The vulnerable side of AutoD

I TOLD you I wouldn't make it.  I tried.  Sort of.  I mean, seriously.  I gave it the best half-hearted effort I had.  That's actually saying more than you think it is.

Yup...this is about where I'm at.

I have to be honest, though: I haven't been honest here.  This probably isn't really a big surprise, seeing as I haven't actually been posting a whole heck of a lot and, really, the problem is that I haven't been completely honest with myself.  Or even a little bit honest with myself.  It's probably no surprise to you that, when you can't own and recognize your truth, writing is difficult.  It's also probably no surprise to you that, when the truth is that you are struggling just to get out of bed in the morning, it's difficult to find things worth writing about.  It's not that things aren't happening.  My days are full of random crazy stories I would love to one day laugh about, or cry about, or share and tell you.  I would love to be able to story it all, from the big things to the small things, and write it or poem it or create it into something that connects us with my words.  But I can't.  I just can't.  It's not because of lack of desire or interest or attempts, either.  I have sat at the page and tried to make the words come, and they won't, mainly because I silence them before they hit the page.  After so many of those attempts, it's better not to even try and to instead push myself into other such lofty endeavors as sleeping.  Or spacing out.  Or trying to figure out my life, or making myself wash dishes, or convincing myself it would be a good idea to paint my nails. 

The important things--the things I want to (need to?) write about are not appropriate for me to write about here.  So I don't write about them at all because, seriously, if I'm not going to write for YOU, what makes you think I'm going to write for ME?

Part of me really wants to try and put a positive spin on all of this for you.  I want to say something like, "I know that growth is almost always painful, and so I know that once this growth spurt has passed, I will be writing and living and smiling again."  I want to say things like "It's all just going to be okay," because that's what I do, and that's what I've always done, and that's what's comfortable for me.  It's okay.  It's not bad.  I'm fine.  I can keep smiling.  Nobody worry because Superwoman here has it all under control.  Except for the fact that I don't, because I can't.  It's taking me a long time to realize that it's okay that I don't have it all perfect and controlled and wrapped in a smile.  I know it's okay--nobody could, really--but that's not how it feels, and even if nobody could have it all perfect and controlled and smiley, I still want to exhaust myself trying because I'm used to being the exception.  I've almost always been an exception, or convinced myself that I was.  But now...well right now, with this, I am decidedly not the exception and can't even pretend to be.  With this, I need to struggle just like everybody else.  And that's just not okay by me, even when I have no choice. 

The hardest thing, though - the thing that's the hardest to acknowledge and write about --the thing that most prevents me from writing--is difficult to put into words.  Words are how I understand things, and if I can't write it, I'm probably confused by it.  As close as I can come to naming it, though, the hardest thing is this: from the time I was a kid, I have always felt a connection with some sort of higher power.  Sometimes I called it God, sometimes it was more of a god-lower-case-g, sometimes it was Nature or a universal loving spirit, but it has always--always--been there.  I connect most strongly and easily to it when I am in nature: it's a peace, and a coming home in my soul that connects me to myself and my world and makes me feel whole and loved and supported.  When I write, I reach that place.  I feel connected to myself and to my world, and I am at peace in myself with my words and my heart.  When I make music, when I have a really good conversation, when I meditate, when I am quiet--these are the times I felt I knew God.  I needed these times.  No matter what was happening, these times connected me to myself and to something bigger than me that left me comforted and protected.  It reminded me that there is something more--something larger than myself that could support me in the rare moment that I could not support myself.  When I was really desperate, I would go outside at night and look up at the stars and talk to my grandmother--which always brings me to tears--and the stars and the dark and the night air and the tears and connection I felt to my grandmother would bring me home to that universal loving spirit--to the god that held me.

But that support--that comfort and "something larger" and protection--it feels like it's gone.  I sit to write, and I write and write and write and never get to the point of peace, never feel held or supported or whole or loved.  So why should I bother?  I try to meditate, or be in nature, or talk to my grandmother, and it all feels empty so I've given up trying.  The place inside me that would be filled feels frozen with a fear and anxiety I can't name and I don't know if god has abandoned me, or is angry at me, or disappointed in me, or if he/she was never even there to begin with.  The only thing I've learned is that I never fully appreciated how much my belief in my god did for me until it was gone.  And I have no idea what to do to get it back.  I want it--need it, even--but it all feels ridiculous at the same time.  How can you want something you don't even believe exists anymore?

I have no idea how to end this.  It's all unanswered questions and loose ends, and I still have this intense desire to tell you I'm fine, I'll figure it all out, you don't need to worry, I'm strong, it's just a momentary difficult stage I will work through in no time.  But if I told you that, I would be lying.  Or rather, I don't know if I would be lying or not because I don't have the answer to any of those questions and I don't feel confident enough to say with any assurance that I will figure it out. 

These are the things I know for sure: I don't do vulnerability well.  Life will continue moving forward.  The world will continue turning.  The sun will rise in the morning, like it or not, and I will have to get up to greet it.  I will get up to greet it.  And so I'll begin another day.