Looking for a promise even I can’t keep.
I’ve been wavering on composing this blog since the early hours of the morning. I’ve been weighing the pros and cons in my mind, trying to determine how much I should share or if I needed to document this experience at all. Everything has changed in the past twenty-four hours. The foundation upon which I rest my feet has been ripped away and now I lie here, flat upon my back, with no one to help me up again.
Yesterday I watched the colors drain from the world around me. I saw the details of the earth, the faces and names of those I loved, the hues and shades of the infinite spectrum of my surroundings dissolve into nothing more than the starkest of whites. A drastic contrast to the black which resides in my soul, this blank slate has been presented to me as a canvas with which to paint my masterpiece. The tools have been placed upon the easel and how I choose to construct my future is entirely up to me. I hold the power to control my own destiny. And that is nothing if not terrifying.
I woke up yesterday morning with a sense of uneasiness in the pit of my stomach. Yes, I was still a bit drunk off cheap vodka and good company, but that wasn’t the source of the discontent. I was coming off the high of one of the best nights in recent memory, and yet I still the feel the vibrations of impending conflict rattling deep within my bones. I knew it would be best to pack my things, interact with as few people as possible, and physically separate myself from anyone and everything. And so that is what I did.
But, of course, I soon learned that one does not have to be present for drama to follow them home–just as a mangy dog confidently treads behind those who least want them yet are most likely to coddle them. That is me in a nut shell. Always trying to escape the drama, but most willing to get wrapped up in it. I suffocate in this cocoon so often, never metamorphosing into anything beautiful, always staying in this state of reacting based off instinct. I attract drama because of my passionate way of existing. If I feel something, I say it. If someone says something that resembles an attack, an insult, abandonment or rejection in any way– it does not quickly roll off my back. It clings to me. It sits there weighing on my heart and soul, festering, waiting for the perfect moment to infect my mind with involuntary defense mechanisms. And that is how the drama begins. This is how the chaos consumes my being. Nothing goes unnoticed by me. I hear and see everything and will react accordingly.
I sometimes wonder if I breed drama as a subconscious way of reminding me that I am alive in this crazy world in which I inhabit. It’s reassuring, in a way, to stir up those emotions and feelings which so often lie dormant within my veins. The blood pumps, but I oftentimes find myself floating aimlessly through the days, never meeting my potential or expectations. These tumultuous situations with others ensure me that, yes, I am here and I am alive. It seems rather twisted and, well, crazy, but I do sometimes find myself contemplating the role that I play in the development of these scenarios.
However, yesterday was different than the majority of my entanglements and breakdowns. Everything about it was more intense and more real than anything before. I am someone who perhaps perceives things in a way that may or may not be what I truly feel. I can’t even read my own thoughts sometimes. I will honestly believe one thing and then when those thoughts are stimulated by external stimuli I will discover that I was confused all along. Confusion is a common state of mind for myself. But, truly, yesterday was one of those days were everything I believed to be true ended up being anything but.
I refuse to divulge into details here. I’m adamant about my blatant avoidance of the whole truth in this particular instance. I feel it best to maintain a certain semblance of ambiguity–because in all honesty this is more about my revelations in the midst of the situation than the incident itself.
At any rate, everything went downhill quickly and without any moment for me to catch my breath. It was taking punch after punch, blow after blow, one after the other… bang bang bang. All in succession. All equally devastating and debilitating. All the shoddily stitched up wounds were violently ripped open and blood poured out of every orifice. I could be delivered no greater pain. My senses crippled. I was blindly stumbling through a dark passageway, I could hear no one, and then as I laid there… face down on my bed… I could feel nothing… The crying stopped. The grief ceased. And what was left was just my shell, crumpled in the middle of my cave-like quarters, with nothing left to offer and nothing left to give.
And that was when I switched into survival mode. Self absorbed, but self preserving. My ability to care for another person’s well-being dissipated in that instant, and in it’s place a primal instinct to protect myself at all costs. I am now focused on basic essentials: eating, drinking, working, living, existing…and perhaps most importantly, healing. Thus the slow process of licking my wounds begins. Many times before, I am able to bounce back from trauma and appear hardy and resilient. As aforementioned, this event was unlike similar prior ones. It was more real. It was something that will change me forever. A situation that I have learned much from, but I know that in reality I have lost more than I have gained. Fighting a losing battle.
I said things I regret, I made choices that are life-altering, I intentionally hurt someone else in an indescribable moment of weakness and desperation. I was trying so hard to make a particular person realize how much I cared for them, and to communicate that I am not okay with being a disposable entity. I live every day in a constant state of uncertainty. I wake up having to prove myself to those around me. What I did yesterday is meaningless. All that matters is what I am able to offer to others today. I measure my self-worth by how I am viewed by those close to me. And if I am treated as a throw away object–one that is easily replaced or forgotten, then that, and that alone, is how I will place value upon myself. And, unfortunately, I was branded with a label of disposability yesterday by someone whose opinion meant the world to me. My reaction was less than dignified. I would typically hang my head and retreat to mourn in private, but this time I felt that I had done nothing wrong. This particular situation was different because I had literally given my complete heart to this person… I was focused on never misstepping, never faltering, never failing as a friend. And I thought that the least I deserved was an explanation as to why I could be so easily thrown away. I received none of that and my response was to act like a child throwing a tantrum–I lashed out, saying things that I knew would hurt, that I knew would sear and twist her burning flesh… that I knew I would regret, but she had lost her sheen of perfection and infallibility. She was no longer all-good, and thus shifted to all bad in my infantile mind.
I am sorry for how I reacted. Those emotions had been swirling around in the deep recesses of my innards. They had been brewing quietly waiting for the opportune moment to erupt into an ugly amalgamation of pain, despair and a smattering of pent-up feelings I had neglected to address. But, in the end, any explanation is fruitless and will alter nothing. My future is muddled at best. My vision is still blurry from the happenings of last night. I can’t focus on anything except my extreme grief and sorrow over my actions.
All I can hope is that this reaches the eyes of those it affects, and that in time I will be forgiven and life will continue on as fate should have it. At this point, parts of my future are in my hands, but the ball is in another’s court as to whether or not I will get to walk hand in hand with a certain someone again. All I can do is hope, pray and apologize… the rest is up to her.