Earlier this week, I was asked how I was really
feeling. I knew the question was in
earnest – the really had been typed in italics – and so I gave some
consideration to the answer I gave. I
have been reading a book about Greek mythology.
The story of Pandora’s Box sprang to mind, and so – as means of metaphor
(albeit a smashing together of two) – I compared myself to a man of clay
awaiting the new set of instructions to be put inside me; but that I knew there
would be no new instructions because I had sealed myself shut.
It’s a sort of inverse meaning to that tale, I suppose. In opening the box, Pandora unleashes woe
upon the earth. In placing instructions
inside me, woe occurs for the placer. By
instructions, I mean places their-self in me; becomes involved with me; trusts
me; takes me on. I find myself a
corrupting material. This last few years
has confirmed that for me, and life has become much more simple having realised
that and having sealed myself shut.
What a martyr, eh? I
know, I know. It is self evident,
though. I am deleterious and cause
people who get close to fester and degrade.
This is, however, by the by and not entirely what’s been playing on my
mind since I was asked how I was really feeling.
Having given my answer I waited for a response. Given the nature of the tone of the question
I was expecting a swift answer – some form of contradiction, some form of
reassurance, some further questions, something.
I waited a day or two and I had not received a reply. The days dragged on, and the fact that I had
not received a reply began to play on my mind.
It began to negatively affect me because I believed I had answered a
sincerely asked question with a sincere reply - and honesty, my openness, had
been met by silence.
Naturally, once that doubt sets in, further demons begin to
surface in the mind. Was I not being
answered because the person who had received my response perceived me to be
acting melodramatically and had not managed to stop their eyeballs from rolling
enough to refocus on their screen to type accurately? Was my reaction being judged to be
inauthentic, to be attention seeking, to be artificially creating
dialogue? And then, of course, you start
to second-guess yourself: perhaps I simply was after the attention an answer so
OTT could generate. It starts to gnaw
at your sensibility.
Six days went by. I
appreciate that people are busy. I know
that what’s in front of you takes priority and online conversations slip down
the to do list. I did not received a
reply.
So, there’s another reason to clam up. When asked now about how I am really feeling,
I appreciate that it doesn’t actually matter how I reply. I am able to continue working inside my
little bubble, all smoke and mirrors, giving indications all is as it
should be in the world. Easy.
Curiously, this internalised thrashing has occurred at a
time when rough edges feel as if they’re smoothing. Two years ago, I was in free-fall. Now, acknowledging that I need to keep my
corrosive self away from people, is beginning to see the seal blend and lost in
the surface. The seam is
disappearing. I look like a solid. This is good, I think. It feels to me like patterns are evolving in
my existence that can be repeated and can appear to be something akin to a life. Enough to throw people off the scent. Enough, eventually, hopefully, for people to
not have to ask how I am really feeling with italics.
It has been a contrasting set of emotions; both joyous and
pitiful simultaneously but bearable, and actually bearing to live the life I
have now is a feeling quite alien to me.
If this is bearable, it is sustainable.
That is something to cling on to and to use as a battery to ensure the
pattern repeats whilst I am necessary.
It feels like I might be starting to function, and that is a most
unusual sensation.
