...but I honestly couldn't recall why or how it had previously manifested. I'm still not sure. It just crept in, and now I find myself on the other side of it, and didn't even put up a fight to avoid it. Generally, when I write, it's from a darker mindset. Rarely, if ever, do I find myself inspired to write when I feel like I am in a good place, or things are proceeding in pattern that isn't disruptive to my train of thought (which is usually a lack of critical thinking). With the events of the past year, and facing obstacles that I haven't faced in 10 years, I don't really see where much has changed, it seems I learned little from those experiences. If there was a salacious redhead to which I could devote all of my resources and attention to running around in my circle, I'd be right back in Orlando doing what I did before; tearing myself apart at the seams, destroying my body, and losing myself to selfish indulgences. I seem to have no natural instinct to write my way out of my self-pity, and no inclination to turn four days off from work into something creative, useful, or healing. I find myself on the final day of this respite now fully self-loathing my lack of initiative and desire to demonstrate something positive to myself. I'm a champion of awareness, but that's where it ends.
Since the split, I have been wondering if/when I would fall into the darkness that consumed me after my divorce with May. Unlike that event, where May and I remained friendly, I find myself alienated and coping with the numerous other changes happening. Being essentially disconnected from someone I've spent 10 years with has left me filling in the blanks in trying to understand why this is happening. It's not a healthy endeavor. This Christmas break was 10x harder than the silence at Thanksgiving, and it was often difficult to escape feeling like this was a pointless endeavor. I'm somehow clinging to this belief that this will get easier with time.
But I think the most disappointing realization through all of this is in myself... that I am forgoing any effort to at least approach being alone in a different way. Escaping self-harm; using knives instead of crutches to navigate to the next day. I am an intelligent person, and I am capable of rational thought - why am I so easily predisposed to collapse? Why am I so unprepared for being alone, when I so loathe the crowd? I cling so tightly to the romantic notions of finding that one person who shares in every moment until there are no more, while often finding the limitations of a relationship confounding and an obstacle course in trying to outrun resentment and hurt.
I want to write, it's the only thing I feel I do well enough to share. I've no awards on my walls; no pieces of paper that show I succeeded at something that any average person has; I am always trying to stay ahead of my failures and outpace a society that measures on every level. I only have my words, and they, in my opinion, do not stack up to my perceived failures. I am aware enough, I think, to understand I need to be alone for awhile; but I am scared that this is a slope without end; and it will somehow get increasingly dark until I'm dead. In writing that, I recognize the absurdity that I would bring someone else into my orbit to simply be a pedestal upon which to prop up my broken state. It's how I function - maybe it's autism, maybe it's immaturity, maybe it's how I was taught to cope, or not taught to cope. When there are no words, there is only failure, and it's so heavy and creative in ways that I never could be... manufacturing brilliant tools by which to hurt from absolute absurdity and a total absence of facts.
This I write... in the final hours of a 4-day weekend that produced nothing.
