Insufferable existence

The Insufferable Reality of Being

My insides have been excoriated. Burned, salted, and frozen. I experience the agony like a physical pain that pulls my blood, my essence, into a pit of physical inception.

My goal is to break free of this intense apathy as the spirit roils within the bonds of flesh, tethered by a soul that desires manifestation. I am fighting the animal of my body whose bones have been programmed to fight, flee, and survive.

Before, I was too ill to wrestle with this demon. Though I am mostly well, the demon has grown toothier, hoarier, and sharper of claw. Survival is a traitorous bitch.

…now I look it in the eye. I scream in its face.

I have not escaped. I have not been ripped from my fate by the cold hands of medical science. Where before I had done everything imaginable to escape the horror of inception, now I look it in the eye. I scream in its face. I refuse to turn my back to it. I’m willing to name it.

About once every two weeks, I wake and know it will not be a good day. My body will ache, my head will throb, and my core will compact into a small, burning coal that sears the space below my rib cage. The Ego knows I long to escape. The Id throws temper tantrums that dance upon my teeth. I struggle within a concrete vise of emotional sterility.

I do not see things as others do. I am made differently. On purpose.

Sanity is a lipstick that smears my mouth. I’ve been raped by too many dark truths, drowned in too many deceptions, and hung too many times for crimes not my own to subscribe to this world’s idea of what is acceptable.

I do not see things as others do. I am made differently. On purpose. I am labeled insane by a society that does not see the wonders or the dangers that I do. I feel for a wounded world. Your hurts, his despair, her anxiety, are all within me. And still I smile because your joy, his relief, and her laughter are all within me too.

I often wonder if I have feelings of my own. Perhaps I do, but they are buried beneath the demands of this reality. I long to escape, and in the moments of agony, I realize that I cannot.

©2018. I.O. Kirkwood. All rights reserved for text. Image may be subject to copyright.

 

 

Read the Warning Label

I’ve reached the point where I’ve decided that labels are powerful. I’m not saying they are fair but one must reckon with them or fall victim to them. In our world of illusion, to make sense of our experiences, we must categorize and in this we are all guilty of delusion. A state of illumination is one in which the world is accepted for the illusion it is, the delusions of others and oneself are acknowledged, and the truth is sought in perfect trust and perfect love.

I haven’t reached a state of illumination yet. I’m working on not complaining so much. I’m working on keeping my counsel because I know my delusions aren’t anyone else’s problem. I’m learning that I don’t have the obligation to teach anyone else, because what the heck do I know? I might actually be leading someone astray with all my self-aggrandized wisdom and insufferable experience (or am I just shirking responsibility? AUGH!).

menagerie

Don’t throw stones at glass menageries.

Labels make it easy to complain. White. Black. Wrong. Right. Yours. Mine. An opinion is a label. We like to think we’re informed by Facts, but what is a Fact? Undeniable proof? If you’ve witnessed anyone labeled Crazy, you can’t argue facts or proof. The experience within is as real to him or her as your experience without. I propose that Crazy people were driven insane by Labels.

Realizing the effect of labels is difficult for me. I can’t even determine if this is an evolution of awareness or a devolution into the abyss of madness. Of course a label that could be applied in this instance is Mid-Life Crisis. Or Pre-Menopausal. It’s easy to write off a crisis of this magnitude once it’s labeled. There are many systems out there that would easily categorize my experience and thus make it more manageable. I have to ask: Manageable for who?

I don’t have any answers. Maybe I don’t want answers. That could be the most liberating aspect of this experience. Answers are labels too. I probably won’t be able to avoid answers and I probably will be compelled to share them. All I ask is that if I do and you take the time to read my posts, remember from whence I came.

Regards from a Land of Delusion,

I.O. Kirkwood