Blank page. Blank canvas. Blank expression. There’s no expressing this, whatever this is.
Write through it.
A blog post made by another blogger that I read the other day comes to mind. “Don’t post that. Don’t send that.” Damn, I wish I hadn’t read that. Now, I’m second-guessing myself.
I wish I hadn’t sent….
I should have left well enough alone.
Self-doubt is an enemy. My inner critic is jumping for joy. She knows she won a battle. “I told you so,” she mocks sardonically. There’s nothing left to say. I’ve begged. I’ve pleaded. No difference to be made. Just silence. No closure, only abandonment.
Alienated — the perfect word. Google’s definition:
al·ien·ate [ˈālyəˌnāt/]verb past tense: alienated; past participle: alienated1. cause (someone) to feel isolated or estranged.
The word “alienated” reminds me that I feel like an alien on this planet — somehow misplaced in time and space, somehow not meant to interact with the dominant species. “Accept it. Get over it. Submit. Conform. Obey.” Their mantras ring in my ears. Understandable incantations for a culture hell-bent on accepting/enforcing enslavement, a culture hell-bent on bringing about its self-fulfilling prophecy of Armageddon, a culture so far removed from Spirit that it creates gods to worship rather than revere creation itself.
“You’re not one of them,” my inner critic says (or is it another?). “They cannot understand. It’s not in their nature.”
“I’m in this body. I am one of them… for now,” I reply. I wouldn’t want to be this for all eternity. It’s crazy making — the very definition of insanity. For the brief moment that is this human existence, I wait. I watch. I observe. I experience what it means to be human.
I’m only here to witness, a quiet observer during a time of tribulation — the end/beginning of a new cycle. I chose to be here. I chose to live this life. Although I prefer the lightness of the spirit realm, the dream world, over this reality — if this is even reality — I’m stuck here... for now.
This body is so heavy. This world weighs me down as if gravity itself is made up of the suffering of 7 billion and counting. Caught in the crossfire, my own suffering reflects that of many others — an empathic connection to the collective consciousness. So many, though, suffer far greater. My pain is not only my own, but their pain as well. I struggle to see where I end and they begin.
Nepal. Such great sadness and despair.
Out of balance, a planet so out of balance. She regurgitates her suffering into the organisms that dominate her existence — organisms so much like a plague of parasites, feeding off her energy for sustenance. She knows no resolution except a resolute demise. She demands that we listen rather than deny.
A couple of hours wasted in deep philosophical thought that I couldn’t make sense of…. Why do I do that?
What’s really bothering me?
April 27th. He’s 16 years old today, the child I gave up for adoption. I wonder what kind of young man he is turning out to be. What are his interests? What are his beliefs? I know he was being raised Catholic. What has he experienced? What does he look like? I only have photos of him from birth through about 2 and half years old. I wonder if he looks like him. That thought scares me. What if he chooses to seek me out? What would I tell him?
“That’s in the future, not today.” A small voice in the back of my mind reminds me.
His birth feels like a lifetime ago, a separate reality. The pain of that time is still there — fear of experiencing such a huge loss again; fear of no one believing me when I say, “I was raped;” fear of other people’s judgment; shame in being blamed for having been raped; shame for getting pregnant; anger that I had to go through ALL of that alone; and the deep, deep sadness of knowing I couldn’t raise a child I carried in my womb for 9 months. I cannot describe with accurate detail the ache in my heart and arms after I gave him up for adoption. I knew it was the right thing to do for him; but it hurt.
It still hurts. Time does not heal all wounds.