The tears don’t help anymore.
They just fall.
Did they ever lessen the pain?
And then I remember.
I never cried at all.
by Daphne Shadows
The tears don’t help anymore.
They just fall.
Did they ever lessen the pain?
And then I remember.
I never cried at all.
by Daphne Shadows
(From the get-go, I’m not talking about cutting myself or physically harming myself in any other way. Nor am I a masochist. Now that that’s out of the way…)
I was lying in bed this morning and my reflux was acting up so badly that I got heartburn. But I really didn’t want to get up. I was extremely tired and warm and comfortable but finally had to sit up. Ugh.
Now, I’m sitting there in bed and I realize my throat doesn’t hurt.
Let me give you a little backstory on why that’s important.
I’ve been having some health issues lately and one night last week, I felt like there was something in my throat. It swelled and I was afraid I’d not be able to breathe. So naturally, I panicked and ended up in the ER, hyperventilating for the first time in my life.
Totally not mortifying.
Blood testing shows that there’s something wrong with my parathyroid. (Parathyroid are these four little glands in the throat that control a lot of what goes on in your body health wise, mental, emotional, and physical.) My doctor told me that I needed a parathyroid scan and she’d send me to an Ear, Nose, and Throat specialist because there’s most likely benign tumors on my parathyroid gland which are causing all my issues.
Which is most likely what I can feel in my throat, but which won’t (as far as I know) cut off my breathing.
Woohoo! I like breathing.
I won’t go into detail (mainly because I’d feel like I was complaining and being dramatic, maybe later I’ll tell you) but my health has steadily been declining for three months now.
Something is wrong. Duh. This is pretty obvious right?
Okay, so now that you know that, where were we? – “I’m sitting in bed and I realize my throat doesn’t hurt.”
Right. So I start thinking like this: “well, if it doesn’t hurt, maybe I’m a psycho hypochondriac who made up the whole throat swelling thing, and I’m making this all up, and there’s nothing wrong with me, and I’m so stupid…yada yada yada”. Like that.
After I don’t know how long, I finally stopped myself.
Blood tests and doctors are telling me something is wrong with my parathyroid and I most likely have benign tumors that need to be removed.
I felt them before I even knew what hyperparathyroidism was!
So how could I have made the scenario up? I don’t control blood tests or doctors.
This made me realize something. Yay me!
(Remember, I’m trying to care about myself instead of hate myself. Trying to remember that I exist and all that… yeah, so I’m trying to pay attention to myself when I remember. Which isn’t often, but hey – I’m working on it.)
What my internal thinking this morning made me realize is – I measure whether or not something is real, emotional or physical, by pain.
If it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t real. “Must not be. How could it? I can’t feel it!”
Because of course I don’t feel happy – I’m ignoring that I exist! I don’t get the joy end of the spectrum.
By ignoring every thought, emotion, opinion, want, need, etc., I’ve set myself up to feel nothing but pain, when I feel at all.
Just because my throat didn’t hurt and the swelling (which is an off and on thing) wasn’t distracting – just because there wasn’t pain – didn’t mean it suddenly didn’t exist. If I pay attention, I can still feel something swollen in my throat.
But I don’t have to feel pain for it to be real!
How could I find happiness of any shade if I’ve lived with this programming?
That, however, does not mean that I don’t then choose to ignore my pain.
How else would I have gotten to where I am if I hadn’t?
It’s a painful cycle.
I set myself up to only feel pain. I ignore this pain. This creates more pain as I suffocate more and more of my identity. I ignore this pain. And on and on and on.
Why do I ignore the pain?
Because it might get me to pay attention to something I feel. Or get me to stop long enough to actually think. Which, you know, is selfish and bad and wrong of me because how dare I think of myself instead of someone else and what they want and feel…..
And yet – strangely, – it’s only when I feel pain of any sort, that I feel alive. Like I’m really here. Like I really exist.
I think that’s because when a person feels pain, they can’t ignore it 100%. There’s some initial jolt of “ouch!” or misery. And who feels the pain?
The only person who feels the pain is me. The real me. The authentic me. The me that’s trapped behind layer and layer of steel so thick I can’t breathe through it – and isn’t that the point? – and walls of pain and lies and denial and numbness. The me I can’t reach.
The pain touches who I really am, it touches my soul.
And so for a moment, I am alive. I can breathe.
But now I’m to the point where I can’t ignore the pain. Not emotionally and more recently, not physically.
The pain is telling me I’m not really alive, I’m surviving.
And it’s time to wake up.
This all brought the song “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls to mind. This one line:
“yeah, you bleed just to know you’re alive”
I feel like I’m taking one step forward and two steps back.
Driving me insane!
Well, more insane than I already am, but you get my drift. *twitch* ;D
Someone took us to the movies this past week and I really liked the movie. Though it was dark and hopeless at times, the largest overtone and theme of the movie was hope. Basically, the perfect movie for me.
I left the movie and for the first time in a very long time (*ahem* years), I had
The one I’m sure all creators know in some way or another.
It’s hard to describe, but I’ll give it a try.
It’s a good, excited, creativeness.
I feel alive. Vitally burning, arms flung wide, begging the world to hear me, to run through me, to guide me, to open me up and let me see again. Not just any world but that world, the one running like a stream through my head and heart, folded inside the contours of my soul. Where the strange and the broken but strong reside. All that I create. The world where I create, come up with ideas, scenarios.
And for one amazing moment, I can fly, I can soar, arms flung wide open to something better than me. Better than pain and all that’s wrong with me.
Where everything is perfect. Where I’m the child who escapes, the writer, the inspired creator who is both realistic and an idealist with her head in the clouds. The Unashamed Creator.
*That* feeling is where I can breathe. I’m passion blazing, where nothing can break me, inspired, confident. Enough. Where I am enough.
And I’m more than enough. I’m me. I can change the world, I can lift the broken and rid the streets of disgust and outrage of the wrongly powerful.
Everything was right as rain. Home.
I was home.
And then, I clamped down on it.
I’d reached the end of my chains and my conditioned behaviors yanked me back into “reality”.
SHUT UP, DAPHNE! Stop acting like a childish, loser. Get real. Grow up. Be in control of your emotions, feelings, thoughts, wants. None of this wishy – washy, head in the clouds, fantasizing. How stupid that you pretend like a toddler fantasizing in your head. How pathetic. Stand up, be rigid, in control. Be useful.
And the feeling – *that* feeling – it was gone.
I realized something right that moment.
I realized something that night.
It saddened me. Now I don’t feel anything in particular about it. But you’ll understand why in a moment.
I realized what I’m really doing by “clamping down” on my “useless emotions”.
I’m telling myself to stop feeling.
The part of me, which is in control, says “shut up, be real, stop dreaming like a child”.
It’s a smoke screen.
Be mean enough and I won’t poke at it, right?
In reality (ironic, right?), I’m telling myself to stop feeling anything. Except – definitely keep feeling shame and wrong for feeling.
When I clamped down on that feeling, I shoved all emotion away. If I look close enough, I can see just how numb I am to everything but pain and self-hate.
When I came home from that movie, something happened- and I have no idea what or how- that allowed me to get past my own walls, find a weak link in my armor, and get through to the life deep inside that I’ve forsaken to solitude and silence.
I found it. I felt alive. I felt real.
But then doubt niggled in.
And when I clamped down on it, a part of me deep down wanted to sob, cry out.
I’d ripped the fire inside out and flung it nowhere in particular. So long as I couldn’t feel its warmth.
I left myself hollow, empty. In pain. Numb.
I feel Blank.
No wonder I haven’t written a word, allowed myself to listen to music, or done anything mildly creative in over a month now.
I’m so numb I don’t even see it.
Even now, writing about it. It was only yesterday and yet I can’t remember what it felt like. I’m simply typing what I wrote in my journal yesterday. Eight hours after it happened I couldn’t even remember.
How did it happen? How’d it get through? Why?
I’d been particularly vulnerable yesterday, gummy, and easily harmed (enough to make me carry an ax and glare at everyone who came within three feet of me). So was it the vulnerability? Not having that armor up and in perfect condition?
Or was it the combination of darkness and hope in the movie?
I don’t know.
But I consider yesterday a win. Not only did it somehow get through, but I recognized it for what it was, realized I’ve been (and continue to) smother any and all inspiration, and identified my need to STOP.
Not that it’s gotten me anywhere. But I have to realize I’m NOT going anywhere before I can START going somewhere. ……. Makes so much sense. 0.o
So, two steps forward and only one back.
As a side note, I’m really not liking this being honest thing. It sucks, being vulnerable. Don’t like it. One bit.
So be nice to me.
Don’t blow rainbows up my skirt or throw bunnies at me, but don’t try to bash my head into the wall either.
I’ll stab you. Repeatedly.
Any creative types know what on earth I’m going on about? What does “that feeling” feel like to you?
Anybody else feel stuck wobbling on the steps?
I have lost my passion.
I’m empty, hollow, meaningless.
There is no more fire inside me. I’m fresh out.
The only passions left stirring inside me are fear, anger, and hate. And I feel those toward myself. Like I said, I’m a mess.
My blog’s purpose is to reflect me. On the right sidebar, it literally says: “what inspires and/or ignites raw emotion within me will find its way here.”
Problem on aisle Daphne.
With no passion, comes no identity. Comes no idea who the hell I am at all. What do I want? What do I need? What do I feel?
I’ve got no clue.
My health is failing and I’m just shoving my emotions farther and farther away. I’m going nowhere.
It’s only logical that I’m finding it hard to figure out what to blog on. Nothing inspires me anymore. It’s been building and building, this void eating me from the inside out. Worse yet, I’m the one fueling it. And here I am. Empty.
All I have left inside me is the truth, even as I try to ignore it away. The truth that though I didn’t cause it, I’m now doing this to myself. I’m keeping myself in this cycle.
Because it’s all I’ve ever known. And I’m not paying attention. That’s my thing. Ignoring that I exist.
I’m ready for some change. Some internal change. Time to scrape open my walls and peek inside my chest. See what I can find.
As far as blogging goes, all I have to give are pieces and parts of honesty. While I figure out how to wake up, how to breathe.
I’ve avoided my blog reflecting all of me. I’ve kept mostly to the surface stuff. Interests. Things I like, that I can research, explore. But I can’t find these things any longer. I’m exhausted, deflated.
Time to dig deeper, whether I want to or not. There’s a lot more to me.
This isn’t a full disclosure. I’m not promising a baring of my soul. This isn’t confession, this is my blog. And why not see if a little honesty out loud can help me out? Maybe someone might even get inspired. (either that or someone ought to be sitting at their desk going, “whew, I’m glad I’m not that deranged)
It’s a peek into the Shadows, I’m offering.
I’m choosing not to bury all the painful parts or the darkness, any longer.
So strap in kiddos.
You’re in for a bumpy ride. There are no helmets, there is no map. I just passed ‘start’ and I’m already lost in the forest.
I’m clearing out the cobwebs, searching for the skeletons, and hoping I find some really creepy cool antiques in the way back.
Things are about to get strange.
Have you ever lost your passion? What did you do to get it back?
Do you ever just start questioning everything in your life?
Why do I do this?
Why did I think that?
Why do I waste my time on that?
How dare I take time to do that – and anyway, why do I?
What’s the point in this?
Yada, yada, yada.
You get the point.
Recently- okay that’s a lie.
For a while now, I’ve been questioning myself on why on earth I think it’s okay for me to take time out of my day to read a book – something I enjoy – *gasp*!
How dare I!
Self hate is a pretty strong accusation so for the sake of you guys not living inside my head and knowing everything that goes on there, we’re just going to go with, I’ve been depriving myself of pretty much everything I enjoy.
Because I’d feel guilty, bad, wrong, selfish, like a horrible person, if I spent any time taking care of myself.
It’s like I’m depriving myself of love.
Not allowing myself to be happy or do anything simply because I’d like to.
But I’m only skimming the surface just yet, so let’s keep it to what I’ve discovered so far.
Last week, I was in a lot of pain (medical issues, don’t worry, I’m not missing any limbs), and it hurt to lie down in bed, even though I was exhausted.
I’m lying there, praying for sleep, wishing against wish that I could wink out of consciousness and fall onto the pillow of being unaware.
And the thought pops into my head –
Why not grab my book, go in the kitchen and read?
At this point, even my “hate and deprive yourself” programming couldn’t break into my pain induced thoughts, and so I got up quietly, grabbed the book I’d been sipping (because I hadn’t really sat down and read in quite a while) and went into the living room/kitchen, turned on the light, sat against the wall, and read.
For a few hours.
At about one in the morning, I broke my awareness away from my book and looked at the clock. Deciding to go to bed, I realized I felt better. Happier. Calmer.
For a few hours I’d ignored the pain, hadn’t even been aware of it.
For a few hours I’d not felt like an emotional wreck. I’d felt kinda good, actually.
And then it clicked.
All the questioning I’d been doing – why do I allow myself to selfishly waste time and read a book when I could be working on something I need to get done? Never mind that I couldn’t sleep. Never mind that I wasn’t being productive lying in bed and becoming more and more miserable as sleep evaded me. Why did I think it was okay to take time to do something that would simply make me happy?
Because it makes me happy.
It gives me some peace.
Reading allows me to escape reality for a little while. It takes me somewhere else.
I read for the love of stories. For the amazing thing that happens when I disappear into another world.
And it made me realize that even on small levels like this, I’ve been punishing myself for doing anything that makes me happy.
Now, I’m sure I’ve said that before. But I’ve blurred the lines of boundaries and my rights as a human being so badly that saying that hasn’t really sunk in, made any sense.
Last week, it made sense. I went from, “uh, yeah, sure, I’m aware that I do that” to “oh, I accept that I’ve been doing this, it’s bad, and I need and want to stop if I want to be happy and healthy”.
Did this magically make my bad habit of feeling guilty and hating on myself if I wanted to/did read for a little while?
No, of course not.
I’m a human. Humans are stubborn and it’s hard to break habits, good or bad.
But at least I’m working on it now.
And anytime that not so little voice tells me that I’m horrible for taking time to read – I smother it!
Here’s for continued vigilance to that end…
(***A note to my readers. If I haven’t responded to your comments yet, rest assured – I will. I have read and I love your comments!)
Life is a mess.
Mine has been very messy lately.
I’ve failed to see how anything good can come of chaos, or how anything good can happen during chaos. How can you keep your cool, your wits about you? How can you think? Breathe? Figure out what is going on inside you? How can you live when life is a mess and things are falling apart around you?
Pretty naïve, right?
Well, I’m figuring it out.
I am learning that resistance brings persistence.
So yeah, my life is a mess. I am a mess. I admit it. I’m aware of it. (I don’t know that I accept it yet, but I’m working on it. Awareness, then acceptance.)
And the mess is only getting more and more painful, more out of control.
I’m not going to explode, starve, cause World War 3, or get hit by a flying saucer.
I’m not a horrible, bad person because my life is a mess.
Life is messy.
I’m trying to deny what is by writing myself as at fault, as the cause of all this horrible.
I can’t change life or the messiness that comes along with it. I can’t control the universe, the Creator of the Universe, outcomes to situations, or any of the creatures in the universe. Except me.
I can control me and how I am.
Yet, I’m trying to deny that life is messy simply because it is and blame it on myself.
I know this is repetitive, but bear with me. Thinking properly is a circular process. And us humans we have to throw a brick at our head twelve times before we realize – “hey look! A brick! Maybe I should duck….”
Chaos doesn’t mean I have to be panicked. Doesn’t mean my only options are to survive or die. Chaos doesn’t mean anything actually – except “chaos”.
Chaos is chaos.
Chaos has not attacked me because I’m living life incorrectly or because I’m stupid or unworthy of happiness.
Chaos: “complete disorder and confusion”
Mess: “a situation or state of affairs that is confused or full of difficulties”
Now, someone tell me please, where in there does it say “because Daphne woke up this morning”?
Didn’t think so.
Finding serenity, peace, calmness – whatever you want to call it. It’s possible.
Even in times of chaos.
Even when your life and your health are such a mess that you’re wondering what on earth you did to deserve this. When is it going to end? When can I find happiness?
Happiness, serenity, peace, it’s all possible to have in times of pain, chaos, and mess.
Life has with it all the challenges and difficulties it does.
Don’t take it personally.
Take the challenge and learn from it. Grow stronger. Grow wiser. Get better at something. The pains of life usually carry with them a wisdom or ability you’ll use to bring yourself or another happiness in the future.
Every “mess” can have its silver lining.
Know that. Know that it’s okay to feel like a mess. To feel just pure “ugh”. But that doesn’t mean that’s all you’re allowed to feel.
Find your serenity.
But it’s worth the work.
Resistance only brings persistence of whatever it is that you want to stop.
Stop resisting. Accept that it’s happening.
Then get to work on getting safe, healthy, and serene.
You can’t move out of the way of a brick if you’re telling yourself it’s not there or that you can just ignore it or wish it away.
You have to see it before you can take action.
And stop blaming yourself!
What if instead of yourself or someone else throwing it at you – the brick just fell off a really old building? That doesn’t mean you need to beat yourself up over it.
You’re not supposed to take responsibility for a building growing old and falling apart. That happens all on its own. Its called the rules of the universe.
What do you do when your life is a mess?
definitions source: Google define:
“Love cannot exist without the dimension of justice.”
Forgiveness is an interesting topic to me.
Much of my life, forgiveness has been a patsy for negative, addicted, controlling, and manipulative people.
It made everything a person could ever do, okay.
And now, I read articles, hear people talk about, and see media portray, forgiveness in the same way.
And it pisses me off.
Forgiveness, according to a majority of the media, is thusly:
Forgive everyone for harming you in any way, then love them enough to allow them back into your life. Forgive and forget, wiping your brain of the memory of what they did. Remain naïve, trust them. Allow them to harm you again. Forgive them – rinse and repeat.
No. That is not what forgiveness is. And not only does this change the healing of “forgiveness” into something insidious and disgusting, but it also drags love in there.
Along this line of reasoning, love is defined thusly:
If you love someone, it doesn’t matter what they do or say, cause, or believe. You love them. That means anything goes and if you ever feel an emotion of misgiving, shove it.
People are turning “love” and “forgiveness” into a form of Victim Shaming.
Once again making everything negative, abusive, or harmful in any way – the victim’s fault. And they should just take it and be quiet.
Or they’re a bad person. Or a bad Christian. Or a bad mother, bad lover, bad father, bad human being.
Of course this is all done with extreme subtly and manipulation, leaving the person clueless to how badly those around them are stripping the term forgiveness of any real substance. But once you take a good look, it’s all saying the same thing.
“I should be able to do whatever I want, however often I want, and you should keep letting me do it, while smiling and loving me.”
Forgiveness is not a patsy for the abusive.
Forgiveness is letting go. Taking all the gunk of anger, resentment, and bitterness and getting rid of it. Not allowing it to hold you down any longer. Forgiving someone for something they’ve done wrong to you in the past.
Forgiving someone does not mean that what they did is okay. It is not okay. But let it go. Learn the lesson, let go of the anger, and move forward.
Forgive but do not forget.
Forgive but protect yourself. Make your boundaries.
Let the past go, but remember that it is your responsibility to make good decisions and see to it that you don’t allow others to hurt you in the future.
You are not alive to be used.
You are worthy of love, respect, and happiness.
“Love cannot exist without the dimension of justice.”