I could look back on the past eight months as a murky period spent spinning my wheels. Much is the same with my life; single and lonely, working at a frustrating job that destroys my health and grinds me down to dead-tired almost every day. I’m still not talking to my sister and my parents don’t know why. I suppose “estranged” is what I’d call it. A concept I never fully understood until I started living it.
Of course, I was living it in a different sense since childhood.
Whoops. Gotta back up. My thought process is a bit muddled and the caffeine hasn’t kicked in.
One of the best pieces of advice that I have ever received came from an angry improv coach: “If you don’t know what’s going on, shut the fuck up and figure it out. You won’t learn anything by talking.”
After seven months in therapy, I had covered a great deal of superficial problems, but never allowed myself to delve into the whys or wheretos or hows. Being someone who spent most of his time being quiet and keeping most of his feelings under wraps didn’t serve me well. Because of what had happened to me, I began to wonder if my demeanor was an innate part of myself or a trait seared into my mental flesh.
I began talking more, even about things that had no bearing on a session or my mental health. I took up writing again, for those days when a stray memory/feeling would creep into the waking hours. It was up for grabs, no matter how irrelevant or stupid or embarrassing. I would get exhausted of talking, straining against my mind to break through the walls that would pop up when I ran out of organized thought.
I got no definite answer about whether the quiet, polite persona I lived was my true self or just something I took up as a shield to protect myself in a dangerous situation (as it turned out, being afraid of home is not supposed to be a healthy part of life. Who knew?). I wouldn’t even know if there was a single part of myself that hadn’t been warped by the abuse. Connections had been made, however. Past occurrences linked to current patterns. And enough frustration built up to the point where I wasn’t content staying the same.
Very little has changed, in terms of the outside world. I’m still a member of the working poor, too fucked up to function in a proper romantic relationship, and just now realizing that I don’t have a single close friend in this city. Inside my foggy, fractured head is a different story; lanterns have been hung and boxes unpacked, with a better perspective on what my baggage looks like and which of it gets to stay around.
P.S. Don’t forget to fart.