When it's 12:40 in the morning and there's no one to talk to online I'm kind of stuck with journaling. The universe must be telling me to avoid depositing my problems on other people like rotten garbage. At least, avoid doing it so often. But, I thwart the system with a sneaky thing called a blog. Here, poor friends, I force you to read my sticky situations (or you could close the window, your choice).
At odd moments in the short span of my life I'm struck by how funny life is. Funny, not as in always “haha” funny, but also as in odd. Widespread, complex, conflicting. Tragic, and therefore, hilarious. Is that not our gift as humans? The ability to laugh in the face of tragedy, even if it takes time?
I remember all of the times where I'd nearly shit myself with embarrassment, felt the undulating pulses of dread after discovering a not-so-wonderful piece of knowledge, total shame for something I'd done, pain from a rebuff, or paralyzing melancholy that is heartbreak. And in most instances, depending on the circumstance, I've been able to enjoy giggles over them. Laughing at myself is one of the true balances of my ego and pride, and I'm allowed to not take myself so seriously. Irony is a beautiful bittersweet expression.
Yet somethings are fundamentally harder to get over than others. I stumbled upon a website onesentence.org; like a multitude of websites similar to this, people post one sentence pieces of their life, the gist being “True stories in one sentence.” I've become enough of a recluse lately to feel totally disconnected from the world, and there is no better medicine for that than a little perspective. I'm at that stage of heartbreak where everything reminds you of the person you love(d?). You miss them so violently that the stomach aches that came at the beginning start to creep back like the distant happy memories you have of your lover. When emotions are that strong, they're so seductive. My world feels small and compact, my own personal universe where only I am mostly important. I suppose it could be an emotional instinct; when we go through trauma we need to take care of ourselves, and we become the priority. But remembering that I'm not the only person to have gone through this (nor will it be the only time in my life that I experience it) is oddly comforting. It's not just me, it's not so serious, it's not as much of a big deal.
It is a big deal, but the degree of importance lessens as my lens draws farther back to include the multitude of deaths, emotional, spiritual, mental, and physical, that people have encountered. It's one of the conflicts I find endearing about human perception and the universe; my pain is important and big to me, and the pain of my friends is also troubling and difficult. But draw back, back so you encompass more than the suffering in the moment. The entire moment holds a certain kind of peace that permits both screaming rage and the utmost joy; even all ranges between.
It's funny, I started writing because I felt depressed, tired, burnt out, and tired of the people in my life that betray my trust. Lately I've felt twinges of wanting to see my ex again, wondering what he's up to, if he's moved on or still struggling, and playing the “what if” game about what will happen between us in the future. I haven't ended up there, though. Ah, writing, you are a decent, cheap therapist. I suppose betrayals of trust are mostly thinly wrapped identity crises, anyway. Recognizing the humanity of my supposed enemies has been one of my greatest tools for moving on and loving again. It only takes time.
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