|Paul Gauguin, "Brooding Woman"|
I’ve neglected this blog long enough, but I’ve been working on editing a project that I’m expecting (or at least hoping) to pan out with some relative success. Also to be frank, I haven’t really felt compelled to update Coffee Rhetoric, contribute to any other platforms, or do any writing in general, as of late. None of the human interest stories I’ve been reading across the web, has incited me to chorus. Sometimes, I want a break from deconstructing gender, racial discord, intra-racial dysfunction, popular culture, and just the cult of personality in general.
And while I don’t really feel the need to share that much of my own personal goings-on anymore, as I plod my way towards a break-through of some sort; I will disclose that I am lamenting over many aspects of my being, while simultaneously celebrating my self-imposed solitariness… if that makes any sense. In other words, I miss being social, yet I have no desire to be around most people right now.
It could be age—
and me becoming while a grumpy old woman— or
maybe it is just plain ol’ cynicism; but the thought of socializing or building
with people doesn’t interest me as it once did… and neither does
dating. My patience with certain
personalities wears thin in a flash. Waning friendships and/or associations? Bye…
I’m not interested in trying to rekindle
any of them; new connections? No longer interested in making any, save
few rare exceptions and depending on the level of interest I have in the
situation or person. This is not me having a pity-party and it’s far
from self-flagellation… I’m not quite sure how to pinpoint my current
state. It’s an
amalgamation of feelings and a lack thereof.
I’m frustrated that personal goals aren’t panning out the way I need
them to. I’m feeling like I’ve reached an impasse and want to buy a one-way
ticket someplace faraway. I am
struggling against the pull of “That Dark Place”, because I don’t want or like
residing or visiting there. Essentially,
I just want to be left alone… literally and figuratively; which I pretty much am, for the most part. I’ve
learned to hide this particular brand of dismay well, because I've had
to and quite frankly, don't really have a choice. Warding off
encroaching demons that prompt me to shut down completely-- where I'm
almost robotic, detached and somewhat cold-- is daunting though.
Thirty-five is on my heels and I don’t care; as the last several Born Days, were uneventful and stark reminders of … many things, so I don't make much them... I prefer to spend them alone... with wine if I have access to any.
Anyway, this is my attempt to write through the blockage as I continue to claw my way out of my funk, because I'm mentally worn out. At times I wish I “indulged” in other, otherwise I’d just smoke or pill-pop my way towards an epiphany… but then I doubt I’d ever get anything productive done, I’d be existing in some delusional state of being, and it’s not really a viable way (for me) to reach a resolution. I’m just a bit overwhelmed from being underwhelmed.
“I still consider myself to be my own best friend though, and there's no company I'd rather keep than my own. Aside from my immediate family, there are very few people I care to spend more than a few hours (tops) with. Parties and particularly long "hang-outs" leave me feeling stir-crazy and most of all, self conscious. I don't really like myself much around other people. After the initial charm of my niceties wears off, I feel awkward and annoying. I long to be alone, to be with myself. It's a bit odd, simultaneously loving and hating yourself like I do.
And so I retreat back into my world of loner-ism, and I perk up. I start to feel better about myself. I shed the feelings that others are judging me and I go shopping, I treat myself to lunch, I take a bath, I read, I paint, I watch a movie (no interruptions from the peanut gallery, thank you very much). I do the things I wouldn't want to do with anyone else, and I become a better person for it.”
Me, almost to a T. I'm working my way through the woods and towards clarity, though.