I can see my face reflected back to me on my computer screen. I’m scowling, creating the number 11 between my brows. I’m scowling because I’m attempting to write something linear, to share some about where I’ve been. I’m not sure I can do it, because I’m not exactly sure where I’ve been. The deciphering of the last year has been on my not-to-do-list for the last few weeks, because I have realized in some freshly excavated part of myself that it’s simply none of my business, and what’s more, I can’t know. And because I simply love to indulge in meaning making, but can’t quite see the point at this point, I’m lost in a world full of thought and experience that is now completely random. Don’t get me wrong here people, my mind is still busy connecting dots and constructing borders in an attempt to manage this chaos, but the difference is I don’t believe in it’s power to accurately describe what’s really going on. It’s like watching the news.
It’s been wrong so many times. I believe that much is true, because it told me all sorts of lies about California and what that was going to be, and about the mountain man and what it meant when everything got so still and silent in front of Starbucks when we embraced in the Charlotte airport. I can no longer invest my hope in the ramblings of a maniac who chases happiness outside of this present experience. It’s nonsense. And there it goes again.
This last year has left me demanding answers. How can I ever again get behind something I believe in, something that feels so damn right? My tendency towards dreaming has woken me up to some awful nightmare where I can no longer trust the part of me I thought was the truest part of me. My heart. Listen to your heart, follow your heart…..lub-dub-lub-dub-lub-dub.
I followed it.
It led me into a storm of confusion and despair, it led me to scream at the top of my lungs while driving down tree lined streets, fearing I may be going crazy, wondering if I’d end up like my Mother. Sick and alone, counting on caregivers to wipe my ass. It led me to get down on my knees and pray to a god whose existence I began questioning. I was questioning god to his face. What the fuck , god? Where have you gone? What the hell does it all mean?!*!
I was alone, know what I mean?
That’s how bad it was.
I wanted it to be what I thought it was. I wanted to be who I thought I was. And it’s not. And I’m not. And god’s not either.
Everything has lost it’s meaning. Existential crisis? Perhaps. Who cares. Just another label, a way to move away from the emptiness, and there’s no amount of yoga, meditation, medication, therapy, chanting, creative visualization, positive thinking, healthy eating, gratitude giving, accupuncture, neurolinguistic programing, relocating, or fresh baked boyfriend making that can make it meaningful, and it’s quite alright. Finally, it’s a-okay. I still do all that stuff, most of it anyway, cause I’m programmed to do it….and….I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t help with the emptiness, it totally helps, it’s grist for the mill. Just like the screaming and heartbreak. I use it all.
Still the questions keep coming.
Where have I been? Where am I going? Where am I now?
I’m gonna say nowhere, and I’m gonna assume I’m probably wrong. Again.