Sunday morning. I am on a set, filming inserts for the play that I am doing. There is a great cast of people associated with this production. I did my part in two takes and helped out on the set for other’s camera time. I should be feeling great!
And yet yours truly is unsettled. I still get constantly rattled by sudden pangs of memory of love lost. It is not helping, of course, that my favourite and most important day of the year is coming up (no, it is not my birthday) and last year I spent it with who I thought (and despite everything, frankly still feel) was the most wonderful human being in the world.
People in my life keep telling me that I am a great chap, that I have a lot of things going for me, that I am funny and interesting. So why don’t I feel it? Why do I not feel that I deserve good things? Why have I never felt that way in my entire life?
Panic attack. Through years of practice I learned to automatically breath with my “stomach” (lower lung section). It is instinctual by now. But those instincts do not work right now. That learned behaviour is overridden by primal panic. I draw short ragged breaths as my chest rises and collapses in adrenaline-induced spasms. My heart beats like the loudest gong in my head. Sweat rolls down my head and the roots of my hairs feel like they are white hot. A buzzing feeling permeates my skin throughout my body. My mouth is dry and my tongue and fingers no longer feel like my own.
I was wondering what would happen if and when I saw my ex. Now I know.
And, predictably, everything that has to do with Her turns to shit.
Arguably, it was a good night. I was in a show that went really well. I came up with a few characters that enhanced the show. I played the characters that made people laugh.
And yet, all my choices were safe ones. I did not push myself. I did not live up to the spirit of improv. I felt so ashamed after the show (because I know how much everyone else pushed themselves), I could not even bring myself to stay for the following show and to go for drinks afterwards.
I feel it beginning as a cold furnace, brighter and colder than anything I have ever experienced. Its genesis is in the vast emptiness of my core, made hollow by the everpresent anger, and sorrow, and regret.
That little anger. That sniggering little anger. It is always there, as it has been for most of my pitiful existence. That little asshole in my head that kept whispering to me that since I’m miserable everyone around me should feel “the cold reality of the world” as well.
But now it is different. It arises like a cold blue fire, eviscerating everything in its path, boreing up through the follicles, the roots of my hairs that are being slowly turned ashen. It is now burning stronger than ever, setting my very mind on fire to the point where its fury replaces all other obsessions – great in the number though they may be. Like a vicious circle and the self fulfilling prophecy, it feeds itself at the expense of all shreds of humanity that are reduced to nothing but mere kindling. Slowly stripping away all humanity, compassion, empathy — they are rippling and fading in the cold fury of Anger, hissing impotently as if they are being taken from me by the runaway train of my own unwilling creation, a Frankenstein’s creature, come Vishnu the destroyer, the destroyer of my inner peace.
So what does it all mean? Shall it ever stop? Or rather more importantly, shall it stop before annihilating my very essence, my culture, my civility, my capacity for love? Will I ever be able to love again? Would that I even want to?
My mind technician thinks that the true source of the excruciating pain from my breakup is because of having lived without true emotional intimacy for so very long and then putting all my eggs of emotional connection need into one basket. I do not think that is what the pain is really all about. Sure, that is a part of it but what really hurts beyond hurt is the loss of hope. I would not have admitted it to anyone including myslef but deep down I knew my life was broken and needed to be fixed. So when She came along and made me feel so safe that She could quiet my worried mind with Her mere presence rather than me taking Ritalin, I fell so desperately in love. It felt that with Her in my life everything would be fixed. And the sad, sad trouth is that if She had stuck around long enough to help me open my eyes to the true nature of my issues so that I could get help, my life would have been fixed. The other part of that sad, sad truth is that had I paid more attention to what She was saying, had paid more attention to Her, she would likely still be a part of my life. There is a great deal of blame on me for the breakup.
Having left, She not only took Herself out of my life, She took my hope and my dreams with Her. It feels so empty and so cold now.
And I still love Her.
Some days are bad, some are worse. The last two have been of the latter kind. I feel so lost and powerless. There is very little energy left over from trying to not just curl up in a foetal position and wail, to get up and do anything. I miss Her. I love Her. I need Her!
Getting old. There’s a lot more grey hair now than there was just a few months ago. Do I need this stress?
Some times I think that this thing I am living through is actually just a dream, a nightmare. And I think I am going to wake up from this any second now. But, unfortunately, this is one bad dream that I won’t be waking up front. I will be dealing with hot sweats and sleepless nights for quite some time.
Another full day. And then I had a conversation with a friend and I am still processing it. I will try to write about it. That’s it for now.