[I wrote this in November of 2015. It feels like a draft I wouldn't mind sharing. The last sentence is as true now as it was then; as it might always be for me...]
Lately I've been having flashbacks to a time in my life when I couldn't help myself. I couldn't say no to the offers, to the wants disguised as needs. Part of me wanted to and part of me didn't. Part of me tried to hold back and part of me let go, held on tighter to the comfort of darkness; the night hours, the sex, the partying, drinking, and substances that could've killed me, clinging to the one who I swore was the one who might save me. I had moments then when I'd step outside long enough to know that I wasn't doing right. But I just couldn't help it. It was as if there was a hand on my back guiding me, pushing me further and further along. There was seemingly no way to step out of reach of that hand.
I've been remembering one night in particular. I chose to stay home. I knew he would be there and that it would be another chance to lose myself in the haze, to throw off the shroud of solitude and wrap myself in my friends and maybe some love. It would be an easy way to pass the night, an opportunity to edge in closer to him, uncover who he kept hidden during the day. I stayed home instead.
There was no internet in my apartment. I was tucked in a cul de sac of Paris, gardens around my bedroom and a gate on my kitchen window where I'd stand as the tea kettle heated, winking past the bars at the crescent in the sky, night dreaming. I paced my place, desk to bed to kitchen to closet to bathroom. I must have done a face mask, organized my closet, left a mess, gone to the kitchen to get a snack, then to my laptop to organize my iTunes, which, in many ways, was his iTunes. I labeled his playlists, black sharpie on CD ROMs transferred to some digital order. 'Breathe, Stretch, Shake'. Flopped down on my bed and flipped through that giant book on Buddhism I borrowed from the school library. I distinctly remember reading about the sole items monks own: a begging bowl, a few saffron cloths, a razor... I was impressed, but bored.
Something burned in me that night, especially before I'd received the "where you at?" text. It burned less after that. My mind kept nudging me to imagine what they were all doing. Was there a new girl that showed up? A friend of a friend perhaps... she'd probably be hitting on him. Burn. Whatever, you've got to do you. Burn. It's only 10:45?? Burn.
I realize now that it wasn't really me. It wasn't true, although it felt and seemed and was so real.
The shitty part was waking up with anxiety, a feeling of dread in my belly and an unending rolling-in of questions, thoughts, possibilities, and the unknown.
Being so far away from it now, I realize that it was the weed hangover. The serotonin depletion from too much all-night Parisian partying. But this morning I woke up with a similar feeling of distance and dread and I haven't touched that stuff in a decade. And so I'm wondering; is it a lunar thing, a planetary cycle, a life cycle? Or perhaps my soul hinting to me that I'm off the path and I've gone too far. The aching and pain is the sign to get back. I'm invested in a worthwhile project. I'm giving my life and mind and time, all of it. But something's yanking at my hem. Something's being ignored in exchange for what's worthy and needing my all.
There's something in me that is begging to be excavated and put to work.
I've been remembering one night in particular. I chose to stay home. I knew he would be there and that it would be another chance to lose myself in the haze, to throw off the shroud of solitude and wrap myself in my friends and maybe some love. It would be an easy way to pass the night, an opportunity to edge in closer to him, uncover who he kept hidden during the day. I stayed home instead.
There was no internet in my apartment. I was tucked in a cul de sac of Paris, gardens around my bedroom and a gate on my kitchen window where I'd stand as the tea kettle heated, winking past the bars at the crescent in the sky, night dreaming. I paced my place, desk to bed to kitchen to closet to bathroom. I must have done a face mask, organized my closet, left a mess, gone to the kitchen to get a snack, then to my laptop to organize my iTunes, which, in many ways, was his iTunes. I labeled his playlists, black sharpie on CD ROMs transferred to some digital order. 'Breathe, Stretch, Shake'. Flopped down on my bed and flipped through that giant book on Buddhism I borrowed from the school library. I distinctly remember reading about the sole items monks own: a begging bowl, a few saffron cloths, a razor... I was impressed, but bored.
Something burned in me that night, especially before I'd received the "where you at?" text. It burned less after that. My mind kept nudging me to imagine what they were all doing. Was there a new girl that showed up? A friend of a friend perhaps... she'd probably be hitting on him. Burn. Whatever, you've got to do you. Burn. It's only 10:45?? Burn.
I realize now that it wasn't really me. It wasn't true, although it felt and seemed and was so real.
The shitty part was waking up with anxiety, a feeling of dread in my belly and an unending rolling-in of questions, thoughts, possibilities, and the unknown.
Being so far away from it now, I realize that it was the weed hangover. The serotonin depletion from too much all-night Parisian partying. But this morning I woke up with a similar feeling of distance and dread and I haven't touched that stuff in a decade. And so I'm wondering; is it a lunar thing, a planetary cycle, a life cycle? Or perhaps my soul hinting to me that I'm off the path and I've gone too far. The aching and pain is the sign to get back. I'm invested in a worthwhile project. I'm giving my life and mind and time, all of it. But something's yanking at my hem. Something's being ignored in exchange for what's worthy and needing my all.
There's something in me that is begging to be excavated and put to work.
