I can’t concentrate. My chest swells and eyes tightly shut. Deep breaths don’t bring in enough oxygen. I’ve paced around my home, going into every room looking for something. I’m trying to read about a topic I didn’t know existed: Christian Feminist Theology. The bells or chimes I hear in the background are making it impossible to read quietly. I write to concentrate my mind on the letters on the computer screen.
[I want to scream. I think I’m losing it. Okay…focus.]
We tend to find ourselves, from time to time, in a place that is unrecognizable. We wonder what it all means. We wonder how we got there. We wonder which way to go. Weekly conversations with a counselor have revealed I am not set up correctly to understand boundaries and how they exist to protect me. When used properly setting boundaries between you and another person encourages growth. Love blossoms.
I learn by example and practice. Those that came before me creating the conditions for my existence did not spread a solid foundation. Rather, I stand on a cracky porous surface of life lessons collected from squeezed droplets of fear.
I’m all wrong in a world of right. Or, is it that I am all right in a world of wrong. Either way, I don’t fit in. I am socially awkward. I don’t understand certain nuances of behaviors and attitudes. I am told I am too literal and am difficult to relate to.
In the previous post, I told you something about myself. Not a secret, just something I omit. The days of last week turned out to contain a dulling experience. I filled my time by looking out a window and listening to silence. This week is full of promise and excitement, except I’m not at all prepared.
I attended a group session today for women that have experienced bad things in their lives. We talked a bit about the internet and that once you post, it’s there forever. Everything we share is backed up multiple times on various servers around the world and sometimes bought out by third companies who in turn save on their many servers. To fully remove a comment, post, blog, and certainly, photographs are nearly impossible. So, what I revealed to you the last time can never actually be deleted. And, I’m almost OK with that because I have to live with the memory of my experience.
The internal disturbance of the effects of that night will only end when I die. My web log about my brush with death will exist to be reread until the entirety of the internet is switched off (another kind of death). So, just like internet search results get buried by new information, web pages, and data, so will my experience. It will slowly be buried by the years of life ahead. But, it will always be there.
I don’t have a quote to end with today and I already forgot the mantra I shared with you. Thank you for reading.