I have fallen apart and reformed so many times I don’t know the difference. I feel dismantled yet exquisitely assembled. This me looks deceptively like depression from the outside. It is uncharacteristically unmotivated, sleeps more than is necessary, finds words painful, thinking not easy. It’s not the same as giving up, yet it could be mistaken for that. Sometimes it is so deceptive I start to wonder myself. The me waiting outside knows better.
What I once knew of myself has become mush. It is rumored you get wings at the end of this, but I have my doubts. Not quite one thing or another I have become an incoherent mess. Yet I somehow still have structure and form. I make my bed every morning. I open and close windows. I make bread, kneading dough same as before. I care deeply, maybe too deeply. There are moments of grace and I feel a life forming just on the other side, but the other side of what?
Nothing left but some skin and a few strands of hair. What has been me is somewhere not here. What remains is confused by the lack of differentiation, the randomness of life, the slow moving currents of time and the lack of anything that looks like self.
Things I have experienced. What I have made, what I have dismantled. I am a maker, a doer, a learner, a teacher, a traveler, a seeker, a priestess, a nomad. Yet none of that is left, on any given day what remains is tears, mourning, a sense of relief, a few visions, and nothing very familiar.
I am thirsty all the time. Sleep cannot touch my exhaustion. My carnal appetites are untouched by any interactions. My soul still yearns for something, yet nothing is missing.
What is that sitting in my passenger seat, loving me so big it infiltrates the passing vehicles? The seat looks empty but feels immensely full. What follows me in the grocery store, flowing effortlessly between the dairy isle and the baked goods, making sure I am cared for? I still don’t see anything, yet the presence is palpable. I want to run up and kiss them on the neck, tousle their hair, split a pint of their favorite ice cream, get into a disagreement then shrug it off and find a text from them on my phone. Apparently I am alone, yet my heart tells me a different story. My mind gets confused, lonely, isolated.
I cannot quite be, yet I cannot not be. Nothing really matters. I chose this. There is a better way. It goes on, repeat.
What I thought was pain no longer hurts in the same way. What I thought was joy not longer excites in the same way. They have become one, these two. And I stand outside their reach.
With my eyes closed, it looks like a web. Strands of light hold me in place. I can feel the pulse and the reverberation, like call and response, from my being to all beings and back again and it disappears like smoke at the least distraction.
I can recall the outline of shame. I wear it again from time to time. It explains my lack like nothing else can. It has many words it can drape over my consciousness, it covers the bare parts, it dresses me in many feelings. It gives meaning to my meaninglessness. It gives reasons for my current state. It ridicules me and urges me to go back to what was. It comforts me with a sense of knowing, something, anything, even unbearable stagnation is better than this unbeing. It lies dismayed and lamenting on a velvet settee when I eventually shrug it off and prefer nothing to the covering it provides.
I am waiting, but I do not know what for. I am not waiting, it is all happening now. It looks like nothing. It feels like everything. I am still but movement flows through me. All the places come to me. I don’t even know what tomorrow is. I wake up and today is an endless stretch before me, I am a fixed point in space. I am stumbling over time. Like so many folds in a rug, tripping me backwards and forwards, sideways into another dimension. I’m not sure which one I need to pay attention to, which one I am acting in, which one is acting on me.
I meet beings. I know the ones I can touch, I can invite over for dinner, send a text to on my phone. I know the ones that are no longer alive, that never lived on this plane, that speak a wordless language. I clearly see the difference, but cannot call one more real than the others.
I have one foot in the world of woman, mother, daughter, friend, client, practitioner, writer and so many other words. The other foot alights on a hundred thousand other shores that slip between words and reside in the spaces between thoughts where no mind lives.
Is it madness or sanity. Is it illusion or revolution? Is this exhaustion or recuperation? Is this disease or the shaking off of unwellness? It this coming apart or reforming? What I am I cannot say. What I was is of no interest. What I will be, irrelevant.