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Honey is Sweet On writing? - 2009-05-23 I'm grateful for: a better relationship with TH, even if it's not what I wanted; a lovely candle for the sabbath; a quiet, peaceful home, at least for the moment. Thoughts that come to me after reading annanotbob asking about "A few examples of people who've spent extended periods of their lives hovering just the right side of suicide and have lived to tell the tale." -- do I count? -- how about Bill Wilson - an AA founder - who spent ten years suicidally depressed? -- it seems a part of the disease of depression is the belief that we are completely alone, no one else has ever been there or done that, and no one could possibly ever understand. Even if we are not isolated, we isolate ourselves from others who can and will understand and share with us this rather normal part of the human condition. It isn't helpful that so many are busy pretending that they (or we) aren't feeling this way - carrying on - stiff upper lip and all that. For me, what people might call depression was just this huge backlog of tears, that I didn't know how to cry, that I was afraid of - afraid if I started crying I'd never stop. Afraid of knowing just what it was I needed to cry about. I stuffed in all the sadness, closed it off, and then sat there unable to function because I was laden down with those unmoving tears. I'm still sometimes afraid to face the sadness. What if it overwhelms me? No, actually I'm not as afraid of that as I am afraid that facing it will actually make me MORE sad - especially if I have to face it alone, as I have had to face so many things in my life alone, without a shoulder to lean on or cry on. I'm not a little child any more, and I don't have to be afraid of being all alone, or that I'm unable to handle things by myself. Still, I don't WANT to. I want the human contact, the connection with another soul who has 'been there, done that.' I want there to be someone who can see me, or has seen me, in all that ugliness, and who can still love me. I want the reassurance that it is okay to be me that I can get (perhaps only) from another person who believes I am okay exactly the way I am. I carry this huge well-spring of 'unloved' around with me, waiting for someone to convert it, change it, cover it over, wipe it out with enough 'loved' to make it shrink, dwindle, lose it's force, go away. Letting go of the past means letting go of the 'unloved.' Letting go of the 'unloved' means accepting, somehow, that I am lovable, despite the fact that I WAS unloved for the first twenty-odd years of my life. Then facing the pain of being unloved for so long, unloved, unwanted, treated as a burden who couldn't possibly do enough right to deserve the space I took up or the oxygen I breathed. And there we are back at those tears. I stopped crying when I was very young. Are all of those tears stored up someplace inside of me? Am I going to have to cry ALL of them? in order to be 'whole?' I hope not, I'm unlikely to live long enough for that... Letting go of feeling unloved isn't the hard part, it's letting go of feeling unlovable. Why is that so scary? It's scary in part because that makes the horror of having been unloved so much greater. It is easier to see myself as the problem than to accept a world in which a child can be totally and unfairly unloved for so long by so many people. It's scary in part because if I am lovable, then how do I explain to myself the life I live and the situation I am in? Which refers mostly to the dysfunction, and (formerly?) abusive marriage, the fact that I have no family - the people are still living, but they are not familiy to me, as the make sure I am aware of if/whenever there is any contact, however tenuous. *** And there I was, interrupted by The Husband, who simply cannot bear it if I am seen to concentrate on anything that doesn't include him. If he can't get my attention by fair means, then he will upset me. I tolerate this behaviour much better from my children, whom I *chose* to rear. I didn't choose to rear my husband, I used him as an escape ladder, only later finding/figuring out that I was slated for the role of 'mommy.' Sometimes I wonder if there is anyone on the planet who *isn't* carrying around that tremendous well-spring of 'unloved.' *** Further interruptions and I'm on to something else. Photography is for me so much easier than writing. I can take 100, 200, 400 photos, and throw away all but the one really good one and it's not terribly painful for me. However with writing, throwing away all but the good words - well - it's like tearing out a piece of myself. One probably reason why I will never be a 'writer' despite the fact that I am unquestionably a writer - the mountains and boxes of paper around me testify to that fact. Edit it all away and I might even have one good book. But, well... So here's what I came up with from that last bit of musing: *** For me, what people might call depression was just this huge backlog of tears that I didn't know how to cry, that I was afraid of - afraid if I started crying I'd never stop. Afraid of knowing just what it was I needed to cry about. I stuffed in all the sadness, closed it off, and then sat there unable to function because I was laden down with those unmoving tears. I carry this huge well-spring of 'unloved' around with me, waiting for someone to convert it, change it, cover it over, wipe it out with enough 'loved' to make it shrink, dwindle, lose it's force, go away. Letting go of the past means letting go of the 'unloved.' Letting go of the 'unloved' means accepting, somehow, that I am lovable, despite the fact that I WAS unloved for the first twenty-odd years of my life. Letting go of feeling unloved isn't the hard part, it's letting go of feeling unlovable. Why is that so scary? It's scary in part because that makes the horror of having been unloved so much greater. It is easier to see myself as the problem than to accept a world in which a child can be totally and unfairly unloved for so long by so many people. Sometimes I wonder if there is anyone on the planet who *isn't* carrying around that tremendous well-spring of 'unloved.' *** And that is just a quick hack and slash. Isn't that so much better? To get really good I'd have to throw away even more, and tweak (I'm actually good at tweaking), and possibly throw away more still. *sigh* I don't know if I'm ready for that. Maybe my inability to let go of the words that don't work goes along with my inability to let go of the tears? Now THAT would be a motivation to work on getting those tears flowing... *wry grin* Anyway, I've probably taken enough of this weekend away from my family, time to open the door and cope with the dogs, cats, children and husband. Not to mention possibly visitors and three small children whose mother is in the hospital with a new baby. It's also hotter than heck here. Not quite hotter than hell - that'll take another 5C degrees. Don't worry, we'll get there. I'm listening to the fan and my family. ;-) 0 bleats so far:: Yesterdays : Tomorrows ::
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