“I try so hard to convince myself that I am not ill, that I am not truly suffering, that I am keeping it all together. This is the opposite of compassion, is it not? This denial only keeps me from taking care of myself. It is the “push through” method, and it doesn’t work.”
I would so very much like for the “push through” method to work. It did for years, to an extent. And yet, crazy = doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. Expecting the results I want instead of the results I’ve gotten so far, doing the same thing over and over again, hammering away at every problem like I never learned how to use a paintbrush or a suture needle or a rotary blade or a shotgun. I’m afraid. What if I put down the crazy hammer of denial and have nothing to pick up in its stead? Been a long damned time since I studied Shotokan, or even Bujinkan. I prefer blades for their surety to easily broken fingers, but the lack never stopped me from punching at all the really hard things, no matter how much it hurt. Which takes me right back to my default.
Jena Strong‘s post quoting Audre Lord brings me wisdom today:
“I know the anger that lies inside of me like I know the beat of my heart and the taste of my spit. It is easier to be angry than to hurt. Anger is what I do best. It is easier to be furious than to be yearning.”
And yet the easier path, this path of no resistance where I breathe anger like my cells breathe fire to live, is not the path with the least struggle.
“And true, sometimes it seems that anger alone keeps me alive; it burns with a bright and undiminished flame. Yet anger, like guilt, is an incomplete form of human knowledge. More useful than hatred, but still limited. Anger is useful to help clarify our differences, but in the long run, strength that is bred by anger alone is a blind force which cannot create the future. It can only demolish the past. Such strength does not focus upon what lies ahead, but upon what lies behind, upon what created it – hatred. And hatred is a deathwish for the hated, not a lifewish for anything else.”
I am so tired of hating my circumstances, of hating the pain and damage that wracks my body and sucks energy and time away from the more interesting pursuit of making a life, of making love, of making fun and fun of whatever tickles me.
Apparently there’s no way to automatically transfer all my old posts over from Blooger, and I’ve got almost seven (count ‘em, 7!) years of sporadic commentary, mumbles and ravings stored up over there that I’m feeling sentimental about (hey, I NEED those quiz results from 2002 dammit). So this is gonna take a while.