I thought these moments were fleeting memories of baggage put to rest. Standing up to internal demons should not be a life-long battle. Not in the era of ADD and OCD and easy to get medication.
I’m still at odds with why I continue to struggle with my own inner psyche. It’s as if my inner voice had an alter-ego of her own, one in which she’s lost control of as well. So I’m left with my hands up in the air, coming to terms with the fact that I must continue to micro-manage my neurosis in a way only another broken down spirit can understand.
Those who know me understand the phrase “smashing into trees.” It’s a catch phrase I use to describe hitting an emotional rock bottom for it represents a moment in a friend’s life when she had to face herself following a near tragic accident. It left me to wonder if the absence of accidents was the true tragedy, for they represent opportunities for us to learn and grow, at least in theory.
I caught myself swallowing one of the most painful pills when I had to convince myself that “everything happens for a reason.” I wanted to take a plastic spork and stick it in my eye. That speaks volumes because I’m usually outwardly violent towards others and not myself. But maybe I have it all wrong. If I continue to put myself through these mental, spiritual and emotional roller coasters than perhaps that speaks to my own preference towards pain. Maybe I’m a closeted emotional masochist who thrives in the role of victim, more than I’m willing to admit?
So many maybes and nothing is definitive. That’s the problem. I’m snarky by nurture and optimistic by nature. I think I forget that. All this negativity I harbor seems to come back, at the most inconvenient times, to bite me in the ass and sadly I’m not that much of a masochist to say that I like it.
Defense mechanisms protect our feelings so that we’re shielded against ourselves because no one knows how to hurt us better than ourselves. So these are the fanatical thoughts that I can’t seem to shake. I can’t find the humor in the demise of my own sanity. What was once funny is becoming rather sad. And in this pity party for one, self-confidence is the killjoy. I just finished reading why being broken is a good thing and while the concept is novel enough to almost inspire tears, it’s painfully brutal to realize that my darkness will forever shape my personality. Normally I’d be ok with it. Change is a constant I come to expect out of life. I embrace it. But what happens when there is no change? What happens when the movement we make that assume to be positive and upward is really downward and spirally? I hope this random flights of fancy will prove me wrong. I hope so many things but must learn that hope is as powerful a word as one wants it to be.
Do I feel broken? Yea. But then again, when don’t I feel broken. It’s a part of life.
I guess I just need to master the whole “putting pieces back together” if I’m going to survive this lifetime of living within my own madness.