Intermittent Paranoid

There is another, longer post in the works. Funny enough, I'm actually working on one instead of sitting down and hammering out whatever bug has lodged itself in my skull.
But this post on the other hand, is most definitely that.

Line break (sic)

Scrutiny. It can seem like a religion, at times. I feel it all too often, I feel it from those I care about, I feel it most of all from myself.

Scrutiny. It becomes a mantra. I'm so bogged down with thinking what the right and wrong are, that inaction becomes the flavor of the week.

I'm afraid, all the time. My most paralyzing fear is missed opportunity, and it is a self fulfilling prophecy.

Scrutiny. I see what you did there. Please just don't look.

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Honesty, honestly.

Those who take the time to read this blog may have noticed that I've become more active as of late-this is not a coincidence. While I tend to be a fairly private person, and often keep my thoughts and feelings to myself, I've come to realize this is not a healthy lifestyle. This place is a place for me, have no doubts about that. This is where I can write, clear my head, and get my mind working on ideas and solving problems, but it is also a place where anyone who cares to can get some insight into my thoughts. On the other hand, the public nature of this requires me, for the most part, to be a little vague.

Now, dont get me wrong, I don't mind vague-in fact, vague I do very well, but at some point I began losing honesty in my writing. This place, here, is not the only place that I write. I keep many little notebooks and journals placed around for whenever the itch hits me. Even in those, though, I've always been overly verbose and speak in nearly incoherent metaphor. So I've embarked on a new writing venture, a daily one, in which I write down, short and sweet, the events of my day. Mundane or exciting, they all go in there. I use real names, places, and what I really feel about things, without grandiose run-arounds and hidden messages.

This is already scaring the shit out of me.

I have this inherent fear, and I always have, of people finding the wrong piece of paper, the wrong scrawl, and learning something I never should have committed to paper. This is a way of making me face my fear.

These notes will be published, online, but not here. I will most definitely put them somewhere where my identity will be a little more difficult to ascertain. I'm already falling behind on this, but I plan to get caught up today, and stay that way. Already I'm fretting where I've put these down for fear of their discovery, and the content thus far has been mostly benign.

My end-run here, is to hopefully, by being a bit more thorough in my communication to myself, I can be a bit more open with those I need to be-to speak things more plainly when I'm afraid to say them out loud.

Heaven help me.

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Impasse

Picture:
There is a door. There is someone on either side, but we can only see one side, because the door is shut. The person we see is banging on the door, begging the other to come out. Beckoning, then begging. Then finally they are bargaining, but from the other side of the door, nothing emerges, not even a sound. The desperation is not at all feigned, nor is it all-encompassing.
This door, you see, is not Their Door. The only thing holding it shut is a rule, not a lock or latch. Not even a rule, per se, as opening it would have no real repercussions. So in a way it is a game, albeit one they both take seriously.
But it is not Their Door, it is not in Their Place, and neither of them will come out as the victor. There's always somebody a step ahead.
The moral of the story?
I'm not out of the woods quite yet.

Listen:
There are a few things I want to say, to ask. I'm getting there. I've written in the past, though not here, that I feel scrutinized, overly, by some unseen force. I've since come to learn that that scrutiny comes from the other side of the door. I've also learned who is there: Nobody.
Nobody, as in Nobody. Only an irrational concept on a plane of rational things.
When one tends to deconstruct the world around them so that it fits into definable categories that can be restructured and re-purposed to fit into respective molds of understanding, the things that don't fit, that don't make sense, get put on the other side of that door. That's where Nobody is, and nobody, save Nobody, goes in there.

They say:
Nobody never feels fear, Nobody goes through life without doubt. Nobody doesn't cry.
That's impossible, Nobody could do that.
Nobody is in control. Nobody can tell you what to do. Nobody rules your life.
Nobody is watching.
Nobody.

Listen, again:
I've been, for most of my life, confident of myself. At some point in this last year, I lost that confidence. I lost respect for myself. I lost bits and pieces of the person I am, so slowly, so gradually, that when the bottom fell out, I hadn't even known there was a problem.
It is, however, getting better. Normalcy is being restored. Which has led me to new realizations-rather, discoveries of problems that have existed for a long time which I either didn't know about or long ago chose to ignore.

My confidence has never extended beyond myself. I have this deep seated need to ask for permission, for fear of offending or overstepping my bounds. For all my talk, this makes me a much less spontaneous person, averse to taking any risks that are not almost completely sure bets.
It's an affliction, and it nearly kills any ideals of romantic behavior.

I remember, my first ever girlfriend, Becky from Scipio. I remember sitting next to her, nearly touching her. I remember trying to get the nerve, for almost half an hour, to hold her hand. I remember my heart literally skipping a beat when I finally tried. I remember the nonchalance of her aquiescence, as if it was not at all an unexpected or unwelcome thing to do.
Of course, for most people, it wasn't.

Believe me when I say, for the most part, I got better at this sort of thing over time.

But:
Again I find myself at this level of confidence: wanting to boldly move forward, to take action. And it's nearly impossible. Again I feel the paralysis of that 11 year old boy, staring at Becky from Scipio's hand and imagining the softness of it, and imagining that just the action of reaching out and grasping will either evoke rage or passion from her.
So now, 15 years later, bruised and broken from things that have happened in between, my brain urges me to err on the side of caution, while my heart screams and rages to take chances. Diametrically opposed voices that both have very solid reasoning, but as a creature of logic I can't help but listen to my brain.
My brain looks to my heart, and tells it gently, "We've gone down these roads before, friend, and look where it's taken us."
Heart looks up at my brain, with a mixture of pity and shame on his face. "If you never take the chance to go somewhere unknown, you'll spend your whole life standing still, and nothing will ever change. 'I don't intend to tiptoe through life, only to arrive safely at my death.' Beauty is only found through adversity. Try it. Just one more time."

I just hope I'm not running out of opportunities.

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That missing piece.

     I sat at the table, tearing little shards of wrapper off of my bottle. For all my haughty thoughts, I was sitting there, and I couldn't think of the things to say. Or, rather, I just couldn't say them. I was very disarmed. I just wanted to tell you things, and not worry about them.
  
     I could tell you had that one thing that I almost always lack when I talk to people: an inner confidence, solidarity with yourself.

     I want to tell you all the things I was thinking, and that I still think, but to do it here is a coward's forum. I'd rather tell you in person. I just hope I get the chance.


~Section Break~

(fiction)

     She stepped into the room, kicking off her shoes. It happened again tonight. "It's going to keep happening," she sighed, "until I tell him to stop."
    The lump on the couch shifted until a head popped out from the blankets. "What was it this time, lamb?"
    Sitting roughly on the edge of the couch, she looked over at the upturned face. "This time it was Fear. He gave the guy Fear. I really wish I just had a normal family for once..."
    "Well, that's just your father being overprotective. I'll talk to him when he gets home, Someone needs to tell him his daughter is growing up." The blankets shifted, and the face disappeared. Slowly, they writhed their way up to pull her from the arm of the couch, enveloping her, laying her gently on the couch until she let out a sniffle, and went to sleep.
     "You know," the blankets whispered to the shadow in the corner, "you didn't even want to adopt a human in the first place. If you're going to be her father, at least be enough of a father to let her grow up."
     The shadow in the corner grunted softly, once, and faded away.

A labor of love letters to deliver.

A study in black and white, 

in ink and pen.

I'll let the words speak for themselves.

Olly-Olly-Oxenfree!

I got to play hide and seek with my sister today. The sun was lazily making its way towards the horizon, and dissapeared behind the trees as we pulled into the cemetary. My father got out of the jeep, and I followed suit a few seconds later. I thought we were looking for his father as we started combing the rows for the name Alexander.

"She's around here somewheres..." I heard my dad mutter. Less than 48 hours in Cortland and he'd already picked up the accent again. I joined him in pacing and scouring the rows when, unexpectedly, a smile came to my lips. I was playing hide and seek with my sister.

She was born in 1981, just 3 years older than me. For the first time in my life, she became real to me, and we werent playing hide and seek anymore. I pictured her now. Tall, lean, standing a few inches above my mom.

She'd probably still live in Chapel hill, she loved the city when she went to UNC. With 30 coming in just a few months, she told me she was a little worried. She had a great job, and had a decent boyfriend who was finally able to put up with her crazy side. He got along great with Scott and my dad. Mom has her heels cooled on him, but she's warming up. I think the guy's ok, I tell her, and that she needs to stop worrying. Just because shes older and dumber than me, it's no reason for her to be worried.

She laughs, and smacks me on the arm. Really, I tell her, you're doing great. 30 is going to be just as great as 25 was, she'd see. Scott was already planning the surprise party.

She looks more like dad than any of us, but she still has mom's nose. I've always hated that she had that nice, wavy chestnut brown hair, while I got dad's curls. She looks great for 30. Shes starting to get crows feet on her eyes, but she laughs a lot, so I'd expect nothing less. I give her a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, but she grabs my arm on my way to leave.

You know Ryan, she looks at me seriously, I'm your big sis. You can talk to me about any of this stuff you're going through. Everyone is a little worried about you. We just want to make sure you're happy. I give her a smile, and a bigger hug.

Thanks Laura, I'll think about it. I'll see you on Thanksgiving, you nosy old hag.

I love you too Ryan, she says sardonically.

I took a picture of her headstone. It seemed trivial, but I wanted some proof I had been there. Dad came back from the jeep with a towel to wipe some of the dirt off.

I may not have grown up with a sister, but family is family, and we all love her more than any of us even realize. I'm glad I finally got to meet her.

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All work and no play makes for handful of bad decisions, a drug problem, and taking candy from strangers.

Time-wise, at this exact second, this is feeling forced. Not in general, but literally in this moment. But it's important. This is becoming a sort of therapy for me, and though it may not be necessary, it certainly helps.

One of the most difficult things in life, I've discovered, is being able to admit that you're miserable. And I was very miserable. I'm still having my days. Consider this an open letter to myself, and to You, whomever You may be. There is no one single person that I can attribute each 'You' to, so if you feel that you belong there, You probably do.

You hurt me, after I helped sharpen the blade. The only thing to say about that is a fable about a snake that asks a woman to put it in her pocket. If You've never heard it before, then You'll have to find it Yourself. But the fact remains that You used the one thing I consider as the ultimate act of trust as a weapon for the ultimate act of betrayal. I say this, not to make You feel bad, but to consider, moving forward, that these are my terms. This is the one thing I'll ever ask You not to do. I've had a lot of help from You over the last months, as I was no longer Me. You, and You, and even You, taught me a lot about pulling myself out of my head, why it's important to sometimes just exist in a moment. There's so much freedom in that.

There are things that exist, and will continue to exist. Ignoring them will never make them go away, but it is OK to escape them, and to find a moment of infinite existence. You have helped me step outside my shell. You have taught me so many things. You have brought smiles to my face, while You brought heartbreaking sadness to my life.

I am lucky, and I am also sorry for this fact: There are so many people in my life that have reached their hands  out to me. And this is amazing. I thank You for doing this, and I feel I've never done enough to deserve it. I'm still a very private person, and prefer to keep the workings of my heart and mind to myself, but You were there when I couldn't hold back anymore and ad to let some of the steam roll off. It's important to do that. It's also, I'm learning, important to open up before the steam needs to be let out. It makes You a happier person.

I ask this of You now, and this is a You that all of You should find Yourself included: Tell me the truth. Not just when I ask for it, but not bluntly like a club, but tell me the truth. If there's bad news, proffer it up to my ears before I see it in your face. Because the magnitude of these things, when left to the imagination, grows like a virus.

You don't owe me anything. I want nothing for You but happiness. I want to give You nothing but happiness. And I hope we can all make each other happy for a long long time. I really do.

I end this with two quotes. I think they fit:

"She was sad, though. But it was a hopeful kind of sad. The kind of sad that just takes time."


"So, I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them."

The Great White Whale.

There was running, and there was a storm. I'm not sure if it was to or from either.

I've decided to (attempt to) update this on a (somewhat) regular basis. When I knew nobody was looking at it, I felt a little more freedom to ignore it or embrace it as I saw fit. I can't pretend to know who actually looks, who sees, who reads, who comprehends, but in the end, I've decided this isn't for you. This is for me. This is isn't you peeking in my windows, but rather me peeking out of it.

There are decisions to be made, and decisions to be ignored, and decision to leave forever undecided.

I've begun saying yes. To friends, old and new. To situations, bold and beautiful. To adventures, spontaneous. I've lost a lot of myself in the past. I'm an insensitive selfish bastard, who instead of fixing a problem, chooses to sit in the back licking my wounds and sending out snide remarks. Of the many things that make us people, one of the most important is who we choose to love. If you choose to allow communication to break down with strangers, acquaintances , friends, it's only a matter of time before those walls go up between you and those you love most. And thats only the beginning of the storm. So say yes. Not just that, but say yes, and ask others to come along. Invite those who are in whatever circle you see to join you. Maybe nobody else will say yes, but never let a no stop you from saying yes to yourself. Self discovery, 'Who am I?" has never quite worked out for me. The question shouldn't be "Who am I?" but rather "What makes me happy?"

As a friend told me recently, in perhaps not so many words, that it is not what you do, it's who you are. If they find me dead tomorrow in the street, the memories of the things I did will fade, the secrets will be smoothed over. A memory of a person begins to act like a ghost, and you forget the things they did, but you hold onto the person that was. This was an expensive lesson for me to learn, and I thank my friend every day for the little moments he was in my life.

I'd be surprised if you weren't there, but there's not enough wheat to feed the army.

A parable of sorts, based in truth and dream. Don't be mad at me for lying about the content.

Her dress swells around her knees as she strolls down the dirt path. Galoshes on, eyes facing the clouds in anticipation, her gait is almost that of a small girl walking in the sun for the sheer purposeless joy of adventure. I listen to her as she makes promises. I'm not sure who the recipients is: me, herself, the clouds, the wind, the oncoming storm?

Peals of thunder announce the lighting rolling up the horizon, and I stare at the garden across the street where a sunflower we relished began dancing in the breeze. The streets are empty, mostly, the waning sunlight and the darkening clouds turn the street into something resembling a ghost story.

Alone, we begin dancing in this pale light, the moisture in the air threating to dissolve us; we are steadfast in our decision. Tears roll out of the sky, joining with those on my face to mask the ache I have for more, always more. As the rain crashes, the wind roars, we don't fight it, merely come together, closer, to keep the warmth in. In this moment I can believe in eternity, as I never could before.

i'm not a poet, i just see the poem.

I wish you could see her:

dawn, broken into the room,

the pools of sunshine

beginning to collect in the corners.

sleep, still hanging in the air

countless thoughts

unspoken

understood

unable to fathom a way

to fix the world she lives in.

hoping i can at the least

fix the one she dreams in.

little cotton panties,

whisper secrets i shouldn't be hearing

under the cover

of an over-sized shirt.

i can see

the bones of her shoulders,

the swell of her back

curving to the small.

even in such a gown

she looks as elegant

and beautiful as any woman could

wearing the finest dress and minted shoes.

hair as beautiful off the pillow

as it is any other time,

it harvests the sunlight like wool

and burns its glow red

shaming the world with its brilliance.

a sad gaze, a smile

a tear.

tenderly gripped heartbeats to help me face the day

even though the pain is overwhelming,

knowing i have to share this smile,

this embrace,

knowing secrets only someone else should hear:

it is worth bearing.

for all the weight

for all the struggle

there is nothing i can say

there is nothing i can scream

there is nothing i can exclaim

to show the veracity for which i can endure

for the sake of her love.

I'm good at blogging.

Only 2 years. Only a different job now. Only more and more secrets piled into the multiverse. I wish I could align into word the things that are going on, but to blog or not to blog should never EVER be a real question. You already know the news of the day so the only thing you could be wondering about is the news of me. Well, too goddamn bad. Yes, I'm sad. Heartbroken, confused, wandering in a pile of shit I call my life. But it's my goddamn life, and I'll fuck it up any way I please.

Thank you.