anguish of the people nearest and dearest to the departed, the family and close friends who have real grief that probably threatens to tear them apart. People come out of nowhere, having had little contact with the deceased, and cry dramatically about what a great person they've lost, how much love they have for them... the same people who couldn't pick up a phone or send an email while the person was alive.
And I don't want to be one of those. Truth - I did not know this guy, not really. I liked what I saw of him, and I feel awful that I won't ever know him further. I feel deprived of that opportunity.
I'm back into my shell of anxiety, not knowing if I should say something or not, that I felt there was something special about this man, even in our brief meeting. I second guess myself all the time, it's become the story of my life.
But there's been a lot of death staring me in the face lately, and it's surely caused me to be introspective. I don't want to spend my life being afraid, stifling myself to escape scrutiny, never wanting to say the wrong thing and terrified of risks. I had big dreams long long ago, dreams that I stuffed down and told myself I had no right to have. In some ways I now understand that I have been killing myself creatively for a long time, and telling myself it's just who I am, not that it's all I would allow myself to be.
I can't remember what exactly I envisioned when I started this blog, but I assure anyone reading it'll still remain true to randomness - it's what I do best. I'd like to start writing some, the lines between reality and fiction blur for me so:
- DISCLAIMER - anything I write can be understood as having a foot in reality, as I never venture far from it. Subjects may change, people may change, but I do often write from experience. Additionally, if you are reading, I welcome your critiques, not your abuse. Please keep that in mind.
Music and literature are the greatest forms of art to me. Even though I listen to music nearly every waking hour of the day, my singing voice falls somewhere between the sweet melodies of cow-in-heat, and strangled-cat. I cannot play an instrument, and even after much trying on my part, I cannot learn. I've resigned myself to enjoy the art of others in this arena.
Writing is something that I have the skills to do. I devour books the way I devour music, and I would spend all my time listening to music and reading books if I felt it wouldn't hamper my life-living. What I really think has stopped me so far is the crippling fear that I have that someone, somewhere may not approve of me. And I'm so done with it. Audience or not, this is my forum to do with what I wish.
And so I shall.
I've been invited to a party. I've agreed to go to the party, which is being held by, and for, a dear friend of mine from high school. It's her birthday, she'll be 29; I have barely seen her since 17. I want to reconnect. This is what I'm telling myself when I'm not busy telling myself that I really should rather stay home. So the argument goes for most of the day.
I've secluded myself entirely. I've been laid off, and my life revolves around myself and my own precious little family unit. Sometimes I'd like to picture myself in a cocoon, wrapped up safely away from the world, nestled up in comfort. At some point I realized though, that cocoons are meant for growth, not hiding, and that eventually a butterfly does emerge, more splendid than it ever was before. Not like me, not by a long shot. Instead, I struggle out like I'm broken, afraid and tentative. Dragging myself along really, like I'm my own mother, scolding myself that I know what's best. I do know what's best, and what's best is to get on with life and stop acting like a scared child. I often feel of two minds, the one that drives for more, better, now, and then there's the one who drags behind, who fears, full of anxiety, the one who drags me down.
In the end, my mother mind wins. I tell myself I am going and that's final.
So I arrive at the party, and put on my most confident face. People I don't know arrive at the same time as me, I busy myself saying goodbye to my children. I bring my gifts inside and talk to the birthday girl for a little while, for as long as I can really - before she shoos me out into the backyard with a beer. My heart flips and flops and I can barely breathe. I don't know who's out there and every fear I've ever had comes screaming through my mind, and they're all stupid. "What will they do to me?" "What will I do wrong?" "What if nobody likes me?" "What if nobody talks to me?" and best of all "What if they laugh at me?"
I'm nearly 30 years old and I have the same fears about people that I had in 2nd grade.
I practice reworking my mental playback. I tell myself that nobody is that mean anymore, they aren't out to get me, and I'll do fine. I give myself a little pep talk, and then I paste on my best face again and do my best to amble on out like I belong.
To my relief, I know people there. I settle into a chair, drink beer and chat. The night wears on, and the more I drink the more comfortable I feel. The crowd begins to turn over, some leave, some arrive. I'm having a great time.
I wish this was simply my convoluted way of patting myself on the back for forcing myself to go somewhere that I knew, deep down, I would enjoy. But the story doesn't end here.
Somewhere during the night, I find myself seated next to one of the new arrivals. Everyone seems to know him, I watch him while he talks and laugh at his jokes. He's got long scraggly hair and some random metal t-shirt on, the kind of guy I would've been friends with 10 years ago. The kind of guy I probably would've dated back then. When things die down a bit I get to talking to him, about music of all things. Music is everything to me, I take it everywhere I go. It wasn't until I learned "grounding" techniques, in therapy, that I realized that I had been medicating myself with music all along. It's powerful to me, it can get me going, make me feel better, put me to sleep. Music is a friend when I need one, something that understands every complicated thing I feel and can't put into words. Music is magic, and its language is universal.
Of course it was metal. And I like metal, albeit symphonic metal more than anything. We agreed on how all-encompassing music is. We talked about how many layers there are to metal specifically, there's really something for everyone. I listened to a few notes of a song on his phone. We seemed to be getting along, and I was, truthfully, more than happy to find someone as excited about music as I am.
Fun guy, I thought. When my husband came to gather my less-than-sober self from the party, I told him about this cool friend I'd made. When I woke up the next day, I realized I hadn't asked him for a contact, facebook page or anything, but shrugged it off. It's a small town, everyone knows everyone anyhow.
As luck would have it, everyone does know everyone. A few days later I noticed him commenting on the status update of yet another friend, and I wrote him asking him about the music he'd played for me. So we became facebook friends, but didn't really speak again.
This morning I logged into facebook to find that this almost-friend of mine is dead. Died a couple days ago, in a car accident.
I feel sad. And I don't. I feel conflicted.
The thought came to me that there are so many gawkers when it comes to death. It seems insulting, in my opinion, as if they play a part in a play that nobody else knows they're in. They play the part of the mourner. And they belittle the pain and anguish of the people nearest and dearest to the departed, the family and close friends who have real grief that probably threatens to tear them apart. People come out of nowhere, having had little contact with the deceased, and cry dramatically about what a great person they've lost, how much love they have for them... the same people who couldn't pick up a phone or send an email while the person was alive.
And I don't want to be one of those. Truth - I did not know this guy, not really. I liked what I saw of him, and I feel awful that I won't ever know him further. I feel deprived of that opportunity.
I'm back into my shell of anxiety, not knowing if I should say something or not, that I felt there was something special about this man, even in our brief meeting. I second guess myself all the time, it's become the story of my life.
But there's been a lot of death staring me in the face lately, and it's surely caused me to be introspective. I don't want to spend my life being afraid, stifling myself to escape scrutiny, never wanting to say the wrong thing and terrified of risks. I had big dreams long long ago, dreams that I stuffed down and told myself I had no right to have. In some ways I now understand that I have been killing myself creatively for a long time, and telling myself it's just who I am, not that it's all I would allow myself to be.
I can't remember what exactly I envisioned when I started this blog, but I assure anyone reading it'll still remain true to randomness - it's what I do best. I'd like to start writing some, the lines between reality and fiction blur for me so:
- DISCLAIMER - anything I write can be understood as having a foot in reality, as I never venture far from it. Subjects may change, people may change, but I do often write from experience. Additionally, if you are reading, I welcome your critiques, not your abuse. Please keep that in mind.
Music and literature are the greatest forms of art to me. Even though I listen to music nearly every waking hour of the day, my singing voice falls somewhere between the sweet melodies of cow-in-heat, and strangled-cat. I cannot play an instrument, and even after much trying on my part, I cannot learn. I've resigned myself to enjoy the art of others in this arena.
Writing is something that I have the skills to do. I devour books the way I devour music, and I would spend all my time listening to music and reading books if I felt it wouldn't hamper my life-living. What I really think has stopped me so far is the crippling fear that I have that someone, somewhere may not approve of me. And I'm so done with it. Audience or not, this is my forum to do with what I wish.
And so I shall.
I relate.
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