Rare Window Into The Inner Workings of Me

This week was full of strange epiphanies - and hopefully a good measure of my own spiritual growth. And what are blogs for, if not the occasional post entrusting your thoughts to the cradle of the electronic world?

I am generally very good at keeping myself balanced. But every once in a while I get in a dark mood. Usually, reminding myself that no one can be happy 100% of the time (though I won't swear to that if we're talking about zen monkhood) will usually get me through the rough patches. I usually step back, take a few deep breaths, analyze what is going on, and set about making changes to whatever aspects of my Life threw me off balance. But every once in a great while, I can't figure out what my distress is rooted in - and I become particularly angsty.

Which is partly why I've felt like an angsty teenager for the past week - and my frustrations have been mounting, since I'm 32 and not 17, and we all like to believe that we left high school at some point.

You need to be touched, you humans. - Mercedes Lackey, The Last Herald Mage series. (I promise this quote will tie in in a moment.)

And more bizarre facts about me . . . I've always been very sensitive to things happening in my vicinity. For lack of a better description, we'll call it "atmosphere." If people around me hurt, I hurt. And here's the weird part - I hurt for fictional characters. It's hard to explain - but the way that people hear music - the way you can be at a concert, the way your body can be throbbing to the beat - I can hear a story that way. I imagine it is the way a musician hears their own work - the ability to sense a sound within yourself before it is born onto paper or through the unique voice of a musical instrument. And sometimes, when you touch that source of creativity so intimately, it hurts.

Where does music come from? Where are stories born? Are fictional characters entirely fictional?

And along with this strange ability to hurt for a fictional being has come the ability to truly learn from books. Everyone has always commented on how I seem to possess a deep well of wisdom. It's because I literally feel the lessons of a story. As I read, I incorporate the themes into my store of knowledge. This manifested outwardly as I grew, with people who always told me I was "older than my age." When I was in highschool, I was mistaken for a college student. When I was angsty and 17, with no boyfriend, everyone instinctively turned to me for dating advice, even though I was so mucked up I couldn't hold a healthy relationship. Weird, right?

And a third piece of the puzzle falls into place. Sometimes fictional characters are more real to me than "real" people. I suppose it shouldn't come as a huge surprise - given that I have very few ties to the real world. (And no - I'm not ready for the loony bin - just hear me out.)

Factoids (which some folks might call a "pity party" - but I'm not digging for sympathy - I'm stating the facts to help in understanding the rest of this vein of thought - provided you're still reading and haven't yawned and gone to sleep already . . . heh). My family is dysfunctional with a capital "D." Of the family I have left alive (and there aren't all that many members), half are not speaking to me, half are in distant locations, and the rest are dealt with in small, carefully controlled doses (mostly on their part, not mine). I believe they love me - in their own way - but the dysfunctionality means my own needs for a family are not met. And where most folks draw strength from their hometown and the relationships they built, my hometown was literally turned into a tourist resort. Imagine someone knocking down your hometown and replacing it with a "Disneyland" version of your home town, and you'll approximate the odd disassociated feelings I have. I can visit, but I have no one to stay with, and while the building look the same - they aren't the building in my memory. In short - I'm like a tree with no roots.

You need to be touched, you humans. Think about that quote for a moment. Think about all of the connections that enable us to go on living. We have our friends. We have our families. We have daily interactions with strangers - interactions that may alter the course of someone's life. Stopping to help someone pick up a scattering of paper may keep them from committing suicide. Leaving a $20 tip for a waitress may mean she pays her gas bill for the first time in months. We just don't know. I do believe we are all connected. I think we meet the people we meet for a reason. I think we all have a purpose.

But I hurt for others. I hurt for myself. I hurt so deeply that I've learned how to build my own internal walls to preserve who I am. In high school it wasn't so much peer pressure as an actual reworking of my own personality and soul. I have the odd ability to tear my own personality to it's constituent parts. If I had a behavior that someone disapproved of, I would wrench it out of myself and then try and stitch the wounded pieces back together. (Welcome to why relationships were not the best idea). Imagine that you have a habit of brushing your hair out of your face. Imagine that someone didn't like that - and so you were able to just stop. Stop laughing. Stop feeling. Stop enjoying one activity or another.

One of the best things I did in college was lock myself out of my own damn personality and learn to love myself, as I am.

And so when no one of flesh and blood has been available, I've always had my books. I've read some stories until they are emblazoned in my mind. Read the books until the covers literally fell off. And when I cried, that is where I poured my heart and soul. And maybe that's why the gateway opened - and why I can hear the voices of things that don't exist so clearly. When you are a writer, you literally have conversations with these "figments of your imagination." You "see" them with your inner eyes. To a great extent, you decide where they are going - what they are doing - if and when they live or die.

In the darkness, when I feel alone, I can feel them holding me. Sometimes, I think it is only the presence of these fictional characters that keep me sane. (How's that for an argument against being committed? "Gee, Doc - I'll be fine as long as I can hear the voices in my head.") And reality blurs. There are some days when I feel torn between two worlds. When I feel that there have to be other places that exist - even if they exist without being connected to our reality. And in an effort to not injure myself over the years (or be committed - let's be honest here) I've become very very good at hiding what I'm thinking. (Though my Philosophy professor in college wanted me to major in Philosophy. Good grief! I thought an English Major was pretty useless, but what would I have done with Philosophy?!)

So that's why I'm posting this little tidbit into my world. No one knows what I'm thinking unless I say it - and so I am saying it - in black and white, for any who care. I'm strong - but I still need to be touched. I need to have friends I can rely on, and people who let me be myself. My angsty mood has been because I've been hurting for so many friends and family, and at the same time, I feel as though I'm not supported. And I'm taking active steps to fix that (this blog is one, believe it or not!). I need to find people who accept me - inner voices and all. Who are willing to discuss worlds of possibilities as though possibilities exist. Because some of my best friends aren't real, but that doesn't mean the lessons they've taught me aren't real.

It is hard to explain - because I love my Life. I love the person I am. I love my baby-boo with all my heart. I am so thankful for all my friends and the people I know care about me. This post is me looking in the mirror and acknowledging the shadows - the needs that aren't being met and are throwing me off kilter. But I do Love myself. And I believe loving yourself is the first step in loving outside of yourself. I know I'm not alone . . . I just feel . . . isolated. And the first step to breaking isolation is looking for another person to validate your own existence. It's weird that we need to look outside of ourselves for answers - but sometimes we do. Ultimately when you write a novel, you write for yourself - but what is a novel without an audience? Why do we read what other people have written?

I know what you're thinking - I should have taken my Philosophy professor up on the offer . . . maybe that's why the Universe is still messing with me. Now it's my job to find the place where I fit in . . . I guess you could say I'm beginning to search for my own purpose - be it large or small. Ultimately, I want to find the things here and now, that I can "feel" as strongly for as their fictional counterparts. Because fiction comes from somewhere - so I have a hope that the things the stories are based on exist. That's the theory, at any rate. Wish me luck!