Sometimes I tire of this rat-race society. Sometimes I tire of all the lights, the shows, the…the reality. I want to go find some haunted forest and talk to the ghosts of benevolent travelers. I want to find a rickety wooden swing in a decrepit garden, and I want to swing on that swing no matter how stable or safe it is. I want to wear some dreamy white dress that’s just a tad too big for me. There will be nobody except me, the wind, the evening sunset, and the soft choruses of secret dryads. The animals won’t talk, that’s too cheesy, but they’ll be drawn to me. We’ll be able to communicate. There will be a tiny brook that widens into a slow-moving river. I’ll swim–in that dreamy white dress–and I won’t be overtaken by currents. It will be late September, warm enough for a bit of sweat and cool enough for just a tad of shivering. I won’t wear any shoes, because the forest will be carpeted by soft grass and white, cotton-like flowers. I’ll have a flower crown and wind-blown hair. Most of all, I’ll be wondrous like I’m five again. I won’t have a care in the world. Everything will be mine, and I will belong to everything.
Everything is falling apart.
2014 was god-awful. Seriously, it was the worst year I’ve ever had. God help me–I mean, myself help me–if I ever have to live through another like it. You’d like there would be some sort of mitigation, but no.
Yesterday evening, I experienced yet another loss in my life. My sister’s sweet little bunny, Luna, passed away during surgery. She was getting spayed. Do you know how rare the mortality rate with spaying is? Do you know? The mortality rate is no more than 1 percent. But it happened to her. It happened to us.
I have been feeling so, so alone in life. Alone and without any direction. And…Luna was my friend. She let me hug and pet her and never complained. Every time I walked by, she’d come running up to greet me. I miss her. I miss her so terribly.
I do not know why this happened. I don’t understand. Of all families in the world, it happened to us. Why? I am so fucking sick of “it’s all for a reason!” I can’t take it. I just can’t take it anymore. This is just one more heavy burden on a long list. I’m not being melodramatic, so shut up if you were even going to go there. I’m hurting. I feel like everyone and everything I love is on the line. What will be taken from me next?
I am, at the moment, plagued with feelings of doubt and anxiety. It has been ongoing since about yesterday afternoon. I was incredibly happy with my Friday (how much I’d blessed people), but the happiness quickly turned in to anxiety and has not relented since. I have been obsessing a lot in the past few days. Mostly about the past, the future, the present…wait, that basically covers everything, right? Everything is so damn confusing, that’s what. Isn’t this such an Abigail problem to have? Of course I’m having issues with feelings. I always have issues with feelings. I’m sorry, I’m just trying to publish a blog post. There was supposed to be some sort of message here, some sort of poetic value. I haven’t lost faith in it.
Truth is, I feel like I’m just starved for love and attention right now. I wouldn’t use “starved” because that’s melodramatic. I am lonely in life, but especially right now. I’m so lonely that I would hit up a club. This is more of a temporary sort of loneliness than the sort I’m experiencing in life right now. Sort of a more acute sense of loneliness in a sea of it. I want to buy a few cheap disco balls and invite about thirty people over. I have a whole dance playlist, too. I don’t even care who the people are. Strangers off the street. Random people you find in a back alley, I don’t care. My mind is a bit of a cloud right now. Imagine trying to cut through thoughts like thick, hardened butter.
There’s a lot of doubt in my mind also (as I mentioned earlier). Sometimes I get this chilling feeling that things aren’t real. I over-analyze, over-analyze, over-analyze, and then end up with a bunch of loose ends and upset feelings. Dead ends, really. Imagine if we could relive anything we wanted to. Imagine if we could go back in time and inspect ourselves, objectively, on every single day of our lives. Imagine that–going back and being able to see all those wonderful and painful memories from someone else’s view. What I mean to say is that the mind is such a confusing place to be. PMS is such a confusing thing to experience, that’s what. Everything is confusing. I just really felt like I needed to publish a blog post. There is redeeming value in here, somewhere.
If we’re talking about wants, I want the past back so I can change it. Just to see how it would be different if things were…different. Maybe that would solve all these feelings. I also want a party. I’ve never actually had a party at my house, not for a long time. I mean the sort of party with disco balls, strobe lights, dance music. Maybe that’s just coming from loneliness. Damn it. Loneliness and stress and PMS do weird things to you. If sleep would come and wash out this anxiety and doubt, I would be very pleased. A feeling of sleepiness will eventually come over. In the meantime, I think I’m going to lay in bed and wait for it instead of writing blog posts that don’t have the value I intended for them.
I need to publish this, though. Because there’s meaning in here. It’s somewhere. You just have to look. Look for it. If you can’t find it, it will find you.
For someone who’s close to obsessed with self-discovery and personal expression, I stifle myself quite a lot. Most of it’s been going on recently.
I am a person who needs to talk about my problems. My head is a busy and confusing place. I spend so much time there that it’s impossible to squish a little objectivity in there. Talking helps bring me out of the head I’m constantly in.
But see, the problem is that I’ve become so afraid of my past self that I’m almost afraid to ask for help. In my younger days (which, unfortunately, are only a few months ago), I would whine about every little thing that went wrong. And, being someone who needs to talk about my problems, I sort of made some scenes trying to get that. I am mortified. Maybe it’s the boy-who-called-wolf thing. As time wore on, fewer people responded to me–and rightfully so.
Now, I’ve become so averse to melodrama that I seem to add “not in a melodramatic way” to nearly every feeling I express. I’ve become so afraid of that mortifying person I was that I have trouble even asking for my emotional needs to be met.
I’ve been keeping everyone more at arms length now, and that’s exactly what hurts me. I am craving a closeness that I can’t even describe. I am hungry for deep connection and deep love. The sense of lack is overwhelming at times. When I have a problem, I don’t go running to anybody. To be honest, I don’t have a specific person I would run to anyway. Which is good, you know, not to totally overwhelm one person, but it’s sort of like being spread too thin. Plenty of people would be willing to listen to me, but in all honesty, there’s something missing. There’s always that word–missing. I so need closeness, but I just don’t really feel like it’s happening.
I am so confused even as I write this. Of course I would want to cultivate closeness! I don’t know how I’m conveying this, and it’s probably coming out wrong. I’m afraid to make a move to cultivate closeness. That’s it. I’m so terrified of that melodramatic me, that overwhelming me, that it’s a struggle to reach out.
So this all connects to stifling myself in that I feel the need to reach out, but I stop myself. Barriers go up. These days I don’t really connect on a deep level to anyone. It’s all humor and laughs–which are great, but just not satisfying this need I have. There’s nobody whom I would call late at night and cry to, and having that somebody is very important to me.
Quiet, reflective Abigail is on the rise again. No, that’s not a bad thing! I have two interesting parts of myself that ebb and flow, one being distinctly dominant at different points in time, or sometimes using them at equal capacity. But the problem here is that quiet Abigail is becoming suppressing. At moments when I need closeness, or even just a conversation sometimes, I push the need away. I tell myself, “Abigail, you will never be an annoying little shit again.” So while naturally quieter me is emerging again, it’s with a bad twist. And it feels suffocating. It feels suffocating, needing and wanting emotional intimacy and connection, but being afraid to ask for it. I sit there, craving the company of someone I can cry on, but I do nothing. I feel like asking for anything will make me feel like that annoying little shit me again.
I’ve always wanted to be that tough sort of lone wolf who really doesn’t give a care. I’ve always wanted to be that mysterious “woman of few words” who can do everything on her own. But I’m not. I’m trying so hard to be someone I’m not, because I feel like being the person I really am is too close to that terrible old self. Quiet Abigail is fine, like I said earlier, but right now she’s trying to kill the other side–what would I call her–Enthusiastic, Open Abigail? I mentioned that I tend to use these beautiful facets of myself freely and at equal capacity, but one part of myself is being asphyxiated. That’s exactly how it feels.
I am mortified of that old self, and it’s very upsetting. Even a little uncomfortable writing blogs like this (maybe that’s why I do it, to attempt to bring myself out).
But, of course with all of this, I’m not trying to sound like some confused teen who’s asking, “Who am I?” No, I know exactly who I am. I know all about myself. It’s that I’m afraid to be the side of me that was once behind the face of my immaturity.
At this point I’m just rambling, and nothing I say will further this blog post. I can only hope y’all can get the idea.