Wednesday, July 29, 2015

An okay day.

Today is an average day. Montreal is going through some type of heatwave/humidity party so it's hot as shit everywhere, but other than that it's just an average day.

It's always an odd kind of feeling when I feel okay. I always wonder if this is what the neurologically privileged/neurotypical feel like. Those "normals."


I've been thinking lately about possibly working on something with the people in my life, about how I'm perceived, and my reaction to that. I'm still thinking around it, I would need to think about what my intent is, and where I want to go with it as a piece of writing. I was thinking of it featuring a question/answer format, dispersed between personal stories.

I'm not a writer. but these days I feel my writing has value due to how little I come across from the point of view of someone who is struggling and ill. It's a rarity. It's often written from the point of view of a professional writer, who went through something. It's enclosed. It's a piece in time.

It makes me wonder about what makes a memoir about struggle or stories based in experience interesting. For me, it's usually the prose. That's why I loved Lidia Yuknavitch's The Chronology of Water. She writes beautifully. I also really enjoyed her voice. Her experience. It just spoke to me. Her resolve. Her grit.
If you have ever fucked up in your life, or if the great river of sadness that runs through us all has touched you, then this book is for you. So thank you for the collective energy it takes to write in the face of culture. I can feel you.
It is for me. I can feel her. Granted, I read this book a while ago, but it left an impression, it really moved me. I plan on re-reading it.
You see it is important to understand how damaged people don't always know how to say yes, or to choose the big thing, even when it is right in front of them. It's a shame we carry. The shame of wanting something good. The shame of not believing we deserve to stand in the same room in the same way as all those we admire. Big red A's on our chests.
Shame has been an ongoing discussion with my new talk-therapy person, Ranjana. I have a session with her later today, and she asked that I prepare by thinking about my relationship with shame, and what I think about it, and when it presents itself. It's almost too much. I can barely even begin to think about it and where it comes from and why it lives in me.
This is something I know: damaged women? We don't think we deserve kindness. IN fact, when kindness happens to us, we go a little berserk. It's threatening. Deeply. Because if I have to admit how profoundly I need kindness? I have to admit that I hid the me who deserves it down in a sadness well.
There's also so unsettling about kindness because it's so - alien. And it's a comfort. And there's always that fear that I'll grow attached, and be disappointed. That it'll give me some relief, and sooth me, and be ripped away. So kindness in trickles, in the kindness of strangers and in smiles and nods, is fine. But true loving kindness is terrifying. It just feels like it could be . . . a trap.

it's a trap animated GIF


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