I just re-read some of my blogs and still this idea that I absorb the “energy” of those around me: i usually react to ego with indignation, and respond to emotion with sympathy ( sym=same/pathy=pain ). I suppose it has become a habit with me. At one time it was for survival when encountering my father’s emotion and thought that wanted proof which was what some would consider ego. I would move from indignation with my father to sympathy with my mother.
Even tonight my mother called me and wanted me to listen ( which she admits) to calm her down from worry. I listened and tried not to respond in sympathy. I told her to breath and accept that the outcome of the situation she was worrying about would soon be resolved, that her emotional state was not going to do anything.
My mother once said that I was her “kindest, sweetest” daughter ( but then again , in another moment she has said this about another sister as well!), and think that maybe this just means that I listened and allowed what emotion existed to become my own. I was co-dependent, I was the same, I became the same, I allowed the same. Is it no wonder I wanted escape from home once I left for college, just as all children tend to want. Perhaps it is simply that the ones who miss home miss the comfort of the emotions they have existed as.
Anyway, I am often, though I can talk a LOT and argue/discuss, quiet and just listen. I listen because I just absorb and I listen to watch for the underlying cause, I listen for the voice tones and try to come up with helpful solutions. But, I did notice that most of the time there is no solution. It always come downs to “what do you want?” And so often ” Just be yourself” , though what this meant exactly was elusive.
I remember a re-occuring dream of my self as a man spitting water, as a job in a factory. This is actually what I am, at times, a person just taking in and spitting out emotion. I had this dream about 8-7 years ago quite often. I remember the feeling of throwing up, spitting the water, and I remember the restless feeling of wanting to run away from this, of feeling that there was no escape.
I started to do this with this man I just decided to leave, to stop seeing. I don’t want to know what he is feeling, I just don’t look. I don’t even know how I feel about anything. Perhaps I was simply not allowed to feel, because there dosn’t seem to be anything there worth feeling. After the death of my husband, i sat on the end of my bed and asked the “air” “where is joy?” “where is a joy that remains that is constant?” The rest of all the emotions just seem pointless and I am tired of trying to sit and take them in from others.
I think what I feel, that my emotions must be hidden somewhere. But then this is why I liked playing the violin, because there were no emotions really, there was just sound, balance, or the seeking of balance. One time I performed in high school and the whole room dissappered, that stupid white light came and surrounded me, I remember it as though it were yesterday, this white light/milky stuff being all that there was as I continued to play. Every classmate dissappeared.
I have again, dealt with this “numbness” in grief. Curious to be non-feeling, but then again, I can watch movies and cry at the end (especially when it is the scenario of the “white knight” saving the woman——-interesting white knight/white night; to play on words-the white “night” either in the form of light or man/god- ugh) Back to numbness. In grief the world moved really slowly, slowed way way way down, and curious enough, in slowing way the fuck down it became more beautiful. I kept saying to others that grief /numbness was almost a gift in how slow it made the world move and how much more substance like everything was in the slowing down of EVERYTHING.
This is also when I noticed that people only talked about themselves. All conversations moved around in chaos as each person spoke and nothing ever stayed on topic because with each comment from a different person, another jumped in with a comment trying desperately to control the words into their way of seeing, or way of wanting validation of their rhyme and reason.
IN my twenties, when I was in New York City I would walk up and down Manhatten, this was where I felt “good”. It was walking in the stream, it was moving. My one roommate and I would walk. She is now in Lisbon, an ex heroine addict. She called me from India on her last trip to tell me she had thrown away some heroin she had just bought. I don’t think she ever looked back, now she is married with two children, a nurse. Perhaps it was all that walking we did, all that breathing demanded of “pounding” the avenues of New York. The wind blowing down these avenues, we walked in all types of weather. It was when I was out walking in new York on such a weekend day that I realized I was pregnant- no doubt, and then I knew that my life there was all over.
So, the walking was an escape from emotion. So, much better than going to a bar, or shopping, or rock concerts. Actually, I only really had enough money to pay the rent. It took months to save for a down payment on my own apartment. And I carried my heroin addict friend with me and she did not help financially, she did pay her share of the rent though. I didn’t mind, I was glad she was there.
SO, what do I feel? I have no fucking idea. I don’t think I want to feel, would rather have the world move very slow.
But, I do feel pity for this man. I hope he is not sad. On the other hand, he had it easy for a year, I always went to him. OK OK OK, I feel sad that I do not trust him, which means I do not trust my self. I do not trust my self to be constant in the patience of listening to his thoughts and his feelings, of being sympathetic, I am not willing to be this. I see this as a trap.
Am I selfish, am I just wanting space for my own emotional “shit”?
About ten years ago I stopped reading novels, can’t pick them up, when I do I read about two pages and have had enough. I was an insane novel reader for years! Now I read exposition. Spent a long time reading front to back periodicals about politics. Anything but novels.
Where am I going with this?
Why am I writing about this?, whatever is the “brick” in my back this is not helping. Unless, the “brick” is resistance that is of feeling, something held onto and not let go of, something blocked. something that wants regurgitation.
I told this man that I did not want to face another “mind” monster, that I did not want to find out what his was, and I considered that his was aging. To have a stand before this again, no way. No “white Knight/god-night” for me.
But this is not being the living word as equality. I am not existing in a gentle movement of equality.
I feel guilt, the maiden of the white knight feels guilty. Alone. Rejecting/rejected=one and the same.