offwiththeirdollheads | Entries tagged with battles

It begins with a sensation.

Like a fist to the stomach, an ice cold bath, a paper cut. Sharp and fast.
I'm standing at the top of the stairs and the sensation arrives, swift and direct, and the blood surges through my veins like lava and yes, I am ready to erupt. I am standing at the top of the stairs and the overwhelming urge to throw myself down its short flight of twenty steps grips me. Yet, these steps are not cushioned with linoleum or carpet, these are hard, cold concrete slaps and I want my skull to greet each one with a sickening crack. I want my bones to twist and snap and bend and break. I want my spine to shatter like peanut brittle. I want to feel each moment as I break and lose my shape. I don't want to recognise the reflection.

I've been here before.

Standing on the curb edge, waiting for the three tonne lorry to pass. Imagining what it would feel like to marry my flesh to it's hot metal. Or walking by the river, I wonder what it would be like to try to swallow it whole. The bubbles escaping from the corners of my mouth as I submerge further. I let it all in. Sinking deeper into the abyss.

Yet, it is fleeting. As quick as the sensation takes hold, it releases me from its clasp. Offering me a moment to look inside the cacophony of madness. It's like looking inside a large shell. The softest whisper is transformed in to a vibrating pulse that can not be escaped. It rings in your ears and the claws slide in.

And then it's gone.

Like a hypnotist snapping his fingers, his volunteer is brought back from the trance. He may be slightly dazed, bewildered even; what did he just experience? He's not quite sure but he knows it was fraught with danger. There's a relief afterwards. Thank god that's over with. Whatever that sensation was, whatever it meant, it's done with. Except as the willing volunteer stands up from the hypnotist's chair, he realises that he was not so willing after all and he's signed a contract with that sensation now. As sure as the sun rises each morning, that sensation is set to return.

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"In horoscopic astrology, a Saturn return is an astrological transit that occurs when the planet Saturn returns to the same place in the sky that it occupied at the moment of a person's birth." *

So here I am, slap bang in the middle of my first Saturn Return and it sure does feel confusingly turbulent. Theoretically speaking,'adulthood' should be the period of our lives when all the pieces start to come together; we develop a greater understanding of who we are and what role we play in society. The last threads of childhood should be cleanly snipped away and we can finally inhabit the adult skin we've harvested on our bones for all these years.

Throughout my early twenties I was convinced that as I began to reach the next decade (I still struggle to accept the word 'thirty'), everything would start to make more sense. The truth is, personally speaking, I've never felt further away from that ideology. The world is even more confusing, I will never understand a planet that harbours war, famine, murder, prejudice, animal cruelty and all the evils we see gracing the newspapers and magazines on a daily basis. My own personal world is just as confusing; I see people creating their own families and I am forced to accept that the prospect of doing the same is very unlikely. The idea of a career is a fallacy and I find that my greatest achievement is knowing that I have been able to make it through the day.

This is beginning to sound like 'Oh, woe me.' - However, this is not the case. I'm grateful for being in the position I am. It could be worse. We are the architects of our own future. We are solely responsible in shaping our own fate and we do this by making the most of what we have. In saying this, I'm still awaiting that 'Eureka!' moment. That soul-tingling, bone-shattering, mind-imploding instant where suddenly everything makes sense and you abruptly find yourself hurtling down the right path and you kick yourself and laugh because you 'knew it all along'.

I'm sure it's coming.

I guess most of us are looking for a similar thing and by this I don't mean having lots of money or owning an expensive house or being made 'top of the class'. It's beyond possessions or any other material object. It is about finally having that knowledge of where you fit in between the land and sky. It's about understanding how your actions are contributing to a greater use, therein attempting to create a better world even if the action is small in nature. It's about contentment, fulfilment and connection, however you may find it. I guess some people spend most of their lives trying to attain even a pinch of these things. It is a journey and at this moment in time, I have no idea of the destination. I can only hope that by the time of my next Saturn Return, I will have made a little more sense of it all.

*Source [Wikipedia.org - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturn_return]

'Give me life. Give me pain. Give me myself again.' - "Little Earthquakes" - Tori Amos (1991)

'I'm so happy because today I've found my friends. They're in my head.' - "Lithium" - Nirvana (1991)

This won't be another tirade about managing to make it to the end of the day. Nor will it be an excessive list on survival tips. Instead, this will be about waking up each day and knowing that you're still alive and functioning... Barely. However we'll choose to focus on the operative word here: 'functioning'. From this point, it's uphill. A rucksack ladened with enough bricks to build a small house is firmly strapped to your back. Your feet are covered in red-hot weeping wounds which are sandpapered down to the bone by a pair of uncomfortable shoes. Your chest is caught in a pulsating death-grip by a python the size of a swimming pool and you can barely make out where you are going through bleary eyes.

But you're alive, you made it to this point and you tell yourself that you can get through it. One day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time and hell, if needs be, one second at a time. Sometimes you stumble and sometimes you can't find the words. Those are the bad days. When the words won't come and you end up resembling an inarticulate ventriloquist dummy and wonder if people notice. You know that they notice.

It's like you're caught in perpetual exorcism with yourself trying to free your mind from those entities that clog and perverse the functions of a normal, healthy brain. 'But that's okay' you tell yourself. What 'doesn't kill you makes you stronger,' right? It's about feeding yourself moments of hope. It's about having the shield up when those arrows come at you from all directions. It's about allowing yourself to run away even if it's in your mind and finding those moments to appreciate a spectacle such as a setting sun or a blinking star.

Sometimes that's all you need.

It's not easy when people expect more from you especially at the point where you feel a little bit triumphant because you've managed to make it through the day without completely losing it. Yet of course they don't see that. You know it's not their fault and you have to suppress the ideas of screaming at them how proud you are that you made it this far. That something that might seem mundane and down-right easy to them is not always that easy for the rest of us. Cut us some slack.

There's a quote from Plutarch that I often think about, 'what we achieve inwardly will change outer reality'. It's a simple concept and yet it's probably one of the most difficult theories to adopt in our everyday life, especially when our instincts may default to pressing the big ol' 'self destruct' button with a furious temper. It starts from within. We have to learn to make friends with those demons and then politely show them the door. Banish the free-fleeting thoughts about what other people might think and look after ourselves. It may sound selfish and self absorbed but battles can not be won when we are still waging war with ourselves.

Morning arrives in its usual manner. Tangled bed sheets try to persuade me to stay rooted in a pleasurable dream state. The pillow creases on my face serve to remind me of the war I waged in the attempt to place bare feet on the cold floor and accept that the day has begun. Coffee consumed, teeth cleaned, mirror attacked, eyes closed, deep breath, headphones in, music on.

The roads are traveled and the thoughts are thought, sometimes blue skies and a welcoming sun. Sometimes, drizzle and the harsh attack of the wind. Words are spoken, the daily habits are played out, the script is adhered to, word for mundane word. I remind myself that it is not their fault that they do not know.

The light changes as Lady dusk begins to descend and soothe the land with her waning lullaby. A song that is only sung when an ending has begun. Yet it doesn't matter that I've heard this song before and I know the words like they've been carved on the bones beneath my skin. Shoes off, exhalation, curtains drawn, body fed, words spill.

The shakiness of my hands matches the tremble in my voice.

I am the walking stitched-up skin-sack filled with hollow brittle bones you see walking on the street. The flimsy bamboo shoot melody as they clink and clank with each forced footstep.

Heart as large as the moon. Gulping bowling-ball sized mouthfuls of air except it no longer tastes like air any more. Surgical. It is merely a desperate clinging for survival and my god... why is my heart racing so much? 'You're a man.' He said, 'men don't behave like this, quit complaining, snap out of it and get back in the game.'

I can see my atoms structured only with empty vessels of frenzy and perspiration. Molecules weakened by years of thinking a particular way. There's a heaviness pressing down, pinned by a shadow with a body as strong as ten men. Why is my heart battling my ribcage like a child kicking a ball against the wall? Thud, skid, thud, thud, skid.

And with each breath, the world collapses in on itself and the electricity that surges through my nervous system causes nothing but convulsions and shivers of biblical proportions. I've never felt so hot and so cold at the same time.

Walking like a drunk through the streets lined with litter and decomposing broken hearts.

You stole my voice yet again.

The words will not form. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. Except you stole the concept of hope a long time ago when you first wrapped your wrinkled, bony arms around me that time I could not scrub myself clean. The water ran red.

I thought you were a lesson I had to learn but I now know that you are just a curse I need to bury deep down in those fields of grey. The 3 am whispers must be put to bed and your clinical clawing has to cease.

The battle must be won.

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