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Pointless Plethora

Why I tread the same paths

For most of my life, I have cultivated the very strange habit of giving my heart away to people that will never be able to give it what it needs.

I know that my very nature makes me demanding. I need passion, lust, an urge for more, interesting conversations about literally everything and anything but especially philosophical and metaphysical subjects,  I need to be cuddled and even babied sometimes, I need to be held and comforted and reassured, and have my fears calmed and my anxiety soothed, I need to be shown infinite respect, devotion and patience, but still given space and time to breathe and grow on my own, I just- listen; I need a lot, ok? I need a lot. And I give a lot back. A fuckton of lot. I am able to give people love and devotion and knowledge and diversity of thought that they had never even assumed possible before. A bit of emotional damage and mental instability come with the package as well, yes, but I know damn well what I bring to the table. And I know what I need the other person to offer as well.

I know that. I’ve been aware of it for a few years now. So why the fuck do I keep putting my effort and emotionally investing myself in someone that I know cannot give me what I want and need?

Obvious answer seems to be that deep down I kind of want it to fail because I don’t actually believe I can be with someone in a well-balanced healthy partnership, because if I was, then maybe I would actually be… happy. *gasps* And who would Diana be without the misery that always follows? Who would I be, without the veil of sadness decorating my work and my words? Would I still be me, if I was actually content and satisfied with my life? Maybe that’s it.

Continue reading “Why I tread the same paths”

Cold, cold mornings

I wake up some mornings and loneliness just hits me. Like a tidal wave. Like a gush of wind left by a speeding train. I reach out my arms and grab the nearest source of comfort. Usually a pillow or the corner of my covers. I hold on to it and wish that it was a warm living body that would reach out back and hold me tight.

I mean, it’s not so much about wanting someone’s body next to me, as it is about wanting someone’s presence protecting me. I wake up feeling so defeated, sometimes. Like everything is for nothing, and I’m just passing time until the End comes.

See, the thing is, I live my life in a constant state of fear. What generally varies is the degree to which I can control the way I show and express it. But I am scared, almost all of the time, and the truth is… that arm that goes around you in the middle of the night and pulls you closer, or that kiss on your shoulder or forehead or hair, that moment when they feel you trembling, or sobbing or even crying, and hold you and you genuinely feel the fear walking away from you both, that is the most grounding comforting anchor I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s one of the few things I’ve ever felt in my life that has made me feel a little less lonely in this vast scary universe.

I wake up and everything feels just so impossibly cold and empty and stripped of substanceThe idea of getting dressed and going to work weighs on me like a subtle urge to vomit. I can’t move, but I have to, but I can’t, but I have to. I cry. I compartmentalize. I move. I get up.

I value my alone time and space more than most, but some days, sometimes, being alive is too much of a heavy weight to bear on your own. It chokes you. The curse of being conscious of your inevitable demise, the burden of wanting to do something meaningful with your life and not knowing how.

I start panicking over the things I want to do and haven’t done yet, over the meaning I perceive to be lacking in my life, about every second that I’ve wasted not being who I want to be and not doing what I’m meant to do.

I think of the people I’ve had and lost, of the hugs that felt like home to me and that I haven’t felt in years. I get angry at the world for not giving me someone that will take care of me and hold me and make me feel safe, and then I feel angry at myself for even needing that in the first place.

Why can’t I warm myself in those mornings?  Why do I make my sense of safety and security rely on the notion of strong arms, forehead kisses and man’s cologne? I should be enough for myself, shouldn’t I?

And I am. Most days. But some are so.very.cold. Especially in the morning. It’s always the mornings that get me. And as tough as I am, and as special as some connections are, sometimes all I need, all I wish I could have, is somebody else’s warmth, their arm pulling me closer in bed and their embrace keeping me safe from harm.

I think sometimes we all do.

The Heart’s Kintsugi – Can Trust Truly Be Repaired?

Featured image by David Pike© (found here)

All my life I’ve seen the people around me profess that the undeniable truth about trust is that once it has been broken, it cannot be mended and has been irreversibly damaged forever. And it makes sense, in a way. When you let yourself fall, and the person you trusted to catch you doesn’t – and maybe wasn’t even looking in your direction or noticing that you were falling, -, the relationship (be it romantic, platonic, or familial) suffers a metaphorical but very real blunt force trauma.

It is as if a connective fiber in your heart is brutally severed, either all of a sudden without warning, or through small cuts that were delivered over time, through small lies, misunderstandings, refusals to listen, to understand, to be better.

When that connection of trust is severed, letting oneself fall again is very near to impossible. We’re scared. We don’t trust. We don’t have reasons to. We’ve been hurt, either by betrayal, lack of communication or appreciation, an unwillingness to understand and improve. We deny ourselves the possibility of going back to the way things were before. We’re not sure of anything. How can we ever let ourselves fall again when that person was just. not. there?

It is no wonder that it appears obvious to most people that breaking a bond of trust is much like breaking a glass or a ceramic bowl. Irreparable. But the thing is, the latter isn’t. Not necessarily. There are ways to mend broken things, without trying to erase the fact that they have been broken. Continue reading “The Heart’s Kintsugi – Can Trust Truly Be Repaired?”

The Pain of Being an Empath

Definition of empathy*

2:  the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present without having the feelings, thoughts, and experience fully communicated in an objectively explicit manner;

I feel a lot of things, and I feel them a lot. This gross oversimplification of the way my brain processes my own emotions and experiences as well as other people’s is what I usually say when I just want to convey that I am a very sensitive person. Not necessarily or exclusively in the “you hurt my feelings” kind of way, but specifically in the “I have a hyper-aware mind and highly perceptive senses, which means I often feel other people’s emotions in my own skin and that can sometimes be overwhelming and hard to digest” kind of way.

Putting it in a very explicit, maybe not quite so elegant manner, it essentially means the following:

I can easily – and without having much control over it – feel other people’s feelings and emotions as if I were in their place. No, it does not mean I know what it’s like. No, it does not mean I can speak for that person’s feelings as if my perception was more valid than theirs.

It just means that I feel them, in the most instinctive and primal way I can conceive of. It means my brain internalizes someone else’s pain, grief, happiness, or excitement, and makes it my own, gives it a meaning inside of myself as if somehow, somewhere, maybe in a parallel universe, it has actually happened to me.

Continue reading “The Pain of Being an Empath”

When I was 14

When I was 14, I thought about killing myself a lot. I’m not sure I ever had a definitive plan to actively do so, but I fantasized about my own death the way I fantasized about knowing what a boy’s lips tasted and felt like.

I toyed with the idea in my mind, flirted with it and imagined the sweet relief of a final and permanent absence of pain. Everything inside of me ached, and I wounded the outside of me just to see the ache materialized in something other than an invisible crushing weight.

The only thing I knew was pain, self-disgust and a constant awareness of inadequacy. Every single part of my body and mind felt wrong and as an aberration of existence. My dark body hair, my excruciating periods, my strong facial features, my anxiety and depressive tendencies and even my intellectual singularity and hyper awareness of myself and the world, all felt like a burden it was not fair I had to carry, it was not fair I had to live with, while everyone else seemed to effortlessly live, have friends, have lovers, have fun.

I used a box cutter to etch my feelings on my skin, I spat out names at my reflection in the mirror and almost searched for reasons to hate myself even more, to at least have actual palpable motives to loathe myself as much I did. I held on to my self-hatred as if it was the only anchor I had left tying me to this world. Continue reading “When I was 14”

Starting Over

I wake up scared.

What if that was the only story I had to tell?

I go through the pages, try to see if some part of me was left unscrutinized, untouched, unwritten.

I see all of me, lying naked within my own words, and I feel a shudder shoot from my brain to my feet, dragging my heart along with it to the bottom. I see all of my tricks, my best lines, my best paragraphs, my best punch lines, and the thought sinks into my stomach once again.

What if this was the only story I had to tell?

I open a blank page and start writing. Urgently, anxiously, carelessly (or as carelessly as my obsessive thoughts let me).

I soon become stuck.

No, I’ve used this expression before, I’m sure of it.

I’ve written about this a million times.

Who the fuck even wants to hear the same old sad story again?

A million people have written this story before, and most of them did it better than I ever can.

I become consumed with the idea that my words can now only echo things that I’ve already written, feelings that I’ve already felt, and ideas that I’ve already used up. My alliterations seem forced and my metaphors feel like nauseating clichés.

My mind closes itself from the inside out and I’m left strangling in the chokehold of my own insecurities.

I can’t write. I never could. I just tricked myself into thinking that.

Continue reading “Starting Over”

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