It is I That Makes Me Cry

Is there a way to release all that is within a mind and a heart without knowing what is there? When there is no knowledge, or just confusion, of exactly what emotions and thoughts are running loose within the confines of the cranium is it possible to actually let those thoughts and emotions out so that they can be taken care of? Is it just the human condition to wonder such things as these?

As I sit here, writing this, and other, nonsensical pieces of literary trash, I am filled with… some emotion that insists on turning my mood black and dark. As I fight the tears from streaming from my eyes onto the keyboard I wonder what is making me feel this intense urge to release… grief, remorse, worry, fear…some emotion that I cannot explain, some emotion that, on a conscious level I am not aware of. Somewhere buried deep within my mind I am filled with something that I cannot control and am not aware of.

My mind wanders. I think of all that has happened during the daylight hours since waking this morning. Is there something that I read, that I saw, that I did which would bring on the necessity to weep uncontrollably, unbidden by any conscious effort? I find nothing. Yet, my mood has swung from neutral to fair to black during the last fourteen hours. Even now, as I sit here desperately going through the mental checklist of events, I find nothing.

Is this maybe my depression setting in at an inopportune moment? Fifteen years of fighting that black-hearted villain has shown me that it can rise its’ ugly head at any time without provocation. Even with all things at an even keel dark emotions will mar any bright spots that are there. Even the sun has lost its’ brilliance with the clouds of doubt and worry and despair that envelope my mind. I believe that it is the eve of my final battle. I have been able to postpone that inevitability so far knowing that soon I would face my fiercest enemy: myself.

I have not been without the comforting audience of my most trusted friends and family. With joy and gratitude I have reveled in the knowledge that my most beloved are here with me. Whether enjoying their own endeavors or accompanying me discussing the world and life in general, they are within easy grasp. That knowledge is enough to keep loneliness at bay. Today is no different than that other than my desire to have the company of my two ‘adopted’ sons. I had hoped to have them here this cold winter night to talk with as we had in days and years past. They are otherwise occupied with their own distractions, not having spent much time together themselves it is a needed thing for them. Yet I miss them. That may be the reason for the darkness surrounding my mind and bringing upon me the sense of depression and despair.  

I have not been inundated with idiocy or annoyance this fine winter day. An unusual occurrence since most of my days are interrupted with tales of valor beyond belief by some and an insatiable need to make one more important than they are by others. It has been quiet and the solitude has been acceptable. The interruptions that are enjoyed are those that bring joy to my mood and lighten my heart. My children when not in their argumentative moods, my ‘adopted’ boys or a call from an old friend not seen for a while are all welcome distractions. The isolation of solitude is the most comforting most days. That is when my mind can rest, my imagination can run wild and I am able to write with a fervor that does not stop. Today was a day when even the solitude seemed to wrap itself around my very soul and threaten to extinguish my life.

My solitude, my savior, is what I relish. It is the isolation that I have put upon myself that I most detest. The two go hand in hand, though. You cannot have solitude without isolation nor can you have isolation without solitude. I sit in the darkness of my home, isolated from the world to keep the world from tearing me apart. I fear what lurks in the streets and alleys of my own hometown, for what waits for me is nothing short of annihilation. When I do venture forth I am constantly vigilant for any sign of attack. Whether I am in the world for a minute or an hour or a day I come back to my isolated solitude exhausted and overwhelmed, relieved that once again I am alone and protected from the predators that stalk me.

When my loved ones come through the door, that barrier between me and the world, I rejoice. For I now have others to interact with so as not to lose the social graces most people use on a daily basis. I wonder at times whether I am socially accepted at all, whether I am acting, or reacting, the way society dictates is the correct form. My humor is lacking, my hospitality is overdone. I feel, at times, I am overbearing and demanding when I do have the attention of human bodies. Perhaps my self-inflicted exile is my own undoing. I hermit myself away in an effort to protect myself from phobias that are as real to me as the chair I sit on or the wall that separates me from reality.

I live in my own little world and there are few that are invited in. I share only parts of that world with those that are allowed in and share nothing save the worst for those intruders that force their way in. I am surly and sarcastic, rude and unwavering in my gruffness. Insults and accusations find their way past my lips and are sent, scathingly, toward the target, hitting the bulls-eye. I find no solace in this only in that soon the interloper will leave and not return soon, leaving me, once again, isolated in my solitude.

I dream of the day that I am able to emerge from my cocoon and be the butterfly that was once a caterpillar; from beast to beauty, the ugly duckling turning into the beautiful and graceful swan. Until that day, I reside in my own mind refusing to unlock the door and allow the sun and fresh breeze in. Musty, cold and damp as a dungeon my mind has become, decaying beyond repair. To open the door, to allow any to enter fully is unthinkable. Only so far will any be allowed to invade. The castle drawbridge is lowered for only a short time and visitors are not allowed past the Great Hall. Some will venture further than others, to my living quarters, to the kitchen, but none can pass the guards to the dungeon or the ramparts.

My dungeon is filled with the demons of Dorian Grey, Mr. Hyde, Frankenstein, Dracula and the one known as Jack the Ripper. The ramparts are manned by the armies of the Frost Giants, ready to destroy any that attempt to traverse the boundaries set by their master. It is not that I fear what may be found, I fear that the curious may be harmed by what they find. I fear that my own soul may be destroyed by some forgotten memory, some unknown aspect of my being that lurks in the shadows or by what is kept prisoner so as to protect all that it would harm.

So how does all this relate to my original train of thought? It does not, yet, it does. My entire life relates to the unknowns that plague me on a daily basis. My fears, my dreams, my joys and my sorrows all add something to that unknowable condition that perpetuates rivers of tears. My isolation and my need for the company of my loved ones, also, add to that recipe of misery. That I need more than they do, that I feel deserted and alone when all I need is the touch of a loved one; that I need them more than they need me. My burden is mine to bear, not theirs. My life is mine to live, not theirs. It is my need, not theirs.

I love my sons and daughter more than life itself. I would ‘take the bullet’ to save them. Yet, in some way I feel as though I am more harm than good to all of them. I know that it is I that is the cause of all that is wrong in my life. The choices I have made, intentional and unintentional, knowingly and unknowingly, willingly and unwillingly, that makes me who I am and how those around me act, and react, to me. My actions, both conscious and unconscious, are the cause, how those around me react is the effect. It is I that makes me cry.