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Monthly Archives: February 2010

People ask me all the time why I don’t write more.  I wish I had the answer.  I don’t know.  I like to think funny answers in my head, like, “Well as a result of a series of unfortunate medical events, my creative side has been absolutely severed beyond any and all repair.”  This, of course, is not true.  What is true, maybe, is that I’m just scared.  Us writers stare at blank pages in fear, knowing that the black ink that soon will fill in the blank space is our own vulnerable and naked selves.  My defenses are down here.  The only one that can hurt me is me.

On that note, I don’t know why I sat down tonight to write.  I have a thirty minute presentation in my childhood psychopathology class due at 10:00 tomorrow morning.  Ideally, I would be working on that.  But here I sit.  And for what purpose?  To please the people who ask me to write more?  No.  Maybe.  I hope not.  But upon returning to my apartment tonight, I was greeted by that old sensation, that old urge, and here I sit.

I suppose that’s preface enough for the subject of tonight’s nonsense, which is, I’ll have you know, still being discovered.  It seems as if tonight I don’t know much.  The last several months is just a smearing of images; some great, some neutral, some terrible.  Despite constant vane attempts at meditation and prayer, I’m unable to be in the moment.  In fact, I could say that more than half of my days right now consist of one voice arguing with the others to stay in the moment.

I came home tonight, and was greeted with the pleasant surprise of a kitchen full of new groceries.  Though I know I went grocery shopping earlier, I am unable to make a connection to the person who did the act.  Sartre called it “nausea.”  Good old existential angst brought on by who knows what.  Some have tried to tell me it’s post traumatic stress.  Some would say I’m just not working my spiritual life as best as I should.  Some suggest that I just be easy on myself, take it easy Zack, the last few months have been hell.  Some say that episode is over, let’s move on.  And then we have me, my head, my ideas, and my arguments, all taking place with myself, agreeing and disagreeing over and over again.  My therapist suggests it’s my way of trying to control anxiety and pain, a defense mechanism birthed from the last few months.  I say I just want my life back.  I want some stability back.  One minute I’m a little boy awestruck by the enormity of life, the next I’m an adult who meets challenges with calm and confidence.  But oh, what’s the difference anyways?

What’s life anyways but a smothering of uncertainties and ambiguities?  What’s life but a collage of images?  Some make me smile, some make me cry, some make me angry and vengeful, most make me laugh.  They come and go, like the weather, like my moods.  And I’m stuck here trying to make sense of it all, trying to make the “right” decisions with my life.  All I want to do is run…. from my feelings, from tomorrow, from yesterday, from you.  I didn’t use to feel this way.  But I’ve gone back into protective mode.  That old threatening aura has returned to every object and person I lay eyes on.  It used to take drugs and alcohol for it all to seem less threatening.  Now, ha… What?  Now I’ve got new tools I guess.  Sometimes they work.  Sometimes they don’t.

I guess I’m supposed to just be patient.  Practice patience, acceptance, and tolerance, of others and especially of myself.  I regurgitate these words every night in my bed, say them so much these days that they have almost lost their meaning, almost become simply air that blows out of my mouth, a physical act done out of habit, because it makes me comfortable, even if just for those few seconds.  But despite how I feel right now, one thing I know.  I’m going to wake up early tomorrow, get my presentation straight, show up, put an interested face on, and practice patience, acceptance, and tolerance…. whatever the hell that means.