Snippets of a mind gone mad

The plagues of sadness, fear, anger, confusion - a few off the top of my head - pock my days, weeks, months, years.  Don’t get me wrong, they split time with happiness and awe too, but let’s face it….those darker days weigh much more.  I’ve been pissed off at karma, and then looked inward to see where the flinging poo may have come from.  I’ve tried exorcizing  ghosts and demons, and I’ve set them packing on more occasions than I care to count, yet here they sit across the table from me…snickering…bastards. 

I could look back on my life and choices and let the pain of bad decisions and life events shoot daggers through my heart: the drugs, alcohol, tough guys, liars, thieves, loss, naming merely a few.  But I told myself long ago that no matter what my past held, it made me who I am today.  I said that in days I was proud of my accomplishments and well-seasoned with self-esteem and worth with dreams bigger than novels gracing my shelves.  I was lifted up by the podiums of academe with pride beaming from my professors and honor emanating from my soul.  My fabulous drug…and then came the crash.

My father taught me to work hard for the things I wanted in life and I would achieve all I set my mind to.  And for the most part that was true.  However, the story of life doesn’t end at happily ever after.  The sequel began and as is true to form…it sucks.  Working hard never gets a break, and even if you do, it doesn’t guarantee success or the goal.  It’s exhausting and dull.  Academe was heavenly for my soul and I thrived and grew and glowed in its holy light: Knowledge.  But the wisdom gained also teaches that you never stop learning, and that learning on the other side of the walls is a lot less fun and many times less fulfilling.

Life happens.  We are all sad.  We are all stressed.  We are all angry.  For many we may not find that economically better life.  Life is cyclical, and we have forgotten that too.  Our children (and many of us) are zombies to technology and becoming farther removed from what makes us human.  Communities crumble.  Compassion and empathy are terminally ill or dead.  We blame and scapegoat and often time refuse to see the reflection of ourselves in others, especially when it is a truth we would prefer to ignore.  We don’t share in the responsibility that two halves contribute to the wrong.  Apologies fall on deaf ears because no one really wants an apology they want to point the finger.  And everybody wants to be right.  We must try to remember:  truth = subjective.

In my younger days I was shy and introverted and fearful on many levels.  I was easily lead and swayed by others ideas and plans.  I wasn’t my own being.  I didn’t understand the power of knowledge, except what I perceived in others, ignorantly giving them control even though they were equally as clueless as I, but they had charisma.  At a moment in my 20s I realized I was my own person; that I had rights and a voice and opinions and principles and needed to believe in myself.  That moment carried me more than a decade forward.  I basked in my new found cranial activity: sparks flying and ideas creating and excitement for possibility.

Somewhere along the way I didn’t replace a light bulb.  I slugged through darker and darker societal norms and ideas and musts and have tos and need tos and eeuww thanks for the gum I just stepped in.  My principles sat idly on a misfiring synapse, speaking only when it was safe.  I couldn’t lose a job, or offend someone else, or be me without fear.  I bit my tongue and smiled or let my beliefs shrink back lest I be accused of needing to be right instead of offering an alternative perspective.  Mutual respect is on the endangered species list in this Gibsonian world. 

All the while I heard the tapping under the glass and a scream every now and again escaped.  Instead of feeding and fostering the self-confidence and being proud of my knowledge and experience I allowed the primal warriors to slice and attack the very essence of me.  I forgot that my power is my knowledge and no one has the ability to take that from me.  I was captured - instead of fighting my way out and away - I huddled in the corner like a rat defending myself from myself.  My madness grew.

I put trust and expectations in people that don’t see me the same way.  I make allies with those who contribute to my cowering and fits.  Masochistic I know.  My madness becomes apoplectic.  My visions become trepidation.   My bell jar, my yellow wallpaper, my catch 22 trap me even as I try to run like those dreams when you can't ever get away from the encroaching evil. I have two choices:  break the glass, steam off the paper, and fuck the societal pretenses or allow the possession of my soul.   

I’ve been finding pieces of my heart and soul in places long lost, and deeply hidden.  I’ve found people who energize and believe in me, people who respect and love me for me, and we love each other in spite of our flaws and because of our flaws and help turn those flaws into strengths.  We allow each other to be mad, sad, scared and help build each other up instead of feeding on the weaknesses like vampires.  We foster the beauty of life in each other.  We encourage imperfection and nature as what makes us unique and special.  

and those demons and ghosts...you know the ones having coffee with me...I realize that they aren't so bad once you get to know them.  After all they've been with me a long time.  They wanted to remind me that I have a long way to travel free from my oubliette.  But I’ve crawled out of darker places.

Never be Afraid of the Dark

Melancholy: A pensive mood

On a beautiful sunny day too early in March, greeted by confused spring robins and solar warmth on my head in my wee-hour trek to the office, I feel melancholy. Not depressed, not dark in a shadows sort of way, but in a contemplative moment. Could I be angry for anger’s sake? Could I be pissy for stupidity’s sake? Could I have caught “the mood”? Or is the full moon toying with my sentiments? Honestly, all of the above, yet as I sit here drawn to Jeff Buckley’s Hallelujah, Christina Perri’s Thousand Years, and Adele’s Set Fire to the Rain I realize that it is none of the above. And thanks to a friend’s post on Facebook showing beachgoers in Brazil saving a family of beached dolphins I cracked. I realize humanity has a chance.

This winter failed its own definition miserably, and affected me in ways I never expected. I call it RSAD, not Renee sad, but reflecting seasonal affective disorder – take that DSMV! Where was the snow, forcing family home for much needed togetherness, the freezing temperatures that kill the germs and control pest populations for the coming season, the many dark hours indoors, finding adventures in the corners of the house you normally ignore? What of the snow boots and heavy coat we were so excited for Anya to wear while making snowmen and angels with Freyja bounding around the yard in husky revelry, burrowing deep to find buried toys? Where was my hibernation?

My little baby turns three in seven days.

My little girl doesn’t want to wear diapers anymore.

My dancing, drumming, piano playing diva will start taking ballet lessons.

I stand on the brink of building the life I dream.

I turned 40 seven days ago.

The tears continue to well and recede. The ringing fear of failure echoes in every fold and crevice. I never wanted to be superwoman…well perhaps when I was 10 and in love with Lynda Carter and Jaime Summers - my fearless protectors, super women. I’ve always gravitated to the female actress, musician, superhero, author, teacher, yet had few female close friends. Today I look around and I’m surrounded by beautiful women, all different; I admire each and every one. They all bring something important to my life, and all are a piece of me. I begin to understand myself, where I’ve been, and my hopes for my little girl. Being a woman, being female: being darkness and light, strength and weakness, intelligent and confused, being soft and firm, being both sides of the mirror. I used to believe this dichotomy a burden.

In yet another year the fear-mongering bandwagon instills apocalyptic stigma to the blinking of an eye, I find the most strength to stand alone. I will not be controlled or spend another moment scared by someone’s extremism. I will not raise a daughter to subject her energy and spirit to the venom of ignorance. I can’t save the world, but I can save myself, and hopefully my child. Truth is a tricky word for no good reason than it is subjective, unlike fact, which I’m sure we could debate as well. Facebook, unfortunately, provides the best example at the moment. I am exhausted reading emails for the latest hoax that no one bothered to confirm before spreading its fallacy to more sheep. How many people will “repost” these same hoaxes gone FB before they get it that they are creating truth out of lies. Wouldn’t it be nice to believe that we can save a little child with “likes”. The accurate information exists with a little due diligence. Bandwagon mentality goes both directions; Occupy rallies people together for a purpose; the end of the world breeds selfishness and greed and ignorance.

Today I woke up remembering the days my husband, then boyfriend, and I lived like rock-stars: we drank too much, stayed up too late and lived in the moment. On an adventure to the Dewey Beach Music Fest I offered moral support to my man and an excuse to enjoy the spontaneity of life. We stayed in a motel room, circa1980s Wildwood-heydays, yet with less enthusiasm for lack of comfort or pretties. After a nap we ventured out to eat and bar hop, dancing and drinking the night away with musicians from all around, showcasing their fab-ness with ego or humility, neither mattered much. After hours of debauchery, shadows crept and the rowdy rumbled to their cells to sleep or vomit or both. I stumbled to a hotel room with friends and strangers, most on the edge of or beyond consciousness, eager for water and a somewhat clean bed. We found ourselves anchovied in a room surrounding a beautiful voice singing Jeff Buckley’s version of Hallelujah. Lzzy’s voice was angelic and brought tears to every person in that crowded room. We begged her to sing it over and over again, mesmerized. Now Lzzy is all grown up and following her dream, rocking the world.

Why does the Twilight Saga thrive? Not from good acting or story writing, but romance. The ultimate sacrifice, ideal, true, unconditional love, the journey, fate, you name it…the sentiment of the fantasy. Christina Perri’s A Thousand Years tugs at my heart like no other in quite some time. Her voice hypnotizes with melody and ethereal tones. I met her in those same days as Halestorm made their way through the trenches, but not as a young female singer, but Nick Perry’s little sister, in love with all the wrong guys and losing her innocence fast. I wish I could have protected her when I met her at that 30th birthday party, she was so young and sweet, and I didn’t want these guys taking her down. Now I listen to her voice on the radio and beam that she survived those days, and more beautiful for her pain and acceptance of her femaleness. Her song speaks volumes for all that we want to believe and hope and feel. The lullaby is what dreams are made of.

What about these two women who don’t know me makes me want to talk about them? They may not remember me, but I felt like a protective mother when I met them, and didn’t understand it until now. They were both young with big dreams and a reality that I had begun losing. I wanted to see them succeed and be strong women in a male dominated world. Men saw them as objects, not as talent and beings full of energy to share. Now I blare their voices with a smile, feeling like a moment shared in time with them connects me to strength and hope once more. And for my daughter to learn and understand what it means to be a woman in all her aspects and places through time, I needed to see these women become.

I stand on a new edge of being. Turning 40 didn’t cause some great awareness or understanding or cliché: it coincided. I’ve always associated myself and my life with the phoenix. What beautiful imagery of a colorful bird becoming, dying, and becoming again. Need I bring a Madonna reference here? For all my teen angst and bad decisions and recklessness I was blessed with the ability to rise again, stronger than before, and hopefully more vibrant. My current transfiguration rests in my post partum, post void, post darkness, posthumous ashes. I don’t need to have lived a thousand years to understand a thousand years. I want to teach my daughter the wisdom of ages of women of life of death and not fear failure. To believe, survive, restore and become all that exists for her world.

I am proud to share my life with amazing women: mothers, sisters, dancers, artists, voices, friends, daughters, each and every one touches my life in positive ways. And in turn bless Anya with hope for a future. She can learn so much more than I because her predecessors opened new doors, continue to break down walls and leap ravines, fight illogic and fallacy, and reveal wisdoms long buried or suppressed. I know I will never stop worrying about her safety and growth, but I must believe that I can provide her the tools and knowledge to survive and succeed, and surround her with good example and strength. The darkness is a place of strength and knowledge and without it I could never have understood myself and my world or come to know my strength. Now to teach Anya not to be afraid of the dark.