I have been practicing forbearance as an art form lately. Really, if someone would have told me that adulthood was comprised of being calm and polite until one had a grip on the situation’s short hairs, then pulling hard while smiling sweetly, I would have been even more eager to get here.
I mean, I was eager for “childhood” and adolescence to be done anyway. To me, being a child/teen was being helpless, at the daily mercy of chaotic, unpredictable, and hurtful forces. Adulthood is the same, really, except having my own car keys and bank account gives me the illusion of being in control. As long as I have that illusion, I’m chilly. The perception of having some sort of say in one’s own life works absolute wonders, much as Frankl posits that finding some meaning in even the most horrific conditions can save a psyche. (Or, if not “save,” at least keep it from disintegrating completely.)
Anyway, I’m on the home stretch of a Major Life Change, and almost able to speak about it publicly. There will be hilarious blog posts in the future, I’m sure. But for right now, I’m exhausted and finally feeling like I have some sort of control over a situation, and it relieves a great deal of pressure. I’ve been using writing as a decompression during this whole thing, and struggling with the fact that one must have mental and emotional energy in order to write.
At different times in my life, writing has been confessor, framework, best friend, jealous mistress, lifeboat, parent, faithful lover, teacher, outlet, defense, weapon, and a million other things. The bare act of putting the words down, that mundane sorcery we take for granted, has been pretty much all things to me. The worst bit about the stress I’ve been under is some days, the words have to be chipped out of my cranium with a battle axe. Groping for a word, struggling to find any word at all, is one of my personal versions of hell. As the stress has receded, it’s gotten better–but the habit of sitting each day and refusing to leave until the words come, however molasses-slowly or blood-painfully, has been the only thing keeping me nailed to the chair so I at least get some of them out. This is why I harp so endlessly on the subject of discipline–if I hadn’t had that habit, God alone knows how painfully lost I might have been. It actually makes me shudder.
Anyway. Time to do, again. Hey, on a completely unrelated note, learn some new things about rabies! *shudders once more*
Over and out.