I have discovered, over my vast forty-three years, that I am an exceedingly passionate woman.
What I mean by this is that I willing surrender my stark, logical will to the preying beast of my emotional nature in most situations. It's just who I am, who I've always been. My mother considered me hopeless, and rightly so.
I know of many others who fight hard against their emotions, fight to maintain a cold, mechanical look of the world in order to conquer it and make it their own. I understand this view of life completely; these are the people who succeed in life, hold down proper jobs, accomplish the required educational commitments and socially are graceful and accepted into the fold. If life is dull or boring, or if they should find, in mid-life, that a roaring tiger of great hunger and rage resides within, they are at least already established and can either chose to act upon that tiger bite or simply shoot the beast, once and for all, with a silver bullet of rational thinking that puts the matter at rest for good.
Although I understand it, and although the world around me is consistently working within the safety of this framework, I am clearly not in alignment with the philosophy nor caught within it's open arms of comfort. I, dear readers, am not safe at all. I am, instead, out to sea, my tiny vessel rocked and slammed against the waves, the colors of sky and ocean becoming one until I've no way of knowing if I have capsized or am still afloat. And when I master a rolling hill of water and mist, laugh at it in my arrogance and triumph, I am tapped upon the shoulder to witness an even bigger mountain forming behind me.
I am amazed that those watery heights have not killed me yet. My boat, however, is pretty beat-up, and I'm not sure how resilient she still is.
I love the heat of the emotions, though. They create a chemical rush of the most exquisite drug on earth, my brain being my personal dealer, and so it is really no wonder why I live the spent life of an addict. The only emotion I run from is fear, and fear is a nasty, stiletto fanged monster that enjoys every rip, tear and suck of blood, flesh and soul it can get. I will do anything to avoid it, distract it, hide from it in open light and loud music...do anything to escape its clutches as it lunges for me from the darkest corners of my psyche. Out of all of my menagerie of emotions, fear is the hunter child, the wild one who needs not rest nor shelter, the stalker with the iron traps and the torturous imprisonments to satisfy his morbid leanings. He will not be caged, but cages me, instead, and makes his prey wish that they had never been born.
This is the one I battle most, the one who rocks my boat to timbers. Harpoons pass through it as arrows through fog, and there is no way to plead with it. It laughs at logic, at bargaining, at promises to make new choices tomorrow if only I can get through the night with a few hours of peaceful sleep. It knows better, sees through the attempted grift, clamps down harder and shakes me in its jaws until I am raw and weary. There is no escape when it calls, and I am its favorite game.
The other emotions have, at least, something useful to offer. Love is always thrilling, lofty, fun in its sexuality, humbling in its divine grace, and usually always makes me feel and be a better human on this earth than I was being previously. Anger fuels me, gives me energy, edge and spark; it triggers a snarky sense of humor and a definite sense of superiority. Depression, while hollow in its depths and wrought with an external inertia that seems impossible to rouse out of, also presents the gift of creativity and the strength of voice to demand attention; I write less when I'm stable and comfortable, because nothing is leaking out of me, begging to be put to paper or blog, and bursting my seams into near explosion. Grief can be a painful road to walk, bare feet upon glass for miles and endless miles, but it can then produce the most beautiful and loving spiritual insights I have ever experienced. They are my friends, this lovely watery whirlpool of sensations, and they woo me and make love to my spirit as would any ardent lover. No cold steel logic can even attempt to come close.
But the life destroyer is fear, hands-down. As an artist, as a human, I can survive and thrive with the others quite nicely. But fear...that demon grotesque and evil beyond words, is and has always been the reason why I long to leave this life for the sweet freedom that lies behind the Veil. It is the one emotion that I wish logic could work against; I have tried it before, when I was very young. It worked for a time, but I found that once I shut down the one, ending my panic attacks and actually putting me into the most successful time in my life, I had also shut down the others, and all I felt was numb and mechanical. I couldn't love anybody, I couldn't enjoy my successes, I couldn't have fun anymore. It was all gone, and I was stone cold within. I did what I was supposed to do...got married, dressed for success, began a business with my husband and learned all about investing and real estate. I ignored the fact that I hated my life. But the spirit has other ways of exploding those emotional seams when one is desperate to shut it all down in quiet compliance.
Within a year and a half I had Rheumatoid Arthritis. The center couldn't hold. I landed in the hospital severely anemic, with pulmonary embolisms and heart palpitations. For three days my doctors kept me there and considered giving me a blood transfusion. It didn't happen, but my husband was scared that I was on my way out.
And I was. I made the decision to stay. That's a whole other story for another post.
In order to stay I wanted to live again, wanted to feel again. I needed to find my way back to my authentic self. I ditched the husband, got out of investments and real estate, and fell in love hard with a strapping red-headed mountain man. All was good for only a year. It became 2008. The economy crashed. The man liked me, but didn't love me. And I lost my wellness center. My RA progressed. I ended up alone and on food stamps. So much for authenticity.
So, I appear to be stuck. The logical choices leave me numb and compromised. The passionate life leaves me poor, heartbroken and unloved. And fear is always crouched in the corner, throwing me pictures of my mortality with scenes of infirmity and disease. Death is not the problem; it's wasting away, piece by piece, and all alone.
I have bizarre thoughts: will I have a heart attack in my sleep? Will my landlord find my body before it smells up the house? Will a hazmat team flick maggots off of my flesh when they find me rotting in the basement? And lastly, will my landlord have to pack up my stuff and what will he think of me while he goes through it? The sheer stupidity of my fearful thoughts drives me insane.
So, to feel, or not to feel? How do I change? Do I even want to?
I think I will stay at sea. Sometimes, there is a full moon, and the stars shine so bright against the darkness of the ocean waves that I see diamonds all around me. Sometimes, I look out at the horizon, and I can see forever, rainbows drawn within the misty haze and foaming rolls. Sometimes, the waves rock me gently, and I am precious in the womb of the Great Mother, held and loved in her sea-salty breath. But I am always here alone, with no one to share such beauty and magic with, and I am sad for that. If only I could show someone what I see, have them understand enough to appreciate the gifts I have to offer. My world can be so amazing.
And if only fish gave foot rubs.
