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The Feeling(s) Of Not Feeling


(An exploration of personal struggle)

Recently, I have been a true victim of one of the most tumultuous (inescapable) journeys that life can assign or serve or curse a single sentient fool with. That hellish journey, for me, is reliving and for the first time…the real life, the truth I have squandered, abominated and turned into crystallized blood for all my conscious life. The unfortunate reality is that my backstory is no story. The experiences I share…that I give away to loved ones are synopsis of a life that is simply not real to the translator that my outside personality has become. My outside-personality, the representative of my emotional self myself has become a vulgar, intellectually stifled critic. The person who feels our hell of living is so distant inside of my mind but has become overthrown with boredom and saturated in isolation. Somehow the artist inside of my fortress has painted the imagery; diabolically honest visuals, perfected to kill my stone walls. My prisoner of war is trying to breakout.


I tried to explain it…the feeling of the artist and poet in me-fighting the comedian, the witty end of the fiction writer living on the outside. I felt like she was dragging me into her world. A place I have been but never accepted or felt the real effects of those moments, or all those years that rotted in my eyes. Life rotted as I formed hope and I hate myself for it. And here I am…writing to escape the little, painful poet inside who is screaming into my chest cavities, flooding my synapses with a revolting and guttural, petrifying strength.


I am not myself as I was when I entered this world and took my first breath. I’m not yet sure of the age I was when the separation (of myself from…myself) became the priority and the savior of my childhood. My child psyche…my only innocuous, inimitable and damn near immortal self that I could save with the inner adult that every growing human soul forms throughout their entire life experience. I needed mine early-please forgive me.


I remember some moments where I experienced a close enough version to the feelings of the typical child. But I wish I didn’t, because it makes the memory of those iridescently delicate feelings, being eaten and detestably desecrated so much more painful than I ever needed to know. Haunting and darkly emotive from the eyes of the survivor (myself). I was dying physically and emotionally, overcome by denials chaotic functioning. I wasn’t content or comfortable, or even living a barely decent life. Without the ability to experience or display emotional expressiveness that was passable; that is living without even the daydream of pleasure or ease. An effusion stifled and necessary for survival. I chose that over drowning in tears, suffocating me physically and dissolving in torture, invisibly visible.


I’m sure that I very easily could have been the youngest person anyone (mostly) knew who committed suicide. I remember the first time I inquired about suicide, I was 7 or 8 years old. I still shared a room with my sister. My mom was saying goodnight to me and I asked her what ‘happens if you kill yourself?’ (the notion of being your own murderer had somehow entered my mind and became something I analyzed obsessively (still playing with dolls as I ponder mortality.) My Moms response was, “You’ll be reborn mentally retarded or deformed.” I cried and went to sleep. I would carry this contemplation for the rest of my life. It’s a painful concept that feels a lie you can’t kill off in your mind, in your haven of private, internal thoughts.


My emotional nausea screams like inhuman nature. Like the being left behind when something essential has been defamed, denigrated and defiled. When the natural, instinctual innocence of a life is hellishly peeled apart in an apoplectic, reclusive realism and dies. I wouldn’t let that integral light die silently, inside of me in the night. Instead, I forced it to hide in and with me. The physically taxing love I had been containing was making me sick and I was so confused. I put my love inside of myself quietly and with romantically deft precision.


The duality of living this way has twisted and molded my reality to a such a drastically different perception of who and where I am in comparison to most people. It is even petrifying to conceive of, especially to myself. I am often physically experiencing the effects of fear while I do just about anything, it’s just a daily occurrence in my life. Such a jarring occurrence that over time became so distressingly constant that I didn’t, couldn’t recognize what it was anymore. And now the merciless dragging of what feels like someone else’s death-bed soliloquy, has begun to bother and disturb me in places I didn’t know I had. Inside of numbed emotions I could only witness and never feel, never rightfully claim as my own.


The dreams of a child prisoner who is desperately beating on the windows of its own unlivable life is stronger than my nightmare. Forcing its beautifully crafted pilot, their breathing strength, to stop and take the hand of its rightful owner. Give the wheel to the director. The sorrow can’t be stopped.


I am listening to myself speak, intently, and I am heartbroken by what I hear. It’s not that I haven’t heard it all, known it all before…but in a way it is like that. I’m becoming strange contortion of staggered realism spiked with defragmenting intrusion. I never let myself watch the footage she (the me that is overcome with a sadness that sits). She saved it for me to see one day I could face the monster, destroy my sickness and have a real life, a life that makes some semblance of sense. To prepare for inevitably forcing myself accept that I definitely lived that nightmare…I collected proof. I moved through my own life as a stranger, dragging a melancholy silence, encrusted with a ferocious will.


My painfully concentrated yearn to self-preserve is like a wave from the ocean that erodes mounds of stone to sand over time, but not in millions of years, mere seconds that feel like millions of years. Natures helpless helping hand, effortlessly fueling the wills that live forever inside the rearing stasis hopeless hope.


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