The Forge

I let it go.

I let it all go. Poured out until i was sure there was nothing left, and yet it still kept coming. It's like one of those fountains with an electrical pump replenishing the water supply: I thought that maybe spewing forth everything within would empty me out, but the only way to stop the stream is to unplug the pump and let the water evaporate.

It's a timely process.

So yeah. I let it go. A good friend came by and i told him everything. Names, details, the enormous irony in my situation that, perhaps, we'll all get a good laugh at one day. But not today. This well runs too deep.

I wrote a word on my wrist today.

This evening i decided to sit in on play rehearsals. I'm only in the fifth act, and a very short portion of a scene, so i didn't need to go. But i wanted to. I like these people. They're fun, and good to talk with. Some are even my friends. I was telling a few people about some issue i'd had. At the conclusion, one of them said (and i couldn't tell whether this was a valid summation, or else a way to end my explanation) "wow, ---."

I lifted my wrist up and tried to show them the word i'd written. No one looked.

The last few days i've likened my heart to a thunderstorm. The climax came when a real thunderstorm deposited lightning right outside my window. It's been crazy. Hard to deal with.

Really, the word suits me well.

I needed to tell someone, after all, about what i was dealing with. I knew it couldn't go anywhere, but everyone kept asking why and i needed to answer, even if the person i told hadn't asked me. Believe me, i've got good reasons. It's under control. And i like the way i explained it all, because that was real, it was from the heart, it was raw energy. It was truth. But maybe i overstepped the boundaries.

Maybe too well.

Anyway, whatever i needed to do, i did. It worked. The writing maybe. Or the monologue i wrote. He said it was amazing. "You don't need to edit this or extend it." Stellar work. I'll believe him. Maybe because i like that idea--that i made something amazing. Or maybe just because it has to be amazing. Good literature is life. Some guy said that. He said few of us write good novels. But all of us live them. He was down to earth. He wasn't too ---.

But i am. Always have been.

Just need to calm down, you know? Like the Energizer Bunny. Someone needs to stop him. He's so busy beating that drum of his that he never gets a chance to sit down and just live. He's been all over the place, seen lots of people, maybe they liked him, even. But he never gave them the chance to love him. He just kept going and going and going.

Wow. I think i just called myself a pink rabbit.

Thing is i get too far into it. The grit and grime. I want so desperately to be understood, and i take so many pains to understand myself first. But no one really understands themselves. It's why shrinks can't fix their own lives. We're experts on everyone else's problems but blind to our own. It becomes an obsession. We can't stop til we've fixed ourselves. But it's too much.

My friends had a rabbit once. It died.

"I see myself in this situation," I said. "That's the problem. I see me." I'm stuck watching myself live life, rather than jumping out of the director's chair and actually playing my part. Like it's more worth my time to analyze my problems than to actually buckle down and fix them. What's funnier is that my entire problem--i've come to realize--is that i realize i've got a problem. Catch-22. Only way to fix my life is to forget it needs to be fixed.

If that doesn't prove it, i don't know what will.

Too much energy. I'm not unique. We've all been in these places, with these people, doing these things. Nothing new under the sun. But for some reason, i have to be. I imagine myself as standing out. I blow things out of proportion. "Mountains out of mole hills," he said. Yeah. Molehills.

This is so hypocritical. Go ahead. You know it is.

"I eat most of my meals alone." I told him that. I don't usually bother telling people that. Feel bad about it, because it makes me seem like i'm trying to drop a hint that i'm not trying to drop. He knows that though. Knows i was just making a point. Point is i've got lots of friends, nice people, people who think i'm a nice guy and who sometimes think to call me and ask if i want to hang out. 'Cept usually when they don't call, i get paranoid. Like i did something wrong.

Figure it out yet?

Last year i blamed me. Said i wasn't good enough for friends. Needed to fix something about me, make myself more likable. That's not it. Never was. I keep seeing it as them forgetting me. They see it likewise. Oh, he's in a group. They all wear the same shirts and go do things together. He doesn't need us anymore. Funny, really. they never gave me a shirt. Whole group goes out to do something, and i can't wear the shirt. I don't have one.

What are you laughing at?

So yeah. It's hard to say. I can't just call, and say these things. Yeah, please invite me to dinner. Otherwise i'll eat alone, because no one here will ask. Hard to imagine. I try not to. I just go and eat alone. I don't mind it, really. I like to think. Except then i think of myself, and how i'm eating alone again, and how wouldn't it be nice if someone knew, and maybe i'll tell someone one day.

Right.

So i did. Told all. Showed my hand, as it were. I've got a bleeding heart, and i can't stop it, because i've got psychosomatic hemophilia.

As in...mhmm...i told you it was the right word.

Well anyway, the point is that i figured out the problem. And the solution. And they're the same thing.

Wait for it.

We can't fix ourselves. We weren't meant to. You can spend your whole life mulling over the broken parts, the pieces that don't quite fit, the reasons why you're inadequate to love or be loved. And when it comes down to it, the only thing holding you back is yourself. You can love yourself, or you can choose to be so damn fascinated with yourself that you're unwilling to let the test subject leave. That's when you become unlovable.

-

The moment you're comfortable with loving yourself is the moment someone else can start loving you. Until then, you've allowed yourself to be your own idol. So shatter yourself. Break yourself into a million pieces, and then leave it like that, for someone else to pick up. Maybe God. Maybe a lover. Maybe some good friends who you take for granted. Just do what i did.

I let it go.