not in our stars, but in ourselves
Somehow, over the past month, this thing has exploded in popularity. First of all: thank you. Second of all: who are you, and how did you find me? Last of all: I apologize for falling off the face of the earth.
There was the fire, of course. It was scary. It was a trauma. I’ve been spending most of the past month trying to build a foundation for myself, one that I haven’t had in years, really: ever since I left for college, my life has been a hobo life. I move to one place, move out a few months later. Move back in, move out. Always moving. Always aware that nowhere is home. You have no idea how fast I can pack up my entire life; this year, I’ve increased my efficiency to the point that I can take my messy existence and pack it into three suitcases in one night. Moving around so much, you learn not to accumulate things.
But now I have a place that I would like to be able to treat as a home, for at least a little while. It takes time and energy. I don’t have much of either. And believe it or not, there have been additional traumas since the fire; none worth airing in public, but the cumulative effect of 2013 on my delicate little psyche has been horribly damaging.
People who care about me (and I am lucky to have some very good people who do care, and who make sure to let me know) tell me to take care of myself. Indulge yourself, they say. Watch a movie; you like that! Do fun things just for yourself. Go out with friends. Read books. Write more – work on your own silly book idea.
These are all fine suggestions. I would like to act on them. But during the past month, something has snapped in me. There have been movies I tried to watch – re-watch, actually, because I haven’t had the fortitude to try to sit through something new – and I couldn’t feel any of the same enchantment that I knew I was supposed to feel. I didn’t cry during Hiroshima Mon Amour. I wasn’t enthralled by Fred and Ginger in Flying Down to Rio. I didn’t feel Uncle Charlie along my spine in Shadow of a Doubt. I watched, passively, and thought about how everything that has happened this year has left me with scar tissue instead of flesh: capable of feeling pressure and maybe deep pain, but not capable of responding to touch.
Maybe this will pass. Maybe things will get better. At this point, I’d settle for things just to stop getting worse.
Anyway, maybe I’ll try to force myself to watch things, and read things, and write things. Doing things by rote isn’t my preferred method; I have always been an enthusiast, a lover, a person whose passion far exceeded her education or training or discipline. I think now I’m just left with discipline. I will try to start exercising it.