Mind Storm

My Storm

My mind is a storm. Wavering from one thing to the next all to avoid being still, quiet. I know I am a wreck. An unsuspecting, coping, mass of emotions none of which are handled well within me. On the outside a picture of grace, calm, together. On the inside I feel like I am thrashing. I do not know the difference between normal and not, I was not exactly given a road map. I presume most of us were not.

I know most no one has it figured out, but it does not stop me from believing that each person I see perhaps has unlocked more than me, knows a little something more that I could use to unlock the disheveled confusion within me.

I cannot tell if my lack of enjoyment with the people around me is because of my negative subconscious or them. It would be much easier if it were them... perhaps not. If it were my subconscious I could fix it, dig down into the deep abyss and somehow change it. If it is those around me, I am stuck. Bound by vows I made when my wounds were even deeper and my mind even muddier. I felt stronger, clearer, until I didn't. I realized I was gasping for air with no idea how I got here or why I keep coming back to this place.

If I acknowledge this place; this breath of time within me where my insides fight to claw their way out, or bury deep and never show again, then it is brushed off as a moment. As a struggle that will soon fade with a bubble bath and another tally checked beside a self-care task. But it does not evaporate. It simply simmers until reaching a raging boil, unable to be ignored. If I held the remedy perhaps, I'd share it, or maybe let it multiply itself within me until people could not help but see it, and match it. I have found no one to mimic yet, not where it works at least. I have a deep drive to be seen, needed, wanted, adored, left alone, cherished, ignored; a whirl of contradictions within myself each fighting at every blink to be filled.

Tolerant. Tolerant was once a word used to describe me. At the time it felt like a realization, not a compliment, not a sting, but a moment of awakening. But now, now it seemed like the anchor that drove me deep into the mess, the reck, the distaste within myself. Tolerance was once how I survived, unable to choose for myself, it was the buoy that allowed me to float instead of sink. Over time It turned into the mass that drug me down, now unable to decipher how to unhook myself from its clutch. Less and less seems possible besides the traditional days that I once despised and swore I would never again become a part of. Lies. The hope, the passion, all drove me towards lies. It is not all bad. In fact, most of it is good. Lots of little sounds of laughter fill my ears, I witness self-discovery daily, and love is not beyond my reach. But yet, I've sunken, like feet that walked into unsuspecting mud that clenches onto your shoes. You have the choice to leave the safety of the shoes or stay. Never to go under just observing as everything else keeps moving and you do not. Stuck to endure whatever powers lurk and choose to come at you, or watch but never touch, or ignore you.

I walked from one keeper into the next. Neither lacking love, but rather, a sort of lack that confused you until you were rid of it which took nothing short of a miracle. Taking precious years along with them, and inadvertently several to come. No way to free oneself but to wreck any and all in the path, a path I am not willing to take. I do not know if my inability to stay in one headspace is due to my forcing of affection or something else. I do not know what else or perhaps I wouldn't be thinking of it. Maybe life is not magical at all. Riches are not attainable to anyone who works hard enough and a true burning love is something only dreamed and written about, the luckiest of all being those who play it for all to see. At least they get it, even if for a short, scripted moment.

I am constantly aiming to prove myself, be something more, bigger, better. Only to hit a wall with enough force to kill. But not trying scares me more than that death, as unfruitful as it may be. What would I be without it all. Without the fear, the mask, the constant need to give back and always be thankful, yet knowing maybe I have a reason to be a mess. What if I walked around in the mess that I feel and know I am. Would perhaps the rubble begin to fall, begin to show the unwavering beauty underneath the rags and scars and trash that I cover up so well with a smile and appeasing character formed to fit you, whoever it is I am talking to. I almost want to vomit at the rising feeling. I've masked to survive, so much so that I don't know what is a mask and what is flesh. Warm water fills my eyes but does not fall. I feel time slipping away. It could be moments before I am gone, years even but it'll never feel like enough. Not this way. My throat closes and I can feel rising pressure in the most sensitive spots of my body. But not pleasure, not discomfort, almost pain.