Garfield Run

I love this place, so how could I let it burn?

I’ve been having reactions to the world that this nervous anxiety that is flaring up is telling me I can’t share.  This has been my life for always.  I intuit a reality that is personally terrifying, I shut up about it, just let shame force up a smile, let a face show focus.

I’m thinking about things that I have opinions about because I am alive and an individual and sometimes these things and opinions are out of line with my own circumstances.

It’s the high-dive.  Where I wait, standing on the edge of the edge, up over the sea of light and ruin.  They said doing the thing was where the magic was, nowhere else, and still I stood, blankly.  Another woman at the office is leaving after just two nights ago we had a big party to say goodbye to another, when not two days ago I had to sneak away the computer of another while they told him and five others in some office not to come back.  I am not existing in a vacuum.  Then the nice, but not particularly warm woman announces, casually that she’s pregnant, that she, at my age, is having a “geriatric pregnancy.”  Suddenly, the PMS throttles and sends me down some sort of biological clock luge.  Suddenly, I feel perhaps the burst of energy to get me to jump from this place into anything, anyone, anyway, but I look down and the sea is a sea of knives.  I look up and the birds that begin to swarm, knives, too.

I write this and know that there’s no place to go, but yet, maybe.  Maybe in the surreal world we share, I could fall and make it.  One hit point left. And if not make it, have the victory of having escaped the question.  Will I ever? Ever, never, ever?

This sounds darker than it is. But it isn’t not a cheerful prospect. It is factual in a way no one deigns to speak with me.

I called yesterday to see again about some therapy, some venting of the spleen and heart, easing of these sparklers I call a nervous system.

Could I make a plan to divest myself of circumstances that pain me within one year?  Could I delve deeply into these ideas of perfection, imperfection, motherhood, being loved, being feminine, having ownership of my own vessel again?  Could I go into the painful places rather than pretending I have none?  Could I be honest about the fact that all of this is my choice and nothing that is happening to me or owed me by any other entity in all the wide universes? One year can be remarkable in terms of habit, in terms of total output, but I have no reason to believe myself capable of doing much more than finding my way back into bed after breakfast.  I don’t know how to make this plan.

But I at least want to make one.  I don’t know how to get out of the January Trap, but I at least want to.   I don’t know how to jump or climb, but I at least am blinking in Morse code to the versions of self, the Astrids, the engaged and alive and writing parts of myself, that I’m here and I want help.

 

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