Impassioned and Unapologetic

You know what my problem is? This is probably going to surprise you: I care too much.

I’m sensitive but I hide it well. I’m constantly anxious but I don’t show it. I feel deeply, I think deeply, I love hard and I give all of myself from the beginning which leaves me vulnerable. I’m not the best at expressing that in words in the moment (you try translating from images to words and see how well it works out) but it’s true.

I’m passionate. Intense. Difficult. I always have been since early childhood. I mess up a lot and I’m kind of a jerk sometimes but that’s me. This is what you get. I make no excuses or apologies, I just want to be me. I don’t mince words. I don’t sugar coat and I don’t tell people what they want to hear. I don’t think that’s unreasonable.

I treasure every person that comes into my life and stays even a short while so, of course, I’m terribly hurt the moment they decide to leave in a way that is hard for me to understand (especially without explanation or when I feel the cause to be unjust). This has been happening a great deal of late and I am left to wonder why. What am I doing wrong? I already know I can’t change myself (that effort was wasted several times already and it would be insane to continue beating that dead horse) so what, exactly, am I doing that is so problematic? Issue is no one ever tells me so I’m left scratching my head every time it happens. Name calling, deflection and projection do not count as explanation.

I’ve been called all sorts of things in the past which I pretend bounced off, but they didn’t: abrasive, aggressive, savage (which is actually racist in my case), cold, insensitive, dense, rude, disrespectful, depressing, negative, mean-spirited, selfish. None of them are true. In fact they couldn’t be further from the truth. I come on strong but I’m not being aggressive just to pick a fight. Yes, I love a good debate, but I don’t appreciate it when personal attacks begin to get sucked in. I want to argue a point and have heated discourse without everyone losing their heads over it.

I’m pretty well constantly faced with the difficulty of friendlessness and isolation. (Disregard how many people I’m connected to on Facebook because, frankly, how many of them can say they truly know me? Maybe about four. MAYBE.) I’m strange, eccentric even. I get that. People are intimidated because I’m so much of myself all the time that they think I’m crazy. Really I just don’t hold back. I actually think it’s much crazier to restrain oneself so much that enjoyment is impeded. I spent my entire childhood like that. I don’t need to continue living that way. It’s not healthy or fun and as far as I can tell we only get one shot at this.

For those who can’t handle it? I’m not sorry that you can’t. It’s not for you and that’s just fine. However, I do ask that you don’t waste my time or yours because the flames are hot and they’re going to stay that way until long after I’m gone if I can help it. I refuse to tone myself down to appease another’s ego. I also refuse to tell my child to hold back when of an age to comprehend that even slightly.

Waiting Room

He awoke to an intense, even blinding light. Through the open doorway he could see another room. “Hello?” he called nervously, his voice faltering slightly. He was met with silence. There was nothing at all. It was quiet, eerily quiet. A soft breeze blew through the open window beside the bed but there was no sound. No sound at all. He rose, the bed frame squeaking and groaning under his weight. Sticking his finger in his ear to test it, he could hear the soft scratching of skin on skin. It wasn’t his hearing that was the problem.

Swinging his legs out of bed, he placed his feet gingerly on the floor, expecting the laminate to be cold, only to find it pleasantly warm. His brow furrowed. He didn’t remember his bedroom floor being so clean… Maybe she’d cleaned it while he slept. Shrugging, he rose, rubbing his palms together and shivering. Despite the warm floor, the air was cool. Then it dawned on him; where was his shirt?

He looked to his right. The white chair was almost invisible in the white room, escaping his bleary-eyed notice. On it lay a slip of paper, tented in the seat. He picked it up.

“It’s nearly time.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he thought to himself, tossing the sheet aside and further rumpling his already messy hair. A shadow of annoyance passed his face.

A feeling of discomfort came over him. He realized that he was not at home. Where was this place? What day was it? Why was he here and how had he come to be here?

None of it mattered. He was consumed with a desire to be home. Searching for an exit, he found himself turning toward the window. Where had it gone? He did not recall when the breeze stopped blowing.

Remembering the other room, his stomach cramped. Turning, he faced the open door…or the door that had been open. When had it closed? Just what was this place?

He grabbed the doorknob and turned. Air sighed through the gap. He saw them then. Flinging the door open he took it all in. Keys, dangling, lying on the floor, falling through a vent in the ceiling. Keys everywhere. He entered the room. A key brushed his face. Lifting his arm to reach for it, he saw it then. A mark like a keyhole on his wrist. No…not like a keyhole at all. It WAS a keyhole.

He stared blankly up at the ceiling.

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The Drumming of A Blank

Ah, the blank space. Empty canvas. Clean slate. Call it what you will, but it’s always the same. A pregnant pause of possibility the likes of which no universe existing or yet to exist could possibly contain. It’s pressure. It’s possibility. It’s opportunity. It’s everything, yet it’s also nothing. It’s the most stressful thing you can throw at someone who hasn’t done anything creative in so long they wonder if they were ever really an artist at all or if they dreamed the whole thing up.

This brings us to here. Now. The moment in which I write these words from my home, sandwiched between a gentle giant and a tiny time bomb, biding the time between yesterday and tomorrow, unsure of which I exist in as I try fruitlessly to sleep prior to an appointment I am dreading, have been dreading and will likely continue to dread even after it’s over.

What is this all about, you may well be wondering. I’ll tell you. This is about me. This space. It’s mine. I’m claiming it for myself. A space in which only the essence of myself exists, unfiltered, without remorse, restriction, or the burden of considering anyone else. Where I can explore, grow, blossom perhaps, as me. What will it entail? I’m not sure yet. I am still working that out. I’m kicking things around—proverbial tin cans—as I seek myself in this new, confusing, and horribly unclear phase of life I find myself in.

Perhaps by next post I’ll have fleshed something more tangible out…mostly I just wanted to get these thoughts out and this is the space to do it. There’s much more to say. It’s hidden in the blanks between my words, the hollows of every letter here, but I don’t have the words. It doesn’t translate.