Monday, August 20, 2012

Late Night Vice Fest

Tonight I engaged in my vices. I had many vices and I had  probably been indulging them too much of late. The reality was that life had been painful for the last few months. So painful that I couldn't think of how to progress with it, or what to say, or what to write. Who would read it all anyway?

And then some people, some of you, dear readers, pointed out that I had  not written. It made me realize that I did this to express and understand myself, but also as a window into who I am. I buried things so deep and never talked about them, and when I completely closed down, there was just nothing. Part of it was forgetting. By not writing, I pretended  that life was not actually happening to me, that it wasn't real, that there was just nothing there. No me, no reality, no Sara.

The reality was that I was there, and I had been denying myself. There had been so much living, and I was forgetting all the living I was doing because I was wallowing in all the pain that happens and forgetting that life came with an acceptable amount of pain. Without pain there was no living.

And I didn't want to cut myself off from living.

So there I was tonight, engaging in all my vices, and one of those was to express myself and the reality of my feelings and who I am. Some of you who read (actually most of you who read) are so dear to me. You have guided, supported, and advised me and in return I had given you no insight into what went on inside of my head. My vices included this writing, this self expression, this time to share who I am and to work out the feelings that I have and the thoughts, crazy and otherwise. Both so I could understand and so you could help me understand myself.

I had in my hand a clove cigarette and I let it burn down while I wrote. I had in my hand a glass of wine as part of a bottle that I might or might not finish. I had in my hand a spoonful of chocolate and sugar, a treat I hadn't had in months over months. I had in my hand a television murder mystery, a way to lose myself in the pain of someone else. I had in my hand a phone that I used to look at my various on-line musings. I had in my hand a computer, and on that computer I poured  words, and those words had meaning, and those meanings explained who I was.

Since January I had experienced loss after loss. I thought so much about what I was losing that I forgot what I was gaining, I had forgotten what was happening and how it was happening, and why it was happening, and why it was important. I wanted to wallow in my loses and not accept all the things I had gained. Some loss was good, progressive, helpful, and useful. Some was hurtful, painful, and made me hate myself. All of it was a part of growing and living.

There were so many transitions; some of these had been more painful than others, and I did not suffer those transitions alone. There were all kinds of transitions. The Irish, my favorite Irish, was transitioning. There was now the Designer, who was transitioning. The Roller Girl, the Electrician, the Kiterunner, the Pirate: we were all transitioning. The Greek, the Muse, we were all transitioning.  Once upon a time there was the Australian and the Volunteer, and they transitioned too. The Bard was transitioning, the Balance was transitioning, the Molester was transitioning. Young Kubrick was transitioning, we were all, equally, right now in a state of constant flux and we were all embracing it in our own way.

So much change.

Hiding from it, closing myself off to the world was not making it less real. If anything it made it not only more real but more painful. I don’t know; I wasn't reflecting, and that was what wa missing.

Those of you I have mentioned, I don’t mind if you still read, if this will pop up for you and ping you and make you take a moment to stop and read. I hope you will read, and if you don’t want me to tell the story of your changes through my prospective, then I won’t share.

But I need to start sharing my story again.

The One.

She’s at the heart of a lot of it. She is a huge catalyst for change. The Artist and her Writer, they also drive change. The Astrophysicist, the Music teacher, the Brewer, they are all there too. Some of these are new characters, characters who are so terribly important to my life and I have not even brought them into the fold.

It’s time to talk.

That is what I am going to do.

I’m going to talk, for myself, for the Saradevil, for the voice that needs to be voiced, for who I am.

Right now I am going to engage in my vices. I will lift this glass of wine to each of you. I will eat this piece of chocolate for each of you. I will inhale this sweet smoke for each of you. I will write for each of you.

And maybe through it, I will find myself again.

I am going to start writing again. It will come in fits and starts, it will come as it always comes, sometimes too much poetry to be understood, sometimes out of order, sometimes lengthy and in sequence. It will be very much who I am, and if you read it,  you will get to see it again, and if you don’t read it, it won’t matter too much. It matters to me.

Perhaps that is my greatest vice: I need to discuss those pains.

A long time ago my mother cautioned me never to write about my life. Because if you write it down someone will read. And I have worked so hard to never follow that advice, because maybe it should be read, maybe it should be known, maybe just maybe sharing it gives insight to the ones you love and insight to yourself. Somehow over the last few months I stopped sharing, and closing myself off and the result has made me more nervous, more volatile, more lost than I have ever been. I need to follow my heart and share it all, painful or not, my truth, my life.

And maybe when I’m done, you’ll all still want to read, and still be there for me, and maybe when I am done you will all think I am crazier than you could have possibly imagined. Either way, it’s  time to begin to indulge again.

No comments: