This is a raw journal entry, born out of what feels to be a dramatically long internal struggle. It is me, sitting on my deck in the mountains, staring at pines and aspens, in the midst of racing thoughts and deep depression. It is my realization that nature is my only ally, my regulator. It is almost fall. The autumnal equinox pulling me to face outward as well as inward, begging the past and future to merge in the present. A moment in the year where there are equal parts light and dark. Oscar Wilde said, “…and all at once, summer collapsed into fall.” And I see them as lovers, and I see the exhaustion…and the collapse is the comfort of knowing there is something/someone there to catch you.
At some point this will all be made more clear; the life circumstances, the mental health challenges. At some point, I will be willing and able to open it all up, to face things I’m afraid of, to step into a new life and new way of being and to (hopefully) talk coherently about the challenges in a way that will usher in understanding and a vision for moving forward with less of a sigh. Until then, we have broken thoughts, resonance, emotions, heartfelt renderings and words strung together to attempt to represent it all.
September 22nd, 2023…
And life passes me by like the wind. No changes made, no marks left but scars.
Feeling so unimportant. Not sure what to step into. It’s no one’s fault but my own; no one’s doing but my undoing. I’ve let the trolls get to me. The voices that manipulate me into long dark corridors of self doubt. A catacombs, basically. I’m still face down in the weeds. Whether I was pushed or laid down willingly, is of no consequence. I’m still here.
Some days are awful. So full of wallowing, of tip toeing around on creaky floor boards, of wearing my wool coat in the heatwaves of August.
The leaves rustle a ‘hello’, an ‘i see you there, hi’. A ‘welcome’. A ‘come and play’. They offer a secret handshake, an entrance into a world where heavy burdens are dropped at the door. But, I shush them and shun them and turn my back. I am in no mood for their dance. At times, I envy their playfulness, their contentment. But, today, I am sullen. Then angry. Then numb.
Displaced in a way that is selfish, conceited, that doesn’t make sense. That feels spoiled and pouty to others, even to myself. Who are we to compare? But, we do. Have you ever not?
If I’m fully honest, there are those days when something close to happiness comes like a premature contraction. So quick I’m not sure anything happened at all. Maybe just gas or anxiety. It’s fleeting. Fake. Most days are spent in silent deliberation. Conversations with versions of myself whom are either more happy or more sad or more melancholy or more pragmatic or more impulsive.
None of us are ever sure which one should take the lead at any given moment.
And, all of us are afraid.
Idleness becomes us and we revert to the childhood immaturity of best friend one day, enemy the next. Playing the silent game with dirty looks and long hard stares.
Some envy the opportunity to be idle; the chance to sit down, to stare at the trees and not be bothered by verbal inquiries and not have to rush off to something and not have to work their knuckles to the bone day after day after bloody day. I, for one, am sick of this charade, this prison amongst myself.
So, I go out to the forest, the floor thick and spongy with pine needles; with the things that have been let go. It’s an aimless walking at first. A sigh. A mutter. A shortness of breath, then a heaving. Branches reach down. Leaves whisper.
I fight them. The comforting. The beckoning.
‘They are malicious,’ I tell myself. ‘They are here only for themselves.’
But, they ceaselessly continue their lullaby, their presence. The endless brushing upon eachother, their connectedness.
‘I won’t let you heal me,’ I say. ‘I’m only using you for a moment of respite; for a sense of escape.’
I wield my stubbornness like a sword. Threatening with near spastic thrashing. Meeting nothing but air. Roots rise up from the earth, trip me, take me out, roll me over. I’m staring skyward, dirt spattered on slimy cheeks, lips caked with blood and spit.
The indomitable display of sunlight cast on whispers, reigning down, covering me, scooping me up and taking me home.