I am a parasite. Fused with whatever shelter I lay my claws on. Such mutuality has become codependence, and codependence hinders growth for both the host and the parasite.
I need to break away. I have lost myself completely – again.
What was once a relationship that is more than the sum of its parts, where we could be genuinely and wholeheartedly supportive and proud of each other, where we would discuss and contract our relationship, has become little more than administrative for mere survival. Perhaps both organisms are there by habit, despite the cancer that grows in between. Most times, the host dies a painful death, and the parasite, having lost its origins of nutrients will slowly disintegrate also.
Such emotional dependence, having tipped the balance, is no longer sweet nor romantic, but bitter and burdensome.
I woke up last week in the middle of the night, sweating, panting, gasping for breath. I woke up because I shocked myself: “I do not know why I have the boundaries I have.” Boundaries of time, space, place, people, relationships, sex, emotions, play, touch, mind, intellect, thought, life, death, love, hate…
Of course I have boundaries, some are quite strong too. However, I seem to have taken whatever was given to me, adopted the society’s norms, and thought, “But of course, if not these boundaries, could there be others?” and happily went on my way. I thought I was so sparky and special but really I was just one of the herd who thought the same about themselves – that is the real shock.
At least there is one thing I got right, I am part of the mediocrity.
Have we ever thought about why we have those boundaries or why society hold us to them? Why are some things such a big deal and others not?
Many others are living a lie. And I play into their lies. Fuelling their lies to themselves, whether they are aware of the lies or not. Their images of themselves, of what life should be, what family should be, friends should be, I fit into them all – very elegantly as well, I must say. What does one do when soul mates become strangers?
This is a strange feeling. I do not feel like I am spiralling nor sinking as I would expect of a depressive episode. This is different from every other experience I have had. I feel resolute, rational, and reasonable in my logic, knowing though every person of unsound mind would think theirs’ were the sanest of us all. Watch Shutter Island.
Thousands fog follow rain into gloom
One path javelins into clouds
Will the clouds part? Who is at the end of the clouds?
I need to take flight. Break away. Be on my own. I’d like to stare at the ocean from one of those non-ending beaches in Perth though god forbid I ever trespass there. My alternative is to be on the balcony up some skyscraper in fresh luxury, staring out into the sea, a glass of Mimosa in my hand, with a tender hint of lemon and eucalyptus scents dispersed amongst white and yellow lilies through the breeze. But being up high on a tall building with a balcony is slightly risky for my present state of mind, though I do not want to die in a mess. I like the way I look.
I have come a painful full circle from a decade ago. I am not who I think I am nor am I being how I want to be. I am more than aggression or abuser or depression or anality. Just because the kaleidoscope is covered up does not mean the jewels inside have disappeared.
Who might accept me if I am fully how I want to be or think? Would I be outcasted?
I have been drifting, like a bottle washing up to the bottom of the cliffs, not quite getting to shore. Is there a message inside of me? For whom?
I am not only a parasite, but a ludicrous one. What I thought I was feeding on was not what I thought it was. I have been living a lie too, not aware of the very things I ask others to be aware of.
How much more explicitly do I need to articulate what is important to me, what matters, and how I want it to be to be heard? Have I been talking in my own head all along or just that my English is not good enough to express myself? Am I not seen and not heard? Or just do not feel seen or heard?
I am in such a big bubble of illusion? It is cutting irony: for someone who regards herself as one with some capacity for self-awareness, I was utterly unaware.
Introspection is tiring. Déscartes is a fool; I think therefore I hellify myself and will be no longer.
I am not suited to be with people. But am I comfortable with myself?
What is behind this door?