Grieving Normalcy
A brief contemplation on meeting ourselves where we are (and a bonus quick overview of Borderline Personality Disorder)
“There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Name of the Wind
The swollen blades of grass are slick and thick and hard to mow over when wet. My veins are still blue, carrying the life of me inside a body I’ve been so cut-off from, a lot of days it doesn’t even feel like mine. The mirror shows me a reflection of some other human - vibrant blue eyes bend time and my willpower to sustain a loving glance burns out. My patience, even for myself (especially for myself) is thin. And maybe that’s the rub.
I’m tired of feeling so hard, so rough around the edges. I’m tired of navigating my external daily life like it’s a fucking minefield that needs to be checked before I even consider walking into my day. I’m tired of all the therapy, the endless talking and thinking and accepting and managing and not ruminating but also not caving while also trying to keep it together to at least pretend to parent even a little bit. And still be some semblance of a version of a loving, caring, delightful person to myself, my wife, my friends - and assholes in the world. Still be someone I can stand to be around, endlessly.
I’m angry that as I continue doing the hard work of self examination and continuous application of new (and old) skills instead of leaning into old vices (which I do, of course, sometimes), it seems as though the work has only just begun. I’m maybe half-ish way through my life, give or take fate and the universe, and each day feels like a crowded out friend trying to find a way back inside itself. And with summer, the days tick down in a way that doesn’t quite seem real, and yet, if I contemplate the meaning of life too often, too hard, I’ll collapse. And maybe we all would.
I’m angry that it’s taken me so long to try on happiness and maybe give myself a shot at being loved. I’m angry that so much suffering exists in the world, both within us and in our physical environment, and yet, no real clear answer on what the fuck we are all doing here has been found. My therapist says that’s what a spiritual practice is for. And while my internal immediate reaction is explosive in nature - a slinking back into my defenses, I know she’s right.
If I don’t find something to hold onto, something sturdy and stable and reliable, I’ll keep reaching for whatever I thought my life was supposed to look like. Feel like. Sound like. And if I ruminate long enough, I’ll convince myself I can’t do life like that - do life in a way that meets my ridiculous expectations. Because, my expectations of myself - of life - are impossible.
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