It's been forever. A lot has changed. Nothing has changed. I've asked more questions than I'll ever be able to get answers. I've grown. I've moved on. I've stayed blissfully still. Some may say I've regressed, I prefer to say I've let myself be nostalgic. I've been scared. I've been happy. I've made great decisions. I've made unbelievably poor decisions. Despite the missteps, I cannot say I would undo any of them, even if I could.
I have a favorite quote that is melancholic to say the least: "No matter the posture of the body, the soul is on it's knees." Many times this year, I've had to couple that emotion with "Life is beautiful, even when it isn't pretty." Sounds morose, I agree. Sounds dark and a bit twisty. It is. Life is beautiful. Life isn't always pretty. While my skeletle frame stands every inch of its 6 foot height, my insides at times, try to be as small as possible. When I let my body mimic that desire, the best I can accomplish is an awkward egg shape that looks something like an interpretive dancer ready to blossom out into something beautiful. Almost a cocoon, bound so tight. It's humorous when I let my mind's eye view myself as a 3rd person to see myself tucked in as tightly as I can. The tears streaming down my face and my arms trying to fold themselves underneath my legs and my spine trying to find ways to be shorter, my shoulders to be more hunched, my tailbone to tuck a bit lower. It's funny to see. It's emotionally shredding to try to do.
Oddly enough, being smaller makes it feel better after a while. When you can see the tear drops, stained with mascara, drip onto the bathroom linoleum and form abstract ink blots, it does make it hurt less. Something about physically pulling yourself in and away from the hurt of the outside is comforting. It is almost protective the way a mother would envelope her child against a harsh wind, my body is wrapping itself around the most delicate parts for protection. These bouts sometimes pass quickly, sometimes not.
I read a beautiful blog post from a blogger I just discovered. Not sure I care to really continue to follow her writing, but this piece is elouquently written:
Frustration. Eyes squeezed shut. A lonely feeling gripped me
like a hug from a relative I’ve seen only at weddings and funerals. I
went out with friends and never knew what to say, because you couldn’t
say you were in a tunnel that lead to no light. A girl who really knows
how to laugh on the outside, wear her eyeliner on the outside, crack
gracefully.
And I knew how to crack, to break lightly, to move my limbs in the
correct motions and function perfectly except for the moments I chose to
think about love in the middle of the night.
The cracking gracefully has such tangibility to it that I adore. You can almost visualize and even hear the subtle snap of the facade that she is letting the outside world see. I cannot begin to emphasize how much I relate to the comment about functioning perfectly until choosing to think about love. I never believed it to be a choice, that your mind wonders where your heart is sitting and if that makes it painful, then so be it. You didn't have an option in what you thought. That is what you needed to obsess over and self immolate about. I've learned this to be false. It is a strange skill to be able to control your thoughts to avoid pain. I've not mastered it, but I've grown to appreciate the ability and usefulness in doing so.
This post is needless to say, depressing. It wasn't intended that way until my fingers starting flying across the keyboard. I think I really just needed to get some emotions off my chest. No fear to anyone who might worry. I'm happy. I'm healthy. I'm content in life and moving in a direction I'm proud of even if I feel lost most of the time. That is not to say it is all perfect. Beautiful? Yes. Pretty? Not always. Perfect? Far from it. I do take the ink blot tests off my bathroom floor some times, and it typically makes me laugh. If that isn't a silver lining.....
