Little boxes made of ticky-tacky

I have spent the last ten years asking myself (and others) “What’s wrong with me?” and never getting any closer to the truth. The closest I have ever come to enlightenment has been during my occasional trips to see the immortal girl with kaleidoscope eyes. During those quiet hours watching the known world warp into a fantastic network of lines and color, I have also been able to see what I loved and loathed about myself in terrible detail, and accept the reality of who and what I truly am.

For some reason, I have never acted on those truths when I come back from those journeys. I come back feeling as if I had just been given a glimpse of my heart’s desire, only to have it whisked away where I could never achieve it. I go about the business of ‘real life’ with a sense of nihilistic doom, and although I have asked myself why, I have never seriously pursued the answer.

Something changed recently, and I started really thinking about the difference between the me I see in the mirror, and the me that others see. I have come to the conclusion that at some point in the past I came up with a mental image of how my life should be that has absolutely no relation to what I actually truly want(ed). The vast majority of that concocted mental image is based on how I think the world wants me to be, while the rest is based on an overwhelming need for security.  The end result of this false dream has been the creation of a stolid workhorse for my employers…and utter misery for me. Because of the portion of that vision that is self-serving (my need for security) I have never been able to turn away and pursue a different path. Thus it has gained more control over me…and more, and more….with each passing day. It has gotten to the point now where I can barely see any connection at all between who I am as a person, and what I do in the outside world.

It saddens me that I have become so limited in my thought that I don’t immediately turn to creative self-expression unless my emotions have gotten so strong that I can no longer ignore them. What happened to the other tattoos I wanted to get, and the spontaneity with which I got my first three? What happened to my piercings? What happened to the hours I used to spend decorating my clothing? Why haven’t I covered my car in random bumper stickers? Why haven’t I decorated my apartment? Why haven’t I done more to prepare for the birth of my son? Why don’t I write for fun anymore? Why do I limit my music choices to the pop genre? Why, when I know it’s what I want to do, can’t I produce artwork to sell? Why can’t I focus on planning for this glorious future that I want so badly?

The answer to all of those questions is that I am only human, I can only endure so much, and my self control is wavering. If I do not focus every ounce of my stamina on surviving the incredibly demoralizing situation I’m dealing with at work, I will break down. Rationally, I know the results of such an event would be disastrous. Emotionally, however….I want to break. I want to be done. I want to be able to rest without stressing about having to go back to an environment I dislike, where I am disliked and taken advantage of. Maybe I have actually already broken and I am desperately clinging to the ragged edges in hopes of salvation…I really don’t know.

Regardless of what happens in the future, it feels like I have spent my entire pregnancy crying. I cannot believe that that is good for my son’s development.

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