Catharsis

So, I’ve been becoming increasingly introspective recently. I know, some of you are already bracing yourself, and those of you who aren’t probably should. I’ll wait…

There we go, everyone ready? Good, let’s continue.

I’ve been focusing a lot recently on my personal spiritual work. I got lazy, I admit it, and just didn’t do anything for about three months, and then complained inwardly about how vacant everything seemed. I walked around feeling hollow, unfulfilled, and then promptly kicked myself for it. Duh…

So, I’ve continued, forcibly in some cases, my journey, and I’ve come to a series of realizations about myself, a couple that are pretty neat, and a couple that suck.

The first came several months ago, before my laziness. It basically pulled me out of myself and forced me to look at everything I already had to work with. Much of it was raw, unrefined, but still very present, like a hunk of ore that had not been shaped into what it could be. I was using it as a blunt instrument instead of a well-made weapon. It still did the job, but crudely, and without skill. So, my first order of business was to work with what I had. Understand it, work with it, refine it into something functional. Realization: neat.

Another, and by no means in order, came in the form of a person: Michael. Some of you may remember my mental meltdown over what to do with this man a few months ago, but he also awakened in me the notion that this was entirely my own fault. Again. Let me explain…

I love to love. I nurture, I care, I worry, I want to be near it, I want to be a part of it, I want to see it, hear it, smell it, taste it, I LOVE love, but most of all I love loving. And that gets me into more trouble than I wanted to admit to myself. For years. Several of them. Anyone familiar with the parade of men (and women) in my life knows that my luck in relationships has been in waves. Everything starts out roses, and ends up in the compost heap. And it’s really my own fault. I choose my relationships based on my want to love, and historically I have attached myself to those in need of love. I want to show them how amazing and wonderful love and life can be, but this is the same problem women who stay with drunks have: I wanted to fix something. Even though I wanted to share my insane amounts of love for love with them and show them that life is this grand bazaar of love and laughter, I still wanted to fix them because I felt their lack of understanding of love was broken. Hence, my problem. Trying to fix people is bad. Basing whole relationships on it is worse. Realization: suck.

More recently, I realized something that evoked mixed feelings in me. I’ve been running on raw talent and ambition for a LONG time. Most of my life, in fact. I learn a little, work with my own deductive/organizational/energetic skills, and I’ve pushed forward, making my way on nerve, talent, and LOTS of sugar. Maybe not the best choice, but I’ve found that now to achieve my goals, both set for me and those I set myself, I can’t run on what I’ve got anymore. I have to go out and get the knowledge, hone my skills, and basically get off my ass and do something with myself if I want to get anywhere. I thought I was doing something. Apparently not. But I sure as hell I am now. Realization: jury’s out.

And then we come to my blog. My angry little soapbox, my dumping ground for stress, my moments of ‘what the fuck?’ This one hit me this morning, sparking this entry though not the need for it. I realized that this very space I was suing to hide in. I projected pieces of myself, the ones I wanted to world to see however true they may be, onto the screen in angry, opinionated, even poetic snippets, censoring out the sections I didn’t want everyone else to see. In truth, I didn’t want to see them. Thus I have come to the most profound and yet most painful realization of all: there are parts of myself I don’t like to the point that I completely ignore them, and that’s seriously unhealthy. Let’s face it, we all have parts of ourselves we don’t like, be it a nervous habit, a temper, a merchant not to stand up for ones self, poor fashion sense, something we don’t like about ourselves. But me, I just pretend they don’t exist, and that’s the worst habit of mine in existence. I rationalize them, I refuse to look at them, but I don’t’ deal with them. And I as I look back on my old entry, few of them as there are, I realize that even here, I am ignoring the pieces of myself I think others object to, or that are ‘unacceptable’ somehow. Realization: fuck that.

I’m sick of hiding in my own head. I’m sick of wanting people to know me, then keeping so many things to myself that people have nothing to go on. I feel like a failure for gaining 15 lbs in four months, I can’t stand public speaking, and I’m scared to death of being forgotten. There I said it. I don’t feel better. I don’t like it, but I said it.

I also love pandas and knee socks. Damn, that didn’t help.

I hate cathartics. I have a feeling this hate will grow before I get anything out of it. Bummer.