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Saturday, June 25, 2005

check to see that i'm breathing

If I thought less I’d be much happier.

Sometimes I think I should just inject myself with painkillers, bash my head against a wall and dye my hair peroxide blonde. Like, what? No you shut up!

My whole life I’ve never been able to completely enjoy myself, or feel altogether good about anything. I’m always too busy weighing everything out, analyzing, and looking too closely.

When I was young we made a few trips to Mexico. Part of me was always ecstatic, thanking the sky for a vacation and the sun that seeped into my skin. And part of me wanted to hide my blonde hair, my pale skin, my name brand clothing and everything else that put me in the same boat as every other tourist. In the city streets, children under eight-years-old walked up to me and tried to sell me Chiclets. Half my memories of Mexico are of these dark young faces yelling “Chiclet! Chiclet!” You never wanted to say no to them, but there was a mystery of whos greedy hands clenched the money at the end of the night. Who are the puppeteers that put these kids out there to target tourists’ hearts? I remember passing the woman huddled on the ground with her head in her lap, her aged hands stretched out, while we were on our way to dinner…the guilt hit harder than a jalapeno pepper in the chest. This is normal to feel when visiting less privileged countries, but I couldn’t help but envy the absent minded tourists who drank their sunburned faces off and were happy turning a blind eye.

Even when I drink myself numb the thoughts continue to spin in my head. I worry about offending people, the damage I’m doing to my liver, and the fact that I’ve created a false mood for myself. I feel my surroundings become out of reach, out of my control, and the headache that will hit me in the morning. I’m caught somewhere between heaven and hell.

Relationships are especially hard for me. I always want more. I always want what feels out of reach, but when it’s mine I'm not satisfied. I look for faults. I find the conversations are never rich enough, the kisses are never sweet enough and my craving for solitude is always too strong. I’m given perfection and I rip it to shreds. I feel as if I’m living an illusion, trying to re-create an image. I become a concoction of passion and confusion, afraid of delusion. Afraid to see who's heart will break first.

Why can't I fall more easily? Why can't I be less aware of my body? Why can't I be less aware of the thoughts, the words, that play on fastforward in my head?

But I don't think being blind would help. The patient who's lost himself to drugs is no better off than the one who suffers but retains his personality.

I need to bleed to know there's blood running through my veins. I need to scream to know there’s air in my lungs. I need to cry in order to know that my heart is still there; still able to be wounded. And I need these thoughts that beat like a drum in my head in order to know that my head is still there at all.

I'm a functioning dysfunctional. And I guess I have nothing to complain about.

1 Comments:

Blogger dbry said...

A functional dysfunctional. Gill, your words find a way into my heart. I think that nothing you feel is dysfunctional at all. I think you are the most consious of reality there is and that is truly a breathe of frsh air...

10:34 AM  

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