Collapsing rooms

The way I deal with extreme emotional unrest is to compartmentalize. I suppose this is still a fairly new coping mechanism for me; it’s hard to say for sure, because I wasn’t entirely conscious of it at first, but I think I started a couple years ago. When I feel something that’s simply too much to take, I put it out of my mind during the day, when I’m out with people or when anything needs to get done. And then, when my responsibilities are taken care of and I’m alone, I let myself wallow in whatever anxiety or hurt I’ve been putting out of mind, give myself free reign to cry and sulk and generally be a big, blubbery mess. Overall, it seems to be a pretty good strategy. These past couple years I’ve been able to keep up with my practical responsibilities without totally cutting myself off from my emotions when things get rough. It seems to have broken my previous cycle of oscillating between irrational, purely emotional decision-making and total emotional shutdown and denial. Which is good, because neither of those ever worked that well, and this new system seems to have worked for a while. Except right now, it isn’t.

I’m not entirely sure what’s going on with me. After more than four years of therapy largely focused on being aware of and honest with myself, that’s a strange and unpleasant thing to realize. I’ve had trouble putting my anger and hurt away for a while now, and worse, a lot of the time I can’t seem to fully feel anything when I’m alone and it’s safe to feel. Or, maybe, I’m afraid to feel any of it? I’m not sure. Which is in and of itself scary and anxiety-provoking. I’d gotten very used to being clear on what I was feeling and what I wanted, even if I couldn’t always do anything about either of them. I’m incredibly anxious right now, almost fearful, but I can’t say what about. It’s almost like there’s too much that I don’t want to feel, and I’m afraid of it on this peripheral, pre-conscious level, so I don’t quite feel the full impact of it but instead there’s this incredible stress of keeping it at bay.

And those times when I do feel it are really, really bad. Maybe it’s the build up of setting it aside for too long, but that hasn’t been an entirely conscious choice here lately. I’m being far too abstract for this to be clear. An example: right now, I’m sitting in a cafe full of quiet, studious people enjoying a peaceful afternoon. And I feel, on the whole, pretty good. I’m chatting intermittently with a friend on Facebook, and when he asks how I am, I surprise myself with how much sincerely positive stuff there is to say about my life right now. But a moment later, I look across the room and think about how many times David and I sat on that couch over there, sharing chamomile tea, and then I have to clamp down on that thought, and I can feel something huge and awful just on the periphery of my awareness.

And all of that sounds like good, effective compartmentalizing, but I’m not consciously choosing any of it, and I’m afraid to face that big, awful chunk of unprocessed emotion even when I’m in a good situation for it. It’s snuck up on me a couple times, and I haven’t coped well. This isn’t the usual melancholy that’s embarrassing and undignified but ultimately just part of life, the sort of thing I secretly get a kick out of. It’s… overwhelming and terrifying. I want to sort through it and analyze it here, but I can’t even begin because I haven’t faced up to enough of it to know what’s there. It’s way too much for me right now, and I don’t know yet how I’m going to deal with it.

On a completely unrelated note: I promised an updated version of that last poem, and though I’m still not quite satisfied with it, it’s much closer to done.


An Inquiry into the Basic Nature of Fluids –
Water Flowing Apart

I wanted to know if water
scooped from a stream
knows what it’s lost or
does it just feel
smaller
diminished, not divided
is it content to fill a space
or does it remember the flow

you won’t speak of it
these rivers beneath our skin
yours are gears and keys and bits of wire,
so very clever,
but they will never flow

like water that is poured
a measure in your glass, in mine,
and I will always wonder
do they know each other
sitting side by side

you have brought me more
poured out until
water, which can’t remember
how it came to be,
knows it is
full
to the brim

but still you insist
a watchmaker’s wasted hauling water

the drops between us,
sips and spills,
must be the loneliest of all

Hey, look, I still have a blog!

...And a year and a half later, I decide to come back to it.

I got a comment notification email a couple days ago from someone I've never met, and I have absolutely no idea how she found me, but it was encouraging and uplifting and just the nudge I needed to un-abandon my blog. (Thanks, Toyah. I was confused but very touched, and I'm glad this all is worth something to someone other than me.) I'd already been thinking lately about the sort of things I usually write here, my motivations for self-examination and sharing, and wondering whether or not to come back and post some more.

I hesitated to come back, because, well, blogs are kinda silly, "for people who like to hear themselves type" as David once put it. But I've got all these thoughts, and writing them all out can only help me sort through them and maybe figure out the things I've been missing, so why not? I'm not going to start anything too big tonight, seeing as it's already pretty late, but I've got (eek!) a poem that I've been staring at for a couple hours now, and I thought I'd share. It's really just a rough draft, but I couldn't say right now if anything more will come of it any time soon. This all just sort of fell out of my head as is, and I've got a strong suspicion I won't like it much in the morning and will feel the need to pick it to pieces, but for the moment, I have no idea what to do to improve it. So:

An Inquiry into the Basic Nature of Fluids –
Water Flowing Apart

I wanted to know if water
scooped from a stream
knows what it’s lost
or does it just feel
smaller
diminished, not divided
content to fill a space
no memory of the flow

when the pitcher is poured
and you and I each hold a glass
do they know each other
sitting side by side

you could have taught me or
together we might have learned
but you’re so certain
a watchmaker’s wasted hauling water

water measured in sips and spills
must be the loneliest of all