Protest Against Life

0836. I feel a need for change. But the familiar is strangely attractive and seductive. I find myself bouncing off walls trying to stop my brain from over taking my body; and while running last night, I was defeated by pain. I've been wanting to reach out for Elavil, retire/ retreat from this world for a few days, but I've been holding off. One more day, maybe tomorrow, I'll say to myself. And then I'll hold off, thinking it's for the sake of my running. Bull s**t.

I'm not the disorganized type at all. But this buzz of chaotic energy has no evidence of creativity. It propels, it destroys, it seeks confusion. It alternates anger, hyperactivity, depression and silent screaming fits.

Another new day dawning and my focus is somewhere else. On yesterday, on last week, on last year, on last night, on tomorrow, on the future. I cannot seem to stop. I need to be alone this weekend. I need to stop the ripple effect and calm the turbulent waters. And on the other matter, if all goes well, next week will mark a major milestone.

July 14/97. Monday.

Dinner with John P. on Saturday. Dinner with Gladys and Peter on Sunday. It's funny how people want to hang out in the summertime. Still, overall, it was a pleasant enough weekend. One that allowed a bit of solitude, a bit of calm and quiet.

Meanwhile, my brother is getting married this weekend. My brother ...... It is still so hard for me to comprehend and understand the idea of it all. Harder to get used to it. Yet I am thrilled for him. I always thought he would make a great husband. He used to be the peace keeper, the mediator between my parents. He was brave to have stood in the middle of a war zone and expected to be listened to when all he had was open palms and one voice. I applauded his goodwill but felt even more inadequate as I took the position of running away to find a safer zone. He always had that insight into both sides of a conflict. And he could compromise very well. But I saw all that in him a lot later in my life. I must have been in my mid-late teens when I realized his (he is four years older than me) words, actions, suggestions carried a lot of weight with my parents. He must have passed some kind of test while I had failed. My brother, the ever wise one.

I used to carry such bitterness around. It was frustrating, defeating, agonizing, to live in the shadow of the Golden Child. It is the source of much of my hate filled world. Yet over the last three/ four years, my brother has shown an understanding for the anger I have harboured. He has gently, quietly, subtly, asked about it with a genuine concern; attempted to share with me a part of him without me ever asking him to, attempted to soothe my pain by acknowledging the events of the past which even I could never speak about.

Today I try to scrub the scars away. As if to have no mark on me would make me forget the pain. As if what has been engraved into my heart could so easily be destroyed by physical wounds.

July 15/97. Tuesday.

Hit by a tidal wave of depression yesterday. Hard to tell what triggered it. Maybe stress and uncertainty. Maybe very simply physical tiredness. But an occurence set me on the verge of tears and the realization of how very fragile I am emotionally didn't help at all. It made anger churn with the grief. It made an implosion difficult to hold off.
Weak.... I have become so weak...
An 8K race last evening offered some distraction. I ran, but with a heaviness of heart and a loneliness I couldn't overcome. The crowd, the sounds, the anticipation and the festive mood in these races has usually been something I enjoyed watching from my own corner. Yesterday it only made me feel more alienated, left out, rejected. The world seemed harder to fight, and there seemed less of a reason to do so. I continue to reach out for safety and for courage. I still long for the ever elusive peace of mind. It is a yearning and hope which has broken me many times.
Would it be worthwhile perhaps to be beaten down again?
Would it?
Would it?
Wouldn't it?

Later : I am tired of having no way out. I am tired of being forced into situations where choices are not choices at all. I am sick and tired to death of the anxiety and uncertainty I wake up to each morning. I have not much left in me to go on. Until I find a source of courage and will, all safety is gone and I am alone to face off this life while death awaits on the sidelines.

July 16/97. Wednesday.

She has grown quiet. But crying and screaming fits punctuate the monotony. She has been forgetful lately, and even more so today. For a person who obsesses over precision and details, she has let many things slip. I worry about her as she fell into deep sleep last night. I worried that she might sleep the whole day through. But she didn't. Today she is managing the day piece by piece. My heart aches very much as I am left without words or much feeling. She seems to be comtemplating, and I am afraid to ask. I am afraid to know. I am tired of secrets but I am afraid to know even more. But if I do not want to listen, who or where will she find comfort in?

Solitude, and thus, the silence that accompanies it. Like music, it plays better with a variety of instruments to complement it.
Darkness follows.
stabbing pain in the chest
The world spins on its axis

Pain. It is the pain that is causing me this turmoil. And it is the opposing force to hold them back that shreds my soul into pieces.

July 17/97. Thursday.

Crawled into bed at 7pm last evening. Slept under a blanket of lethargy and psychic pain. Not wanting to care. Not able to care. So terribly achingly alone in all this. So scared the emptiness will eat me up.

Holding my breath. Afraid a stir in the air will blow down my house of cards. Afraid to lose everything I have yet will be relieved if I do. How does this make sense? Watching plants grow and nurturing them till they thrive and then killing them with one single blow. Uprooting.

Today the tears no longer threaten. They seem too deep and far away within the reaches of my soul. I have chased them away for the time being. Only to be left shrouded with fear. Is there no end?

July 18/97. Friday.

1125. Doubts linger in the air. I await with dreaded anticipation. I await with a hollowness in my chest, a churning in my stomach. To consider the worse would be too heavy a burden, and to be honest, I will admit my failing - I no longer have the energy for optimism. So, if one domino falls and others follow (which will surely be the case), I will only watch them fall. And maybe I might even smile. Maybe there might be satisfaction in knowing that something is no longer salvagable and knowing when that time is.

To want beyond what we dream is greediness. To accept what has been given us and to build dreams upon this is grace. Is this so? What about those incapable of dreaming at all? They live in fear enclosed cavities of the deepest darkest hell. I have a feeling I have been in those places. Where dreams are not really dreams at all, but merely hallucinations generated by the evil forces of the world or delusions created by my own mind as a form of mental torture. Why this occurs still eludes me.

But I have been foolish, slow, dull witted, ignorant, naive. I have been too rigid, inflexible, stubborn, unwise. Thus, I may have chosen to do things in such a way that will leave me the ultimate loser. Played games I couldn't understand and was bound to lose.

July 21/97. Monday.

Feeling apprehensive as I face this unknown future and attempt to convince this reluctant soul that there is a point to all this hardship and struggle. Trying to believe that even with this bad spot, there will be open opportunities with time. I must be strong now.

Occasionally, the despair eats at me, and occasionally, if I am caught unaware, it will push me over the edge...beyond.... into that realm where death is so much more preferable. But I am trying to be strong.

I was weighed down by fatigue again over the weekend. It was hard to run and strength train. But what a life it would be, I imagined, if that was all I did everyday of my life. Fatigue or not, pushing the physical limit of my capabilities is so tangible. Physical pain is so much more preferred. Easier to be in control of. I would run till I die if it would relief me of the emotional chaos. I have already run past the pain and tears and sweat and dry heaving. How much further before I run into the embrace of death and sweet nothingness?

July 23/97. Wednesday.

One of those days when words are lacking. Yet so much to muddle through. I will perhaps try....

Fragments from dreams and nightmarish visions are not much help. They seem to tell a story which is too bright and too loud. The sharpness is blinding and my body aches from the inside out from the hollowness of my soul. I want to disappear. Who would care? More changes - my brother a married man. I have gained a sister-in- law or have I lost a brother?

I have done a lot of damage to this life. I would never deny that. But I have done good things too. Therefore I cannot understand why I am not given credit to these things. All this world does is take. It rarely gives, and when it does, I am "in debt" until I pay it off twice what it was worth. Why is it so difficult to acknowledge what little bit I can and have contributed to this world? Perhaps it is over. Perhaps this fight was over a long time ago and I was never told about that. Foolish person that I am.

July 24/97. Thursday.

Running through the streets of Toronto yesterday evening as dusk was settling in. Cool breeze turning into an annoying wind in my face as I finished the last leg of my usual route. It was healing... to run when my insides felt so twisted up. When so much of the day had been spent worrying about the future, about my future. Will this waiting ever end with good news? And if not, will I try again? It's hard to tell. I'm so tired. I cannot and shouldn't try to imagine the worst.

But, like DH said yesterday, I've learnt a lot over the last few years. Many lessons, perhaps. Do people say that you become 'mellow' with age? Am I? I don't think so, but maybe I've grown more accepting in some ways. And that's both good and bad. It's good because I accept the responsibility. And it's bad because it's an awfully lonely feeling. It's left me wondering who would give a damn about my existence. And sometimes I won't even find that comforting whisper inside of me, saying it'll be alright. It is that which will lead me to utter despair.

July 25/97. Friday.

My big brother landing in Boston tonight. An exciting idea that a family member will be within the same time zone as I am. Family .... and I thought I renounced that word at least a decade ago.

I watched Contact a couple of weeks ago. It was an amazing movie. At one point, it was said that what makes this life meaningful, what makes it tolerable, is very simply other people. That thought stayed with me awhile as I pondered over it. It was the whole concept of humanity, of its capability to hurt and damage that led me to withdraw and to seek comfort within myself. It was family, I learnt that would hurt us all the deepest, and it was my belief that tearing away from such people is the only way to find sanity. But of course, I also thought that being physically at opposite ends of the world would stop the hurt. As if distance was time, and as if time would heal.

Yet, struggling to live so anonymously in some big city felt horribly empty and pointless. As I searched some more for that lost horizon after realizing that distance wasn't all that would heal. That even people in a big city had families hidden away somewhere, where they return to each night and each weekend. And to find myself alone in the midst where all points connect to something but not me, was surprising. Dead end. It appeared to me that I had built a dream upon a delusion. Perhaps it was youthful naivete. Perhaps it was stupidity. How can I possibly explain in words that heart wrenching feeling when someone realizes they have been wrong and begins to pray for a peaceful death? It is even harder to explain why I didn't seek an alternative plan, or choose to build another dream, perhaps a wiser one based on experience. But to admit that I wanted to destroy my shame, my mistakes, and all evidence of my failures. And to want to admit defeat with such dramatic grace.

After all that has happened over the past six years, I cannot say my decisions and choices I made have not changed me. Just how it changed me would be more interesting to know. I doubt the old feelings are gone. No, I know they are not gone. I know they lurk quietly in the darkness just beyond my vision on good days. It's hard to tell what and when they will be triggered into action. Sometimes that's the hardest part about being alive.

July 28/97. Monday.

A 5K run at the top of the weekend. Fighting a physical weariness without an excuse. So Saturday was spent watching a movie, and reading, recovering. Sunday I was back on the road but was frustrated with a body that refused to bounce back. There seems to be a limit to how far I can push, and this limit is not agreeable between mind and body. Perhaps they should negotiate.

Perhaps I should just forget about the whole... F**k. Mind also battling its own battle. All sides bloody and dealing with its own losses. Facing a Monday morning and the army is determined to drag-crawl its way through the week. There is such chaos in there, I cannot think.

July 29/97. Tuesday.

Respect should be earned, not demanded by tantrum throwing lunatics. And tantrum throwing people who are so used to getting their way should be shown the door. They have a thing or two to learn in this life and I would not be the suitable person to teach them. I would admit that I do not know the boundaries of cruelty when it comes to teaching these people such lessons. And, as a friend once put it, I would not want to "raise bad karma".

I have not forgotten those days (and there are still some in the present) when surviving was a major concern. Not my nails, or hair, or clothes, or cleanliness, or washing my hands after using the toilet. It was more like, would I find a warm place to sleep on the streets tonight? What would I do to afford a meal today? Some days I seem to think everyone should live life for a period of time when all they have is literally the clothes on their back. Thousands already do on the streets of Toronto. Sure, but I'm talking about those who have lived in warm houses all their lives. People who throw tantrums, for christ sake... when they don't get their way. We learn and grow so much more when our lives are hanging by a thread. And I don't mean to say that we necessarily grow in a better way. Take me, for example. My bad experiences have increased my capacity for cruelty and evilness. I would like to see suffering that is beyond what I, personally, have ever experienced. I am not claiming to be a martyr. But I think valuable lessons are learnt anyway from deprivation and pain. Does that make me sadistic?

Perhaps.

But life was never meant to be "cruised" or "sailed" through. It was more intended to be crawled through on our hands and knees. That's how humans first learn to move around isn't it?

Think about it.

July 30/97. Wednesday.

Nervous, tired, agitated and listless this morning. I long to return to the safety of my bed. I long to sleep and not care, not be aware of that passing of time. No talking..... I don't have the energy for that today. And the tears come too readily. I am ashamed of them. It is a time when the flood gates are open and I am helpless against the torrent of emotions. Hurt, pain, loneliness, hopelessness, sadness, emptiness. I need to sleep it off. I need to hold back the tears and be strong. Self-yelling, then self-comforting, then self- destruction. The only cycle and order in this topsy-turvy world of mine.

Where does this unconsolable ache come from?

Later..... : Many unmanageable tasks ahead of me. Sitting on my desk. On my bed. On the kitchen counter. Piles. Bills, miles high. I am drowning-choking on them. I would be foolish to think that if I go to sleep, they will be gone when I awake. I am so easily deluded.

Everything seems to hurt today. My heart, my head, my body.

July 31/97. Thursday.

Home by 16:45 yesterday. Too tired to walk over to Eaton's to drop off my phone bill. Just another attempt to save on postage, yet, yesterday, nothing mattered. Was asleep by 1800 and remember waking once, must have been 2100, it was still bright outside and in my head, the roaring was deafening.

Pictures in my head as ugly as pictures stored away in memory. The vividness of my dreams shattering the peace of deep sleep, and I am awake at 0700, my body aching as if I'd slept under a ton of rock. Where do I go. What do I do. Screaming at myself at the sight of a gun raised to my head. Screaming to stop... to please stop this self torture. So easy. So easily ended. So attractively calm. So temptingly free.

Another day, and it brings me closer to the long weekend. Another escape, but it will be gone soon and I will be left crawling through another agonizing week. Nothing good can be seen through these wretched eyes. Nothing good felt by this heart which has betrayed me. And there is a lacking of will, my will, to stop this inner bloodbath. Where do I go. What do I do.

Deeper into this cavern of darkness. Into an unknown, unmarked territory. Perhaps it might be less hostile in there. And losing my way in there might not be as bad as the emotional pain that has settled in my heart.