Strength
Strength is a weird thing. By definition, it's solid. In reality, it's ephemeral.
For me, at least.
I've been thinking about my own strength a lot lately. It seems to come and go so quickly. Both physical and mental strength. There are times when I'm a freaking powerhouse, with limitless potential. I can feel the excess energy coursing through my blood, and my muscles can grab on to it and put it to good use.
And then there are times when I'm empty, my blood is a sluggish river with no currents to push it along.
It's infuriating, honestly.
And my mental strength comes and goes just as easily. At times, my brain is firing on all cylinders. I'm CRACKLING with energy and power, and words and deeds flow out of me effortlessly.
And then they don't. The river analogy works too well here. When I'm off, it feels exactly like I'm trying to work my way up and out of a river of molasses. Sluggish and heavy, I pull myself along against the flow, trying to accomplish something, anything. Often unsuccessfully. Just one step is so tiring.
So, when I'm able to do something amazing IN SPITE of that fucking river of molasses, I amaze myself. When I can feel the tug against my mind as my legs force themselves along, when all I want to do is sit still and let it flow around me, that's when bad things happen. That's when fear sets in. Motion is life (I'm like a fucking shark. I don't move, I die.), and when I sit down and give up, I know I won't get back up again. So I keep pulling against the suck, but so slowly. One thought at a time, one leg up and over a day. Until the fear starts to get stronger than the tired. Until the effort required becomes ridiculous, and I start thinking about what it would be like to do this every day for the rest of my life. My terror at living like this becomes stronger than my apathy, and the blood starts to flow a little hotter.
Not really enough to be noticeable. I'm still working way too hard for every movement, every thought. But my skin is starting to heat up just a little. Friction is starting to work for me, just enough that the suck starts to lessen. I clean my house. That's often how it starts. I clean my house. Or I pay a bill that's been sitting at the back of my mind, terrifying me with it's promise of homelessness. I take a shower. I walk into my backyard, and I actually feel the sunlight and enjoy it.
I'm still terrified under the proto-productiveness. I'm still in that river of molasses, still slogging along. But those single steps were easier. They're not every step. They're little stutter moments, when my leg comes up faster, a thought sparks bright.
And normally, it's enough for me to reach shore. I'm rarely actually that far away. I pull my foot that last clinging inch out of the river, and I'm suddenly free. I'm bouncing around like a freaking monkey, SO HAPPY. My thoughts and my body are one, and they are so powerful.
But sometimes I've gone too far out. I know I've gone too far from shore, I've watched myself walk blythely farther and farther into the river, and I've screamed at me to stop. But I didn't stop. And when the energy starts to flow, it's not enough to get me out. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it precipitates major life changes for me. Because when I'm so far out there, when I can't see the shore anymore, and I'm slowly coming back to life but with nowhere to run to, that's when I fly.
I hate flying as a metaphor. It brings to mind images of men in underwear, thrusting their phallic fist into the sky, bending their knees, and taking off into the wild blue yonder. I hate the image of flying as a violation of the sky, which is so often what it's shown as.
No. When I fly, I'm a jet of lava thrust from a pool of magma. All this energy is building up inside me, quietly rumbling, threatening. It's not doing anything productive yet, just building slowly and unstoppably. Even the heat it produces is understated, contained. But it's creating change, under the surface. It's melting rock and undermining foundations. I'm sluggish and bubbling, seemingly content.
And then, suddenly, I'm not. Decisions are made, and EVERYTHING changes. The entire structure of my life is blown away in the force of the explosion, and I emerge somewhere else. Everything that made me who I was is burnt away. Everyone standing near me is gone. And I'm somewhere else.
I don't often actually feel like I have any control over this explosion. I KNOW that I'm the one making the decisions, but it doesn't feel like me. It feels like a subteranean river has me in its grasp, and I'm just along for the ride. I watch in awe as "I" make decisions, take actions, that are completely fucking out there. I watch as "I" server my last ties to the earth so when I'm ejected, I'm free to fly. Just as I watch when "I" walk too far out into the river, so I watch when "I" leave it behind so explosively.
I can't deny it makes me happy. But it also makes me more than a little nervous. This lack of connection to those two parts of me, both the self destructive and the savior, is so unhealthy.
For me, at least.
I've been thinking about my own strength a lot lately. It seems to come and go so quickly. Both physical and mental strength. There are times when I'm a freaking powerhouse, with limitless potential. I can feel the excess energy coursing through my blood, and my muscles can grab on to it and put it to good use.
And then there are times when I'm empty, my blood is a sluggish river with no currents to push it along.
It's infuriating, honestly.
And my mental strength comes and goes just as easily. At times, my brain is firing on all cylinders. I'm CRACKLING with energy and power, and words and deeds flow out of me effortlessly.
And then they don't. The river analogy works too well here. When I'm off, it feels exactly like I'm trying to work my way up and out of a river of molasses. Sluggish and heavy, I pull myself along against the flow, trying to accomplish something, anything. Often unsuccessfully. Just one step is so tiring.
So, when I'm able to do something amazing IN SPITE of that fucking river of molasses, I amaze myself. When I can feel the tug against my mind as my legs force themselves along, when all I want to do is sit still and let it flow around me, that's when bad things happen. That's when fear sets in. Motion is life (I'm like a fucking shark. I don't move, I die.), and when I sit down and give up, I know I won't get back up again. So I keep pulling against the suck, but so slowly. One thought at a time, one leg up and over a day. Until the fear starts to get stronger than the tired. Until the effort required becomes ridiculous, and I start thinking about what it would be like to do this every day for the rest of my life. My terror at living like this becomes stronger than my apathy, and the blood starts to flow a little hotter.
Not really enough to be noticeable. I'm still working way too hard for every movement, every thought. But my skin is starting to heat up just a little. Friction is starting to work for me, just enough that the suck starts to lessen. I clean my house. That's often how it starts. I clean my house. Or I pay a bill that's been sitting at the back of my mind, terrifying me with it's promise of homelessness. I take a shower. I walk into my backyard, and I actually feel the sunlight and enjoy it.
I'm still terrified under the proto-productiveness. I'm still in that river of molasses, still slogging along. But those single steps were easier. They're not every step. They're little stutter moments, when my leg comes up faster, a thought sparks bright.
And normally, it's enough for me to reach shore. I'm rarely actually that far away. I pull my foot that last clinging inch out of the river, and I'm suddenly free. I'm bouncing around like a freaking monkey, SO HAPPY. My thoughts and my body are one, and they are so powerful.
But sometimes I've gone too far out. I know I've gone too far from shore, I've watched myself walk blythely farther and farther into the river, and I've screamed at me to stop. But I didn't stop. And when the energy starts to flow, it's not enough to get me out. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it precipitates major life changes for me. Because when I'm so far out there, when I can't see the shore anymore, and I'm slowly coming back to life but with nowhere to run to, that's when I fly.
I hate flying as a metaphor. It brings to mind images of men in underwear, thrusting their phallic fist into the sky, bending their knees, and taking off into the wild blue yonder. I hate the image of flying as a violation of the sky, which is so often what it's shown as.
No. When I fly, I'm a jet of lava thrust from a pool of magma. All this energy is building up inside me, quietly rumbling, threatening. It's not doing anything productive yet, just building slowly and unstoppably. Even the heat it produces is understated, contained. But it's creating change, under the surface. It's melting rock and undermining foundations. I'm sluggish and bubbling, seemingly content.
And then, suddenly, I'm not. Decisions are made, and EVERYTHING changes. The entire structure of my life is blown away in the force of the explosion, and I emerge somewhere else. Everything that made me who I was is burnt away. Everyone standing near me is gone. And I'm somewhere else.
I don't often actually feel like I have any control over this explosion. I KNOW that I'm the one making the decisions, but it doesn't feel like me. It feels like a subteranean river has me in its grasp, and I'm just along for the ride. I watch in awe as "I" make decisions, take actions, that are completely fucking out there. I watch as "I" server my last ties to the earth so when I'm ejected, I'm free to fly. Just as I watch when "I" walk too far out into the river, so I watch when "I" leave it behind so explosively.
I can't deny it makes me happy. But it also makes me more than a little nervous. This lack of connection to those two parts of me, both the self destructive and the savior, is so unhealthy.
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