Point of Crisis


The truth is, without getting too truthy on you, my life reached it’s point of crisis. I didn’t even recognize the delusion of fever. Relationships have changed, gone and past. I have changed for I never really saw who I had become. What I had reduced myself to.

I will not get into all the sordid business, but I will say that I believe that in this world we can only ever be in control of one thing; ourselves. Our actions and reactions. We create the environment we live in. We set its tone and its standard. I allowed what happened to me to happen. I took part in it. Yet I will not shoulder all the blame. For it is up to individuals to act and be in control of themselves as well. They chose to allow me to become rooted in the position pain and weakness, and sheer broken down will had placed me. It had been a vulnerable time; the illness after sick, the time that no one talks about as soon as “cured” has been called. For one to heal they must begin. One can’t just *click* be healed. It takes time, well that’s what was taken from me. And I let it be. For I did not want to focus on what I had done to myself. The true whole of me.

That being my creative. When I was younger and my brothers wanted me to play video games I could not sit still long enough ( heck even when I did I was hardly still, I was the one you never wanted to sit next to playing Mario cart, elbows everywhere, and never much on my seat thinking I could do something physically to help. Call it intuition foresight into the Wii why not) I always thought I could experience it better as self. Fighting games, RPGs, etc. I wanted to live the adventure. Hence my writing style. The fantasy is a reality of sorts and I get to live the adventure. Be the characters. Play the parts. It really filled a void in me. There had never been anything on this earth that I had cared so much about, given so much too so willingly without regret. That I would do all over again. That had given to me just as much, if not more than I had given to it. Yet I got sick, myself depleting, sick and weary. It had taken its toll. On body, mind and soul. I thought it was giving in/up to heal I was so young in so many ways. Forced to grow up, into a great position of responsibility. I knew I would have to step away from my creative, my safe place to heal. It seemed impossible. Yet in a lot of ways I was beginning to resent it because I wasn’t as good as I once was. I was wasted and I knew that I couldn’t continue without really hating it and myself. They were, my characters, the most consistent thing in my life. I didn’t know where to turn if I didn’t have them. So few relationships in my life had stayed, even fewer…if any in whole.

I was so confused, conflicted and full of contradictory feelings. A break? If it had left me surly I should let it go to let it come back…but how could I? I was its vesicle yet if I continued to push I would break. Yet it being so much a part of me how would I not break in another more important way if I were to let it go? Even though in so many ways it was already gone.

I would go down, routine. Yet nothing could be expressed through my decaying body. I would lay on the cold concrete and cry because I was the only one who knew what to miss. What I was missing, struggling, fighting for. Only I would mourn it if I were to lose it and not speak the truth. In which case my biggest fear would come to pass and I would never be mourned for what…who I truly was. No one really ever understood this part of the pain, of the illness. They thought they did, would say they did but they would never truly be able to empathize with the situation for they would only ever hear it through memory from the mouth of  a wounded babe. A starving, desolate child with only the hurt, the let down and the betrayal on her heart and mind.


They would push. Just heal. Just take a break. There never was a “just” to it. So passively they would speak of my vertebrata marrow without knowing every time their lackadaisical tone would be needles in my veins breaking it down further and further until I thought it must be my stubbornness getting in the way of truly getting better.  Just give in, try it…only to have no follow through with those who had pushed their beliefs and won. I could go over and over it again and again in my head. Yet never see the sense. To intertwined with being, with body, with presence. I would never regret. Never look back. Never take back. I gave it up. Giving myself up. My way. My intuition…And so  I tried for love, for friends, for a life that wasn’t my dream.

But it had come back. It was always there. Taken the break, giving it up. It would always be there, do what I may. I could never quench its inspiration. Only kill its pod. And so still there, It’s presence becoming an ever reminder of how I gave up and in only to have it come back. Had I just stayed true to self it could have come back better, but instead only to a shadow of its once vibrant interpreter. Poetic?  Felt more like pathetic.  That turned into resentment and wasted time.

For the dream that wasn’t mine, that I had fought for, tried for because I didn’t want to be alone anymore,  because I couldn’t, depleted more and more.  I still created, yet as routine. Reduced to check in, check out progress. A mind and a body can not live without  their heart. They can only exist. That is what I did. Fading with each moment of repressed self, lost soul. Shadow of true being.

I had never before lived a life of regretted past. Of one foot in constant reverie of the past.

Two characters of mine had a conversation; he was trying to convince her that he did not think she was a bad person. It went something like:

HIM: “Sometimes situations take a sacrifice of self in order to save the lives of those who love and whom love us.”

HER: “And if you made the sacrifice and lost it all anyway…was it worth it? Logically and unbiased…was it worth it?”

HIM: “If one can look back on the incident, having lived through it once already and know deep down, in their gut that they would do it again, then yes…it was worth it.”

I was struck with the idea that I would not. I have done many things in my past that I am not quite proud of. That I would not chose to do/live again if given the choice but I do/did not regret them. For they are a part of my human tapestry. This seemed more like an unraveling. For it was not…never had been my person. For I was not my whole, true self.

I realize that now. I almost smile for the realization of it. That I am not just a pod. Not worthless, but needed. Needed as much as I need. I would give anything for my creative, for my stories, for my characters. They are a part of me, and I of them. We have made each others lives in so many ways. I may sound crazy. May sound like a drunken writer/starving artist sitting at the cafe a disheveled mess, this close to cutting off an ear. Anything for vision! But it’s true. There is more to me then my characters and more to my characters then just me. So intertwined. Mind, body and heart. A whole. More than the sum of its parts.

So in the point of crisis  perhaps the waking fever has peaked.




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