Ugh! Bleh! Whatever!
The worst thing that I can ever experience is the realization of having hurt myself due to having a Pollyanna attitude. I am listening to Sia’s “Breathe Me”, as I write this, feeling as vulnerable as she is feeling in the song. This vulnerability and hurt is not caused by anyone but me. I am fully accountable for how I feel. I am not under any illusions that anyone is to blame for my scars, nicks and bruises. I did it. No one is to blame. And, what saddens me about this is: Why would I allow myself to hurt? Why would I choose to make my life anything but always happy? Is this a subconscious self-hatred manifesting? Do I like pain? Do I enjoy having tears come down my face instead of laughter and joy? I can’t tell that I am distressed anymore, that’s how distressed I am.
The only thing that is allowing me to know that all is not well are the symptoms of my anxiety. When I get to this point of stress, I make a conscious effort to disengage because nothing is worth my health and happiness. Yes, I’m very fragile for such a strong gal. I endure things that do not please me because I am behaving in a manner that can manifest my desires, keeping my eyes on the prize. But, once the pursuit of the prize begins to manifest in sickness, though, I have to stop, even if I would have liked to go on. Still, I do these things that hurt me, knowing what will happen and I disappoint myself very much when I hurt my health. It means I am having a dumb moment, which sickens me since I know better.
Why do I open up my heart to strangers knowing very well that strangers are dangerous?
Well, I do have a theory as to why I torture myself. I think that I put myself through harrowing times of heartache and pain because my desire for happiness is more than my fear of pain. Actually, I don’t fear pain. I merely don’t enjoy it. In fact, if emotional pain didn’t affect my health, I’d probably endure it longer. Like patience, I can wait for years to achieve a goal, but it doesn’t mean that the wait was enjoyable. In fact, I am impatient and my tolerance for pain is very low too, but I don’t behave in a protective way to avoid these unpleasant experiences because I am an idiot. I say, “It is worth it.” But, just as I am accountable for the tears that go down my face, I am also accountable for the joy and happiness that radiates outward from my heart. So, I have to take risks, right? I must just know when to quit.
Because, I am an extremist with an obsessive personality, I never know when to stop until it is too late. I never know when to stop until I have come to a point where I have damaged myself. That’s the problem with us compulsive types, hence many of us are drug addicts, because we usually have to hit rock bottom for us to let go of something that’s obviously bad for us, and even then, rock bottom usually lasts for longer than necessary as we tell ourselves “Maybe I should do it one more time...”
I always tell myself that happiness is worth the risk, worth the pain, worth the shame, worth the sacrifice and worth the energy. I always tell myself that happiness is worth everything, and so I get to experience shit in the hopes that I can find my happiness. But with age, I have learned that happiness is not worth my physical health because 80% of my happiness is due to being healthy and having vitality. I wish it didn’t have to come to feeling physically unwell to let go of behaviour but until I learn a better way to identify the line that I can not cross, I will have to use my body as a gauge. I am the type that burns out because of this extremist, compulsive stupidity. I like speed because of this. I am just a danger to myself, honestly.
I feel everything intensely. That is the problem. I have not felt so-so in a long time. So, even though I seldom grieve, even though I seldom cry from pain, even though I seldom feel like a fool, even though I seldom feel like I made a mistake – when I do feel such, it hits me so hard that I can’t even remember how happiness once felt. Similarly, when I am happy, I can’t remember what sorrow felt like, so I guess it balances out?
I always say that my personality comes with many gifts of creativity, gifts of inventiveness and great gifts of perseverance, but it also comes with curses, haunting curses which I can’t escape. I am such a typical artist, it makes me sick. I am just like Marilyn Monroe in the film, “My week with Marilyn” and like Howard Hughes in “The Aviator”. It seems so glamorous to be me from the outside, I am sure. I am someone who people envy, I am someone who people find interesting, and someone who has a story to tell, they say. But, how did these story form? The stories, the charisma, the eccentricity and the enigma were created through pain.
Someone said that I can’t handle rejection. I smiled, thinking, “You have no idea how often I get rejected.” My life has not allowed me the opportunity to get what I desire when I desire it. My life is shaped in such a way that I get lots of rejection for long periods of time, and then, like a miracle, I get a big break, which is usually short-lived, only to go back into my slump of never ending rejections for more years until I get another big miracle. Just because I experience rejection often doesn’t mean it stops feeling like crap. As a matter of fact, the more I experience, the worse it feels.
I know, it is tough to imagine that a beautiful, intelligent woman, who is capable and gifted, would experience rejection in anything she desires, but it happens to me. I smile as I write this because people assume that my life is just flowers and butterflies, easy sailing and extra-ordinary, but it isn’t. My life is ordinary to me. The reason why my life might not be as easy as people think, is because people aspire to be and do things that I am doing or things that I have done, whereas I aspire to be more than what I was or more than what I am now. I lie. I don’t see what people see that makes them think my life is easier than it is. I kind of hate being alive. I am alive because I am not dead. So, I do things to keep me busy while I wait to die. So, I don’t get why people think I am new to pain, rejection, hopelessness, and all negativity known to man.
I am happy, sure, but not right now and definitely not all the time. I still get gut wrenching moments of pain and sorrow. I leave myself vulnerable, that’s why. I need to be vulnerable if I am to not kill myself even though it causes pain. Without being vulnerable, I would never feel that I am loved, and I would never feel love. I would not be able to be excited; I would not be able to feel hope, faith and gratitude. This same vulnerability that makes me cry makes me feel joy.
This same vulnerability that makes me feel stupid gives me songs to write, stories to write, topics to contemplate and laughs to have. Therefore, it is useful, but I can’t always be vulnerable because that would kill me too, so I sometimes stop feeling vulnerable and build a wall in order to heal myself from the damage that I have caused.
I hate putting up the shell. The shell makes me irrational, cold and cruel. It makes me blind, deaf and unfeeling. I see nothing but the wound when the wall is up, and I shoot on-sight anything that comes close to the wound. Then, I miss out on possible friends, possible laughs, possible love because I have shot them dead. At this time, I tell myself that if it was meant for me, it will survive the bullet wound to the head but, not many things survive a bullet to the head, do they?
I remind myself of my ex-boyfriend. He broke my heart. Then, when he decided to come back into my life, all doors were shut. He says he loved me. He says he tried his best to get me back. I still don’t believe he ever did love me or even tried enough to get me back. You see, what’s enough for me is different to what’s enough for another. Life went on, he decided to move on, he said, because he couldn’t wait for me for ever. I remember thinking, “You think that’s all you needed to do? Maybe, if you waited a bit longer and tried harder, we would have made things work.” But, he didn’t wait as long as I wanted or needed, even though he waited as long as he could wait. Tragic.
While we lick our wounds, people move on. And, while I lick my wounds, I lose out. Moping is just a waste. So, my life has been about making my recovery time from pain as short as possible, because I don’t want to push well meaning people away from my life because I allowed myself to be wounded for too long, wounded by things that had nothing to do with me. So, I cry, I hurt, and I experience pain in a very deep way but I make it quick. Being miserable isn’t fun, anyway. It just drains me and makes me not laugh, and I love laughing.
Anyway, the point is, being me comes with a price that many people wouldn’t be able to afford. Being me comes with a lot of rejection from strangers and friends. Being me comes with a lot of people judging me, pointing fingers at me in awe from shock, disgust or self-righteousness. I am not an easy person to handle. I am not an easy person to be. I am a freak, this thing that people view as exotic and different, this thing that people like to look at, this thing that people talk about, a thing which entertains even though it is not always liked. I do things in ways that are considered wrong. I do things in ways that people wish I wouldn’t. This makes me enigmatic, but it makes me cry and smile simultaneously.
The truth is, I don’t know what to do with myself when I affect myself negatively. I guess I just ride it out. If I was the only human, I wouldn’t be affected negatively by who I am, because I really do like myself. It is just unfortunate that liking myself, and being myself has to hurt, annoy, scare and repulse others. I’m like a serial killer. In a world where being honest was a crime like murder is in our world, I would be jailed as serial killers are jailed here, because they enjoy doing what they do even though it hurts others.
The truth is, I hate it when I make people unhappy unintentionally. I prefer making people unhappy on purpose. LOL. Actually, I don’t know what this blog is about. It has gone from one point to another, and I have been trying to get it on track, but now I give up. I am just having a bad couple of hours, because I feel unwanted, judged and a bit foolish. I’ll get over it though, trust me. I always do. I just wish I would stop putting myself in these situations. Unfortunately, I think this is the life I shall die living.. I must just get used to it. I feel like shit for 4 to 8 hours every month. That’s just what I do. When I feel bad, I must just view it as part of life, like eating and taking the trash out. It is just those unpleasant things I have to do to live.
P.S. There are no pictures or music for you on this post because I can't be bovvered. :)
P.S. There are no pictures or music for you on this post because I can't be bovvered. :)