Catching the sun and a ghost dream
I spent three hours walking and sitting in a park today, catching the sun, recharging my inner battery. I realized, that there are some things that I enjoy, after all. Pink, kitschy flowers, a sunny day, a long walk.
But the feeling isn’t right, like I should be enjoying it more. Like I’m telling myself to enjoy the stuff, making myself actually do it.
I spend more energy to feel something than usually.
I also haven’t been remembering my dreams for a very long while now. I remember only one, which I had a few days ago.
It was about my grandma’s flat. It is not there anymore, because it belongs to the company that used to employ my grandfather, so all the stuff isn’t there anymore, and someone else has likely moved in.
In the dream, I was supposed to stay in the flat overnight, alone, after my grandma was already dead, but I really, really didn’t want to. The flat was haunted. The piano played by itself randomly, and the cooker was split in halves.
So I went to sleep at my friend’s (who lives in another town in reality), and I came to a haunted house, which had weeping white ghosts, or half ghosts, everywhere except the living room. The problem was that I was supposed to get from the living room to another part of the house (or rather a pretty big mansion), and I couldn’t get past the ghosts without touching them. And they were so sad and wanted to be touched and hugged very badly. They were going through the halls, rooms and the yard, all covered with a silvery dusty substance. And when a living person touched them, he or she changed into one of them – half undead, and became covered with the same substance. There was only one solution to that: one had to jump through the floor in one certain place in the house, into the living room through it’s ceiling, and became living again, only covered with ash – a regular ash. So getting anywhere from the living room was really difficult.
Feeling nothing
I look at my love… and I feel nothing. None of that usual warm and comforting feeling inside me. I look at my cats… I should have missed them when I was away… and I feel nothing. I think about my family… and I feel nothing.
Just empty sadness. Or sad emptiness. Whatever.
I’ve kind of broken my own heart. I wanted to feel something. And I felt something for a little while, now it’s just nothing.
I wonder if it’s temporary. Is it just because I’ve returned to normal life after four weeks and I need to adjust again? Or have I shut all the emotions and I have to start all over again? Do I have to spend another few months (years?) regaining them?
It was nice to feel something, even if it hurt. It gave me energy. It made me creative. I loved. Now – I don’t know. Maybe it’s just today. Or this week. Maybe I’ll be better tomorrow.
Humpty Dumpty
I usually have a good intuition for people. There are people whom I like instantly we meet, and there are ones that I resent without any reasonable cause.
I usually stick to the impression.
Except that one time, when I met that sociopath about twelve years ago, told my intuition to fuck off because I knew better, fell in love, got my heart broken repeatedly and got my already weak self esteem shattered into tiny pieces, that I’ve been trying to glue back together since then.
I know he is a sociopath, I know he manipulates people to feel better, because he likes it when people are emotionally dependant on him. I know I shouldn’t worry about anything he had said, but anyway I can’t get it out of my system. And it’s been so many years. He made me feel worthless, so I feel worthless. Even though I have a partner who says otherwise. Even though I’ve got friends who make me feel otherwise. They all make the little shattered pieces glue themselves back a little bit. But not enough, apparently. How do I get rid of this feeling? How do I get to like myself again?
Random thoughts
I have hurt someone I care about, by being selfish, lost and sad.
I don’t know how to live with myself and with that dark, lonely feeling.
I just wanted to feel desired, attractive. And I still don’t.
I crave attention from both of them. Everyday I want to make myself sexy, but it only makes me more vulnerable, so I end up wearing combat boots, combat trousers and black lipstick again, because I feel more secure in it.
I kill myself over and over with Pink Floyd and my sanity is dropping.
I need a rest
I can’t concentrate to write anything useful… I need a lot of rest, I suppose. I wake up and I still feel tired.
The argument I’ve recently written about? My friend said that he may have had overreacted a little bit. Everything’s perfect between us and I’m glad.
My connection to my Good Wizard has been recently somehow fading, I’ve been worried a little bit and today I’ve learnt that he has been sick. I have no way of helping, besides trying to send good thoughts and little pieces of positive energy, which I don’t have much right now, in his general direction.
My mother and this whole situation is somehow taking all my spare and basic energy away. I vegetate before the computer. I’m going to Dublin for three weeks soon, and I’ll recharge.
Empathy III
My brother says that my biggest problem is that I feel so much true compassion for people. This actually is true. When somebody is in pain, physical or mental, other people say they’re sorry, they express how they sympathize with that person, they discuss their feelings and generally do a lot of talking, “ohs” and other relevant noises, and then they go on about their business.
I don’t.
Instead I feel the pain which feels like swimming in liquid cotton. Instead I get sharp aches in my stomach. I get a numb, pulsing pain in my left hand. I get white hairs. I get a lot of bad dreams. I get a dark and pulsing sadness. I get the feeling that nothing is ever real. In several combinations at the time. The feeling is usually so overwhelming that I usually don’t say much at the moment, because nothing feels relevant or appropriate, which can be interpreted (and often is) as being rude and not compassionate.
And, contrary to what one might think, I sort of appreciate all those things. Not because I like the pain, no. I don’t. It makes me feel sick and helpless and hopeless and numb. I appreciate them because sometimes those emotions that come directly from my empathy are the only thing that give me energy of a certain kind, make me feel alive and make me feel emotions and remember that I once turned myself into an emotional vegetable on purpose, in order to not feel sorrow at all. I blocked all the emotions as an effect of blocking the bad ones, but now I understand that joy would be worthless without sadness.
Maybe there is a way to not feel the physical pain when my empathy turns itself on. I don’t know. It probably won’t happen unless I learn to express those emotions to people (at least to the ones I love) verbally or through the touch (this is where we come back to the communication issues again), which I doubt will occur soon. I’m still too blocked, emotions still hurt me, even the good ones. This is one of my biggest demons. I learn to feel again, and when the emotion is strong I get petrified for a while.
I have to learn to feel without hurting myself.
Communication
Talking about my feelings is an enormous effort for me. I always have the feeling that the person that I’m talking to doesn’t give a crap. So I don’t. I close up. Even to my love. But in spite of that, I have a distant feeling that people should talk about their feelings to their spouses, right? Right.
So sometimes I try. I try to cry to feel a relief, but I can’t. And when I try he changes the subjects, starts talking about irrelevant silly little things that make me mad at the moment. Or he tries to make me laugh, when all I need is someone to take my pain and ground it, because I don’t have a lightning rod in a form of God or gods.
And he has that stupid little habit of interpreting all problems as medical cases.
So I accused him of that all.
He accused me of closing up. He said that I should talk to him more. Because he isn’t a telepath (which he probably isn’t, true) and he has no way of knowing what brews inside my head. And that the more he’s trying to listen to me, the more I close up. Which is also true.
And we started talking. I told him that I have a problem with talking about certain stuff, especially to him. How can I talk about my problems with religious identity to someone who sacrificed a normal religious life to be with me, right? This wouldn’t be fair. So I didn’t. But he asked me to start talking, so I did. And I managed to tell him all the things.
That I don’t deny existence of any gods or a single God. They may all be there, for all I know. I just don’t give a damn. I refuse to worship them.
That the Bible or any other “holy” book is for me merely a set of legends, written to keep people together, because when they are unhappy, they should have a tradition and religion to make them feel more safe, and it should be treated as a legend, not as the only truth, because if you think logically it just can’t be.
That I simply hate people who think that their way of thinking is the only right one and I think that because their beliefs simply aren’t verifiable (is that even a word? O_o), so they might be right, wrong or both, for all I know.
That I think that bringing up a child in any religion (especially the one like his, which doesn’t tolerate any signs of thinking differently, or maybe I’m too harsh?) is brainwashing them from the beginning and making them believe things that aren’t verifiable (O_o) as they were real and true.
That he doesn’t talk about himself much and after all those years I barely know anything about his emotions, his spiritual life. I only know his opinions about various stuff and his brilliant sense of humour, which helped us through many difficult times.
He didn’t say much. He wasn’t too happy with what I said (I probably hurt his religious feelings more than once, and I realize that too painfully), and he had probably suspected such an opinion from me all this time, but he was glad that I started talking. And promised he wouldn’t send me to another shrink, and acknowledged my problems as something to be solved by some serious work from me, not by medications and talking about irrelevant stuff to a strange person, which I hate with all my heart.
I also asked him if he really wanted to be with me and why, I don’t really know why I did, because I feel that he does. Maybe I needed to hear it again to feel wanted.
I know it’s not much. We didn’t solve anything, only opened some old and new wounds. But we began communicating and it’s a good start.
