Slow Dancing in Quicksand

Last one out, turn off the lights . . .

Sometimes, to put it bluntly, I really hate my life. Hate every aspect of it: the self-imposed confinement, the headlong spiral into yet another muck-filled abyss, the lack of perspective, but most of all, the walls.

The walls that I run up against with increasing frequency, walls erected seemingly out of nowhere, in the blink of an eye. Bureaucratic walls. Physical walls. Emotional walls.

Big walls. Small walls. But regardless, impenetrable.

I walk by Brett’s gerbils, watch them digging furiously at nothing, and in a stab of realization, recognize myself in them. Sitting in a glass house, shelter and food provided, but the ennui so completely enervating that there is nothing left but to dig and claw at absolutely nothing because there is just no way out.

I hate feeling like this for so many reasons. It smacks of more self-pity, and I’ve had my fill of pity—self-induced and that of others. Pity is for the weak. When did I become so weak?

I hate feeling like this because it is just another reminder of how completely powerless I am.

Do you know that scene in “It’s a Wonderful Life” in which George Bailey has the horrible realization that he is worth more to his family dead than alive, which leads to the angel Clarence saving George’s life? I can relate, but not really. You see, we had to quit paying the premiums on my life insurance several months ago, so I’m, in essence, not worth a dime, not one freaking dime. Such a legacy for my children . . .

I made a promise once that I wish to hell I had never made. A real stickler for promises, I am. Have always tried to keep mine. But this promise was the wrong one to make and the right one at the time. So now I’m stuck with it.

Corey and I, we’ve moved past the point of being able to support one another. Now, all that is left is the sniping. Endless nitpicking over not saying the right thing at the expected time. Not reacting appropriately—neither of us. Not meeting each other’s expectations. Why did you have to say that now? I thought that you’d be grateful. You are never happy. You smell of . . . and despair and sorrow.

Too drained, really, to see or hear anything objectively. I just didn’t expect to hit this point so fast, kind of like that freight train that everyone says that they hear when there is a tornado: It’s not a train. It’s a tornado. And if you’re hearing it, it’s kind of too late. Isn’t it?

I keep hearing snatches of songs: “Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see . . .”

Where the hell did that come from? Well, of course, the Beatles exist in a continuous loop in my internal soundtrack. Would need to add ears closed, heart closed, mind closed to that for it to really be true. Living has never been easy. Ever.

My ex telling me that his new love had taught him how to love. Well ain’t that grand? I suppose that what I was doing all of those years before was pretending. But it did make me think: If I ever do this again, I’ll do it right. Just looked at the calendar: what a freaking coincidence. Today would have been my anniversary with the ex. Things you wish you didn’t remember.

It used to be that everything I said was interesting or worth hearing or at least, worth pretending to pay attention to. Who hears me now? Corey hears a buzzing in his ears. Not the words that I’ve said but the words that he hears. Or is it that the words I’ve thought are not the words I’ve said?

Quote from former lover: “You really are such a drama queen.” Why so much drama? Why can’t you just accept things? Same person spoke of my cherubic countenance. Still remember those two snatches of conversation that I embedded in long-term memory. Both seemed like compliments at the time.

Never realized before that I needed to say things in a certain order so that they would be acceptable. Or is it that the order has always been skewed, but I never realized it before? Before . . . what exactly? The point of no return (cliché)? Before the mast? Beyond the pale?

Note from former student: “Are you still teaching at ODU?” Almost made me smile. Still teaching at ODU . . . that would seem like nirvana at this moment. I haven’t gotten out of bed for two days. No. Not teaching anymore. Just spending my time . . . doing what really? Not-a-damn-thing. Handful of posts for August. Writing? Oh, you betcha. Really found my rhythm. Finally.

Losing it. Lost it? Gone but no one closed the door so it isn’t real yet? Once again, I pose the question: Does an insane person know if she is insane? Is the insanity defense stale at this point? Seems to be. Let’s try this one on for size: I just don’t care about anything any more. Last one out, turn off the lights.

Another song. “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls: “And you can’t fight the tears that ain’t coming, or the moment of truth in your lies. When everything feels like the movies, yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive.”

What is the litmus test for knowing that you are alive? Quote by someone, can’t remember offhand, about not dying without ever having really lived. How many people actually get to really live (excuse split infinitive)? Get to chase their dreams? Get to feel pure joy? Get to watch a sunrise and know that this day is perfection, a moment of pure grace?

Too many getting bogged down in the minutiae of staying alive. Finding water, food, shelter. The basics. Who has time for joy or sunrises? Get up. Work to maintain water, food, shelter. Go to bed. Sleep fitfully? Sleep peacefully? Get up. Do it all over again and again and again and again and again.

I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be this for the rest of my life. What did I want to be when I grew up? I knew when I was a child, before life and the pursuit of water, food, and shelter became the prime concern. I wanted to write. I wanted to write beautiful words and people would read them and people would love what I wrote and I would get to write more words and over and over and over and over again.

Another song: “Don’t bend me or I will break, Come find me somewhere between my dreams . . . “

Someone on the fate patrol forgot to follow directions. You really can be given a load that is more than you can bear, and not everything makes you stronger. Sometimes, sap flows freely. Other times, it must be coaxed out. Sometimes, fate reflects brightly. Sometimes, fate is a dung heap. Perhaps sap, like some people, should be left alone to move when it’s ready.

How many people get to do what they really want to do in life? How many people listen when another person is speaking without thinking about what they are going to say next? How many people get to see the world before they die? How many people get to taste the water from a fresh flowing stream? How many people have the privilege of walking across sand as white as sugar? How many people died today from hunger? This is how my mind works.

Sometimes, I really hate my life. But the truth is, it’s not life that I hate. It’s myself.

One more song: “Let me be your shelter. Let me be your light . . . Say you’ll love me . . .”

Yep. Life is so like the movies . . .

2 thoughts on “Slow Dancing in Quicksand

  1. My wonderful friend,
    How I wish i could be there to hug you and reassure you that you are a fabulous woman, wife, mother, daughter and friend. I can empathise with everything you have to say and glad that the words still flow freely and that you have the talent to express them, as no one else can.
    You know you have a friend here, who thinks of you often and sends you plenty of positive vibes. Take care Lita.
    Hugs
    Maureen

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