More and More Introverted

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I am an introvert. It doesn’t happen to be one of my many flaws. It isn’t a mental illness. I freely admit that I am mentally ill, with many issues which negatively affect my daily life. However, being an introvert isn’t a negative; it isn’t an illness anymore than being extrovert is.

An extrovert is energised by social interaction. They are the people who have places to go and people to see.

An introvert may occasionally find social interaction interesting and even enjoyable to varying degrees, but they will also find it draining.

The extrovert needs to be “out there” to recharge, while the “out there” will sap the introvert’s battery.

Now, no doubt, my illness compounds my avoidance of many social situations, and can make even shopping or taking the kids to school a challenge. My prevalent state could be called “manic hermit”. The fact that I have…disabilities… can (and do indeed) play on my normal (nothing wrong with it) introverted nature…which can, then, make people think there is something very wrong with it/me. Yeah…I have to fight the urge to do the hermit-thing all the time. As I say, the illness can compound matters.

I do fight/have fought. But, more and more, I enjoy the retreat, the solitude, the away-ness from humans and humanity (how they/it can annoy me).

I find solace in my books, my music, in my thoughts about the nature of the soul. I also find creativity here, in the place of solitude and silence.

I don’t hate people, but I can find them frustrating and draining. At least in large doses! I have people I am quite fond of…ones I am incredibly grateful for, and some I could not do without.

But the dragon (and, the dragon I am) needs her cave. And…that ISN’T one of the things that is wrong with me.

I just felt the need to affirm that.

So, here’s to all of us, introverts and extroverts. Be who you are and recharge as you were designed to.

Baffled

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I envy them, and I honestly don’t understand.

Today has been one of those days where I’m in physical, mental and emotional pain. I’ve spent a good deal of it in bed, but also a significant amount of it in artistic endeavour and expression. There is pain, yes. But, thankfully, there is also creative flow – that, if nothing else, has given me something to post on my Facebook page…and here, of course.

There is comfort in that creative flow.

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I’m grateful for it, the art that takes an idea and gives it a form, a – for lack of a  much better word – life.

An imagination can torment. It can also create great beauty. And, sometimes, these things go hand in hand. At least, it’s something.

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Waiting

When I was little, my grandmother owned a booked the title of which intrigued me greatly. The name of the book was The Owl Called My Name. Curious about the story within the pages, there was a day when I asked her about the book. She told me that there was an ancient Native American belief that held if a person ever heard an owl call their name it meant they were going to die. The book was based upon this mythology.

I never read the book. I cannot tell you why. The title, however, has always stayed with me, never ceasing to speak to me.

I’m very honest about my longing for death. If you’ve read very many of my posts, you’re used to me sharing this about myself. I’ve always been waiting to hear the owl call my name. I’m still waiting.

What do I do while I wait? Well, you know, one of the things I do is write songs; I sing, I make music.

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It was inevitable that I would eventually write this song. Today’s the day I’ve chosen to share it with the world… something to do while I wait.

Some, I know, won’t like it or “get” it at all. For the rest of you – you who are with me in the waiting room of life – this is an anthem of the waiting, aching soul; it is my story…my story then, my story now…my story until I hear…well, you know.

Living in Hope

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I don’t clear out my phone often enough; messages sit there for months, years even. Call me a sentimental fool. I hold up my hand and confess.

Today, wrapped in a blanket, feeling physically unwell (as I have for some time), I decide to do a tidy up on my phone. With relative emotional ease, I deleted messages in order to clear space.

Then, I went back into my contacts in order to send a message to my husband. There, in my contacts, was my old friend who no longer wants me in her life.

Awhile back I had deleted her messages, so they weren’t a constant reminder of her absence from my life. But, at the time, and again today, I couldn’t bring myself to delete her from my contacts.

Realistically, I know she might have changed her number by now, but to delete her name out of my phone the way she deleted me from her life… I can’t do it yet. Not today. I still hope that one day she might say hello, might think of the friendship we had…might let go of judgements and assumptions…might just want to laugh and make music with another funny musical soul.

She doesn’t need me anymore. I was surplus. Complicated. And, I became uncomfortable (to her) when I began saying how I really feel and think.

My friend is gone, but I remember and I hope.

Hope is a bitch.

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When I feel like this, I just want to withdraw. I find human interaction exhausting and stressful. When I feel like this.

I’ve felt like this most of my life. I enjoy the times when I don’t feel like this, but I can’t control when I do and when I don’t; that would be too convenient, and life can never claim convenience.

Uncomfortable. Life can certainly claim that one. I do not understand anyone who would rather live to fight another day instead of choosing death (if either thing could be chosen, and therein lies my problem) and, therefore, a peaceful end to the war.

I would choose rest every time. I’m so tired.

Obsession, Madness, Me

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Obsession is a form of madness. Madness is insanity. Insanity can be, or include, or engender, deep creativity. Creativity is good. And, it’s really the only reason I don’t always mind being insane. But, obsession is bad. It’s exhausting. It’s the opposite of balance. Imbalance and extreme is a part of my nature. And, no amount of creativity (and, I have a large amount) can sufficiently make up for the damage that obsession causes.

This is one reason I continue to meditate. It doesn’t stop my obsessiveness, but it can slow it down somewhat. Otherwise, I am a total train wreck.

I have not been doing well lately. I had been doing better, but then… well, medication fiascos occurred. Madness asserted itself with force. And, my physical health took a hit. It’s all made me want to hide and be reclusive again. The way I feel… the heaviness in my head and chest, makes it very difficult for me to interact with people. It makes me want to avoid them. It’s very frustrating because, as I say, I had been feeling better. This, now, is like another one of life’s kicks in the teeth.

At this same time, I discovered a gps based adventure game called Ingress. I am now obsessed with said game. One good thing is that it gets me out of the house, out of bed. And, I’m good at the game. I like being successful at something. It’s just a shame that I’m not as good at life.

I’m tired. That’s the thing. The intense, inescapable weariness has returned in force. I’m back to praying every night that I don’t wake up in the morning. Of course, I do wake up…and, I go play Ingress. It’s something. Have I mentioned, I’m good at it? Still, it would be better yet if I just didn’t wake up. And, I suppose, would be even more better (betterest) if I could feel okayish again. I mean, I wasn’t totally fine. That’s far too much for me to ask for. But, I was okayish. And, I liked it.

This. This, how I feel right now? This, I don’t like.

Anywho, that’s the latest from me. I felt I better check in, write something. So, I have.

I Don’t Belong Here

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One of my favourite films is The Shawshank Redemption.  Near the beginning of the film, the “fresh fish” are brought to the prison. Fresh fish is prison slang for new inmates.

As the cold bars clang shut and the night falls with darkness and everything in the darkness, the hardened old-timers make bets as to which one of the new fish will cry out first. My heart aches, resonating and relating, as one of the latest arrivals to Shawshank finally cries out. “You don’t understand!”, he bawls, “I’m not supposed to be here!”

Not supposed to be here. This prison. This “life”. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m too weak to take it up the ass. I don’t fit into any of the gangs. And, the only way out for me will be in a body bag.

I feel alone. I reach out, but it is the intense me who gets too attached that reaches out. Rejection hurts, even when I know I’d reject myself.

I feel I am an anomaly. There’s no place for me here, because I was a mistake, a glitch.

I’m so tired.