I’m functioning on so little sleep it’s not funny. I’m catching up a bit of it during the day though. I think there’s a difference between night sleep and day sleep. A difference in quality. Somehow, no matter how much sleep you get through the day, that night time sleep is still what you need. Or maybe it’s the getting up and down that is so exhausting.
The last 2 weeks, I’ve been in a kind of self preservation mode. I have been trying not to feel. To disconnect as much as possible. I go through the days, the motions, without stopping to think or feel or consider or just be. I think I’m hiding.
Last night some of them, feelings that is, came out as I laid in bed. I should say early this morning because it was about 3 am. It’s funny that sometimes I can only feel by allowing myself to imagine what it would be like to explain my life or how I’ve been to someone else, like Flowerman or B. That gets feelings going.
Emotions by proxy.
It’s like a fantasy in which I find my own self. It’s the only way I can. Dorothy has to go to the magical land of oz to find her truth. I feel like my life is one big magical fantasy after the other. I’m addicted to oz and it’s bright colours and the black and white of good and evil.
I cried a little last night. Hot tears. But then I stopped. I stopped myself because it was too painful. I was angry with Flowerman because he made me feel again, and I couldn’t disconnect as easily as I could before. I think I’m giving that statement a run for it’s money recently, albeit disconnecting by hiding behind the minutia of everyday life, not stopping long enough to figure out what’s going on, just charging through.
It occurs to me that this is the way people live their lives – the ones who wake up at 60 and think: what the fuck? I never really stopped to enjoy life, I never made time for myself, I don’t know who I am.
And god is that ever so relevant. I’ve never felt so lost in my life. Even in massive pain and depression, I knew at the very least my general whereabouts in life. Or I thought I knew, anyway. It’s such a cliché, the old ‘I don’t know who I am’, teenage angst, mid life crisis, etc. but it’s real, and you know, actually going through it – actually feeling that – is so terrifying. I don’t know whether it’s a condition of life or a condition of this illness – the ebb and flow of identity and the human condition, or an extreme form of disconnection, born of a deeply scrutinised life in which every detail matters, and life is to be lived for others only.
Blogging is another way of disconnecting from myself, when I really think about it. By considering what other people will think, what they’ll feel, what they might say, how they might react – I’ve realised I give myself permission to be anything but honest. Honest to myself.
It’s a good excuse to ‘edit’ your life, like editing a blog post. Large issues can be skirted over. Feelings can be downplayed or ignored. Another great way to ignore is a series of humorous posts…. Still feeling worthwhile because I’ve ‘posted’ something. I’ve made a mark in the diary of my life, even if it’s only the equivalent of an emoticon, or a random doodle.
And if blogging is seen as a form of self expression, of the chronicling of one’s life, this stuff really is important. How can you examine yourself if you have no honesty. And to be ‘honest’, it’s not honesty to others that’s being compromised… I’m not honest with myself. By thinking I’m expressing my truth through my blog, and believing that, I am, in essence, editing my life in my eyes. Before it hits the printer, so to speak.
So I’m increasingly trying to find other ways to be real, but not succeeding. I always say I want to write authentically, with no worries about what others think or believe. That’s a bit of a pipe dream. I think it’s not natural. It’s natural to have secrets, to keep some things to yourself. I’m not sure it’s realistic to say that anyone can share like that.
Maybe I’m taking blogging too seriously, many would say that. But I’ve always seen it as such a part of my identity, of my therapy, of my life. I guess I’m taking it seriously now because I DO take it too seriously. It feels a bit silly, really. But true for me nonetheless. I think.
It occurred to me last night too, that I live my life through others. Mainly in my head the others live, but I still don’t think it’s healthy. I see my life by imagining it through the eyes of someone else, even when I’m alone. Always, every day, every hour, every minute. It consumes my life and how I view myself. Why anyone would even be vaguely interested in me sitting on the couch watching Letterman or feeding the cat – isn’t really the point. It’s like I feel every aspect of my life, of my being must be examined, probed, judged. That what I do and say is the whole sum of me.
I don’t know how to be with myself. To be alone. I don’t know how to think about things without imagining explaining them to someone else. Like a psychiatrist, or a friend – or even a blog. I don’t know how to feel. Just feel something. I only feel in response to imaging it as an interaction with someone else.
Emotions by proxy.
I have no secrets in my head.
Granted, it gets at the emotions, but not in a realistic way. It’s tainted by the reactions and words of someone else. Makes it less real. I guess it’s another way of disconnecting from myself.
It’s almost like I have a complete and utter lack of boundaries – even in my mind. Especially in my mind. Possibly the worst place to be violated. That inner sanctum supposed to remain private. To remain personal. To be truthful – at least some of the time.
It’s not like I think or feel something, then think, oh, if someone found out I thought that I’d be embarrassed, ashamed, judged, hated, insert word here. If anything, it’s the other way around for me. It’s only by my imagining of conversations and interactions with others, that I figure out how I really feel in the first place. Hence my mind is a constant wash of fantasies, from the mundane to the extreme, in an attempt to find the truth of me in there somewhere. It never stops. And I don’t know how to make it.
I feel sick. Exhausted. To be really truthful, I don’t know how I really feel. I seem to be good at hiding that from myself. It shouldn’t be this hard, should it? It shouldn’t take this much exhaustive digging, should it?
No wonder I’m exhausted.
I just don’t know. I wish I knew how to feel. How to be with myself (and no one else).
On the other hand, I am fighting feeling anything, because it’s mostly too painful.
I’m a good thinker – I just need to learn how to feel. But I don’t want to. Either way, it’s painful.
Maybe I just wish I wasn’t under so much scrutiny – from my own head. The imaginary judgement of others, which I suppose is really me.
It’s all really like taking a flight to Darwin, from Darwin to China, from China to Paris, from Paris to London, then back to Darwin, and taking a train and a bus – just to get to Sydney.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
I want to curl up in bed and pull the covers and not think any more. So, a lot of the time, I do.
Only… I can’t sleep. I can’t switch off.
I just wish I could sleep.
I feel trapped.
And the key is inside me but I have to cut myself open to get it.
The last 2 weeks, I’ve been in a kind of self preservation mode. I have been trying not to feel. To disconnect as much as possible. I go through the days, the motions, without stopping to think or feel or consider or just be. I think I’m hiding.
Last night some of them, feelings that is, came out as I laid in bed. I should say early this morning because it was about 3 am. It’s funny that sometimes I can only feel by allowing myself to imagine what it would be like to explain my life or how I’ve been to someone else, like Flowerman or B. That gets feelings going.
Emotions by proxy.
It’s like a fantasy in which I find my own self. It’s the only way I can. Dorothy has to go to the magical land of oz to find her truth. I feel like my life is one big magical fantasy after the other. I’m addicted to oz and it’s bright colours and the black and white of good and evil.
I cried a little last night. Hot tears. But then I stopped. I stopped myself because it was too painful. I was angry with Flowerman because he made me feel again, and I couldn’t disconnect as easily as I could before. I think I’m giving that statement a run for it’s money recently, albeit disconnecting by hiding behind the minutia of everyday life, not stopping long enough to figure out what’s going on, just charging through.
It occurs to me that this is the way people live their lives – the ones who wake up at 60 and think: what the fuck? I never really stopped to enjoy life, I never made time for myself, I don’t know who I am.
And god is that ever so relevant. I’ve never felt so lost in my life. Even in massive pain and depression, I knew at the very least my general whereabouts in life. Or I thought I knew, anyway. It’s such a cliché, the old ‘I don’t know who I am’, teenage angst, mid life crisis, etc. but it’s real, and you know, actually going through it – actually feeling that – is so terrifying. I don’t know whether it’s a condition of life or a condition of this illness – the ebb and flow of identity and the human condition, or an extreme form of disconnection, born of a deeply scrutinised life in which every detail matters, and life is to be lived for others only.
Blogging is another way of disconnecting from myself, when I really think about it. By considering what other people will think, what they’ll feel, what they might say, how they might react – I’ve realised I give myself permission to be anything but honest. Honest to myself.
It’s a good excuse to ‘edit’ your life, like editing a blog post. Large issues can be skirted over. Feelings can be downplayed or ignored. Another great way to ignore is a series of humorous posts…. Still feeling worthwhile because I’ve ‘posted’ something. I’ve made a mark in the diary of my life, even if it’s only the equivalent of an emoticon, or a random doodle.
And if blogging is seen as a form of self expression, of the chronicling of one’s life, this stuff really is important. How can you examine yourself if you have no honesty. And to be ‘honest’, it’s not honesty to others that’s being compromised… I’m not honest with myself. By thinking I’m expressing my truth through my blog, and believing that, I am, in essence, editing my life in my eyes. Before it hits the printer, so to speak.
So I’m increasingly trying to find other ways to be real, but not succeeding. I always say I want to write authentically, with no worries about what others think or believe. That’s a bit of a pipe dream. I think it’s not natural. It’s natural to have secrets, to keep some things to yourself. I’m not sure it’s realistic to say that anyone can share like that.
Maybe I’m taking blogging too seriously, many would say that. But I’ve always seen it as such a part of my identity, of my therapy, of my life. I guess I’m taking it seriously now because I DO take it too seriously. It feels a bit silly, really. But true for me nonetheless. I think.
It occurred to me last night too, that I live my life through others. Mainly in my head the others live, but I still don’t think it’s healthy. I see my life by imagining it through the eyes of someone else, even when I’m alone. Always, every day, every hour, every minute. It consumes my life and how I view myself. Why anyone would even be vaguely interested in me sitting on the couch watching Letterman or feeding the cat – isn’t really the point. It’s like I feel every aspect of my life, of my being must be examined, probed, judged. That what I do and say is the whole sum of me.
I don’t know how to be with myself. To be alone. I don’t know how to think about things without imagining explaining them to someone else. Like a psychiatrist, or a friend – or even a blog. I don’t know how to feel. Just feel something. I only feel in response to imaging it as an interaction with someone else.
Emotions by proxy.
I have no secrets in my head.
Granted, it gets at the emotions, but not in a realistic way. It’s tainted by the reactions and words of someone else. Makes it less real. I guess it’s another way of disconnecting from myself.
It’s almost like I have a complete and utter lack of boundaries – even in my mind. Especially in my mind. Possibly the worst place to be violated. That inner sanctum supposed to remain private. To remain personal. To be truthful – at least some of the time.
It’s not like I think or feel something, then think, oh, if someone found out I thought that I’d be embarrassed, ashamed, judged, hated, insert word here. If anything, it’s the other way around for me. It’s only by my imagining of conversations and interactions with others, that I figure out how I really feel in the first place. Hence my mind is a constant wash of fantasies, from the mundane to the extreme, in an attempt to find the truth of me in there somewhere. It never stops. And I don’t know how to make it.
I feel sick. Exhausted. To be really truthful, I don’t know how I really feel. I seem to be good at hiding that from myself. It shouldn’t be this hard, should it? It shouldn’t take this much exhaustive digging, should it?
No wonder I’m exhausted.
I just don’t know. I wish I knew how to feel. How to be with myself (and no one else).
On the other hand, I am fighting feeling anything, because it’s mostly too painful.
I’m a good thinker – I just need to learn how to feel. But I don’t want to. Either way, it’s painful.
Maybe I just wish I wasn’t under so much scrutiny – from my own head. The imaginary judgement of others, which I suppose is really me.
It’s all really like taking a flight to Darwin, from Darwin to China, from China to Paris, from Paris to London, then back to Darwin, and taking a train and a bus – just to get to Sydney.
It shouldn’t be this hard.
I want to curl up in bed and pull the covers and not think any more. So, a lot of the time, I do.
Only… I can’t sleep. I can’t switch off.
I just wish I could sleep.
I feel trapped.
And the key is inside me but I have to cut myself open to get it.