King’s log, entry #1
Feb. 21st, 2019 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
allhailthedramakingWhen I was a child, I had a recurring nightmare.
It was the middle of the night. I was rushing through a jungle, an angry T-Rex running after me, destroying trees and little wooden cabins misfortunate enough to be in its way. I ran, and ran, and ran, until my breath grew short, my muscles begged for rest, and I surrendered to fatigue, throwing myself in a bush right in front of me, eyes shutting down, waiting for the first bite to come... and I woke up.
Many years, changes, and therapy sessions later, I have been taught to extract meaning from my childhood nightmares. Embarking on a journey of self-discovery and careful rewiring of behavioral patterns was a wage I took when I had nothing left to lose, when I was a personified cluster of disorders and denial who barely stood up, blinded by a dysfunctional approach at life and boundless naivety; and rising from my ashes, even if slowly, even if hantingly, was a herculean feat still dripping with the blood I shed to get there. Yet I am torn between a newborn hope of a swift healing and an impeding paranoia of relapse preying on me.
When I was a child, I played with plastic dinosaurs. I had a map with lush forests split by the riverbed, and there I was, eyes full of wonder, putting herbivores on one side and the couple of angry, hungry T-Rexes on the other. When hatchlings were lost, finding themselves on the other shore by accident, a frantic chase began, their families calling for them from the other side, until they threw themselves in the twirling waters. But they were not alone, as everybody hurried to raise them up, to bring them back to their side of the river. The safe side of the river.
“Getting out of your confort zone” is a difficult concept to grasp when safety is a blank entry in your mental dictionary. A couple of angry, hungry predators have been chasing you all your life through empty corridors and a house too wide, too cold, too lonely, and if their claws did not get to you then cruelty spilling out of their maws would. Hatchlings soon learn they are too small to fight back the same way, so they resort to taylor themselves a leading role as martyrs, going as far in their own brainwashing as taking pride in being such. Bullies, peers, “friends”. Let them all come searching for the tasty preys who bib you while you’re eating them.
You are not prey.
Say it again, say it again, say it like a prayer every night so I won’t forget I was so used to be preyed upon that I became my own predator. Legs collapsing, mind breaking, blood spilling; nothing, nothing satisfied my hunger for self-annihilation, my cravings for that all-encompassing but distorted idea of love: a salvation from solitude, a redemption for being such a little freak, a coalescence with the other to mend all I’d done wrong in this life, from my mistakes to my very birth. To honor my mad quest I’ve let others prey upon me, contenting myself with crumbs in the form of “Oh, I didn’t notice you were here too” and “I will settle for you since I can’t do any better”.
Never again.
Here’s your happy ending: the prey escaped from most of its predators with the force of sheer willpower. Now what? Now life comes, the Big Bad Wolf itself. I should embrace life, growth, but how do I let go of this ocean of regret, guilt, shame I wallow in? How do I make amend for all the years, the ideas, the time I wasted? After pulling what wire in my fucking brain does life stops resembling a trial, the eyes of fuzzy bystanders tyrannical as a triumvirate comprised of verdict, judgment, and execution?
When will I find peace?
The last one is a scream rising up to empty skies.
One day, maybe, a mighty savior will hear it.
One day, that savior could be me.
It was the middle of the night. I was rushing through a jungle, an angry T-Rex running after me, destroying trees and little wooden cabins misfortunate enough to be in its way. I ran, and ran, and ran, until my breath grew short, my muscles begged for rest, and I surrendered to fatigue, throwing myself in a bush right in front of me, eyes shutting down, waiting for the first bite to come... and I woke up.
Many years, changes, and therapy sessions later, I have been taught to extract meaning from my childhood nightmares. Embarking on a journey of self-discovery and careful rewiring of behavioral patterns was a wage I took when I had nothing left to lose, when I was a personified cluster of disorders and denial who barely stood up, blinded by a dysfunctional approach at life and boundless naivety; and rising from my ashes, even if slowly, even if hantingly, was a herculean feat still dripping with the blood I shed to get there. Yet I am torn between a newborn hope of a swift healing and an impeding paranoia of relapse preying on me.
When I was a child, I played with plastic dinosaurs. I had a map with lush forests split by the riverbed, and there I was, eyes full of wonder, putting herbivores on one side and the couple of angry, hungry T-Rexes on the other. When hatchlings were lost, finding themselves on the other shore by accident, a frantic chase began, their families calling for them from the other side, until they threw themselves in the twirling waters. But they were not alone, as everybody hurried to raise them up, to bring them back to their side of the river. The safe side of the river.
“Getting out of your confort zone” is a difficult concept to grasp when safety is a blank entry in your mental dictionary. A couple of angry, hungry predators have been chasing you all your life through empty corridors and a house too wide, too cold, too lonely, and if their claws did not get to you then cruelty spilling out of their maws would. Hatchlings soon learn they are too small to fight back the same way, so they resort to taylor themselves a leading role as martyrs, going as far in their own brainwashing as taking pride in being such. Bullies, peers, “friends”. Let them all come searching for the tasty preys who bib you while you’re eating them.
You are not prey.
Say it again, say it again, say it like a prayer every night so I won’t forget I was so used to be preyed upon that I became my own predator. Legs collapsing, mind breaking, blood spilling; nothing, nothing satisfied my hunger for self-annihilation, my cravings for that all-encompassing but distorted idea of love: a salvation from solitude, a redemption for being such a little freak, a coalescence with the other to mend all I’d done wrong in this life, from my mistakes to my very birth. To honor my mad quest I’ve let others prey upon me, contenting myself with crumbs in the form of “Oh, I didn’t notice you were here too” and “I will settle for you since I can’t do any better”.
Never again.
Here’s your happy ending: the prey escaped from most of its predators with the force of sheer willpower. Now what? Now life comes, the Big Bad Wolf itself. I should embrace life, growth, but how do I let go of this ocean of regret, guilt, shame I wallow in? How do I make amend for all the years, the ideas, the time I wasted? After pulling what wire in my fucking brain does life stops resembling a trial, the eyes of fuzzy bystanders tyrannical as a triumvirate comprised of verdict, judgment, and execution?
When will I find peace?
The last one is a scream rising up to empty skies.
One day, maybe, a mighty savior will hear it.
One day, that savior could be me.
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Date: 2019-02-22 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-02-23 01:47 pm (UTC)