Monday, June 7, 2010
We have good intentions of longevity.
Just no realistic means on how to get there.
Nor much of a desire to truly pursue it, if it can't be done on our own terms.
Grant me life, grant me liberty, grant me my safety blankets.
Do you think I wish to have my obsessions? My need to kiss the back of my two right knuckles every twenty seconds when lost in thought, thinking that it will somehow excuse the rancid self deprecation or strange fantasies that play through my mind? This need to murmur a prayer every every few steps as I move, lost in the stories I write, to whatever God may be listening, "I'm playing right now, God." As if this omnipotent being won't realize the world I make in my head isn't real....like those thoughts don't apply to my day to day routine.
Or that I enjoy having to have the same amount of pieces on each side of my mouth? That I must start first right-left-right-left, bowl of cereal? Count out the cocoa puffs in the spoon--five pieces right, five pieces left. Rarely chew on each side at the same time, and if I do, I have to count out the bits with my tongue to make sure it's even. Otherwise, my head feels too heavy on one side, and it will drive me up the wall.
Do I like having my gums ache from the violence with which I gnaw the insides of my cheeks?
Do I like having bloody marks across my back from where I've picked at my skin?
Do I enjoy the need to pick at my fingers, or to have to click my car alarm repeatedly at a frantic pace until I hear it beep three times? With the exact pulse in the middle.... "Beepbeep---------beep." Or that my obsession with numbers is comfortable? The need for either evens, or divisible by three....nine. Four. Ten. Twelve. Two.
Three feels off balance. Off kilter. Off course.
It depends on what it is. But three is a tetchy number.
Nine is okay. Nine can be divided by three, three times. It is a safe number.
Do I like having to find patterns in the numbers I look at? Searching for meaning in liscence plates? In addresses? "1:23 PM" is when this draft was autosaved on my blogger. It's 124pm now. 1x2=2, 2x2=4, 4/2=2, 2/2=1. Counting. Rounding. Trying to find perfect squares. Trying to find fives, patterns of three. Always looking for patterns.
Having to kiss my rings when I wear them. To the point where they're always on my mind. Constant realizations of their existence, heavy laden with symbolism. Teddy bears that I feel like I can't get rid of, can't hurt, can't do things to, because of the spirits that live in them. Things that people can't touch because of how quickly it would ruin them....
....The feeling that the eyes of photographs are always watching me. Judgmental. That I'm never alone in my head. That there is some presence, always weighing it's judgment heavy on me.
That I can't exult in the positive or curse it. That I must never focus on the good, or revel in it, or feel superior in it, or rejoice too openly, because it will attract the negatives of the universe and it will cause it all to be ruined.
That I must always criticize myself. That I must always hate myself. That I must take quiet pride, and acknowledge good with a distant eye, but then focus only on the bad that must be corrected. The imperfections that need to be fixed.
The things that still lvie inside of me.
"I lost three pounds! ...I'm still fat."
Always just seconds of joy over accomplishments. Then forcing my thoughts to what is left.
I feel exhausted under the weight of my imperfections. Under the fears that constantly assail me.
I can't have the wasabe touch the california rolls in the container. Because then if it brushes against even one grain of rice, it's all contaminated. And everything the package of California rolls touches will then also be contaminated.
Waffles are filled with lies and terrifying things.
Stepping unevenly between lines in sidewalks will make my legs feel off track.
I can feel the cracks on my feet in the pavement, even through my shoes. Tingling spots that need to be balances, having to alter steps, making sure each foot shares an equal number of times the toes fall behind the lines, or each foot gets an equal amount of times it first steps over the crack, and an equal distance.
I have to sometimes force my eyes up and bite my cheeks bloody if I don't want to focus on it.
It drives me insane.
It makes me want to scream.
One two three, one two three.
Everything to a rhythm.
No sentence is ever perfect.
No words are ever correct.
Odds and evens, odds never able to exist unless it's five or three, and then having to work with the equations. Squares, patterns, numbers of, factors of, always looking for deeper meaning, for deeper symbols, for some sign of life or something to prove that there's a purpose or a cause or another presence and yet so afraid of that presence and it's judgment and loving it at the same time.
Feeling like there are multiple personalities and beings observing from the outside.
The gods of my private faith, and the eyes of millions of others, always assessing, judging. Some keep me sane. But others hate me. Make me feel guilt.
Guilt if I eat.
Guilt if I don't.
Guilt for loving hunger.
Guilt for loving fullness.
Guilt for loving the taste of food.
Guilt for hating it.
Guilt for thinking about.
Guilt for being so selfish as to be concerned with it.
Guilt for not being good enough.
Guilt for not being a better trainer.
Guilt for not being a better friend.
Guilt for daring to feel guilty.
Guilt for daring to be sad.
Guilt for daring to be happy.
Guilt for daring to be proud.
Guilt for judging myself too harshly.
Guilt for never judging myself harshly enough.
I shut off my mind.
Function through emotions with a decided lack of emotions.
The more I'm removed, the easier it is.
I throw myself into the lives off others, into the minds of others, existing always in their eyes and forgetting for a while that I am trapped behind my own. Molding myself to be what they want me to be, and dreading those moments when I come back down to who I am. To the neurosis that consumes me.
Picked on back.
The scent of lavender causing panic attacks.
The smell of cotton candy perfume causing longing.
If there was a way to silent my thoughts and hush the cacophony that is my internal voice, I would.
I know I'll never be good enough to meet the standards of my own mind.
To assuage the voices and opinions of the millions of eyes that live behind my own, turned inward instead of out, gauging ruthlessly the value of the body and the person who resides within it.
There's too much contradiction to make every shard of me happy.
And so I am stuck as this.
A person who looks into mirrors and fears that things are there that cannot be reflected, looming behind me. Who is afraid of closing their eyes and washing their face in front of one, because they worry their reflection will not move, just stare at them in judgment. The person who does not recognize herself in photos, mirrors, puddles on the ground....
I am stuck as me.
Whoever that may be.