Heart Tired
August 1, 2001

When I started writing this, I was gonna title it Emotional Packrat. Iím still not sure which title I like better. The latter is amusing, while appropriate, but the former expresses why Iím doing this. So hereís both.

Actually, this whole rant is like that, divided by some sort of line between humor and.... Ack. A part of me wants to say despair, but thatís too melodramatic, not to mention false. Something along those lines. This was written in three different sittings. The poem was first, some time during the school year when I was guilt tripping over- well, letís not go there, actually. Itís both too complicated to discuss here, and too personal for me to rant online. Thatís right, I donít consider this right here too personal. Scary, neh?

The main part of the rant was done late last night, or early this morning, depending on oneís perspective. The past two weeks have been rather stressful, little things piling on top of each other. Add to the fact that I was awake too much yesterday (had to get up early to see about jury duty, but stayed up to my Ďnormalí time), and conflict of a nasty kind online thanks to the wonder of e-mail, my sense of self had one of its by now classic nervous breakdowns. No, itís not nearly as dramatic or bad as it sounds. I find they do tend to occur when Iím lacking sleep (last night, Iíd pause to consider word choice and almost nod off!), which gives my writing a melodramatic, expansive flair (good or bad, I donít know about: itís your call). And boy howdy, do I write. I get depressed and angsty at myself, and that usually comes out as poetry, hence almost all the depressing stuff posted in this section of the library. Last night, it was a rant. I donít know what it is, but somehow the mental perspective of "i suck, and nothingís going right" just brings out the creativity daemons and the need to put it down into words. Although I occasionally think Iíd prefer writerís block, overall I consider it better to let it all out than have these feelings fester inside. That could lead to some very bad places.

After nearly falling asleep writing, I did give in and go to bed. Amazing what a good nightís sleep will do to oneís perspective. I woke up much more emotionally balanced, and managed to sort of verbalize a resolution to one or two of my issues. I still need to work through a few, but the big ones are dead. For the moment, at least. So anyway, I decided to add to last nightís rant, explain a bit more about the situation, get away from the dramatics, and the result is from this paragraph up to the title. So hereís last nightís melodrama, which, while still true to a much lesser degree than indicated, I am feeling better about.

 

I hate conflict. Not just avoidance, but deep down from the gut despise the evil thing. I know itís both necessary to life and a basic component. I mean, isnít that what itís all about, one life form trying to outdo another? But....

But. Dear gods above and below, I hate it. Sometimes I feel thereís something wrong with me, that upstairs Iím just hardwired incorrectly. I obsess. Not the funny/happy little "oooo! New show! Must watch!" obsession, but a dark focus on my life itself. All too often, I act before I think, let emotion take over. And you can never take that back. I know that. But I still spend far too much time remembering, flush burning up my cheeks, time after time after time that I mightíve acted "incorrectly."

Yes, might have. Most of the time, I look at the idiocy, fret and guilt over something probably only I remember. I angst over these trivial bits for up to literally YEARS after they happen, and Iím so insecure that I still try to figure out how much of an idiot I mustíve looked to everyone in sight, and what I could have- SHOULD HAVE- done differently.

Rarer, in some ways worse, are the times when I know I DID pull some stupid shit. Those moments get played out mentally on the worst (anti?) ego days, heaping shame on upon embarrassment upon guilt, all the time cycling through possible alternatives, listing action after speech that could have been utilized instead.

This all makes for a very neurotic psyche. Second-guessing myself is s much an ingrained habit as breathing, as LIVING. I can bounce from one truth to the next: itís like my opinion of my fics. Give it a bit of time from completion, read it through/think it over, and Doubt owns it. Or me. Whichever you prefer. No muss, no fuss, no hesitation. Just panic and guilt, shame and depression.

Naturally means I hate to argue. Given some time, I can see multiple sides of an argument, losing track of where I even started in the first place. Righteous anger, certainty of cause lasts only so long. Soon as those die, doubt creeps back in. review the other personís argument, and suddenly realize hey, they do have a point here and there, so whatís that mean? If they have one point, why not a dozen more? Who says they arenít right altogether- what do you mean, me?!?!? Whyíd this start, howíd I get here, god, I canít be right. I must be entirely wrong. [note from the later perspective: ok, so itís not always this bad. Actually, itís very rarely this bad. Usually only during the "nervous breakdown" moments. Spiral, anyone?]

I wrote a bit of poetry about this before. Trippy and symbolic, much more so than my usual stuff. Iím not sure how accessible it is to others. So if you want an explanation of what was on my mind at the time, mail me, or start a thread in the forum.

Guilt and Shame

I watch as others so easily pass in flight
Happily winging through the night
While I stand rooted so far from the edge.

Donít get me wrong
I want to feel the nightís song,
But I canít move away from my ledge.

Iím not scared of flying
But the need for emotion dying,
The only way to get my wings.

This anti ego trip of mine
Destroyed my flying for a time
And Iím not sure I deserve to end my suffering.

Call it masochism if you will,
Or just think that Iím mentally ill
But Iím not willing to let my shame go.

My error was tiny, really
Probably even downright silly
But my heart doesnít yet know.

Do the others take a break from gliding,
Spend as much time striding
Along the ground as I?

I watch as others so easily pass in flight
Happily winging through the night
And wonder if guilt is truly the reason I donít fly.



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