I pretend to live my formlessness. I imagine the Jeff-persona and all its physical trappings to be tossed aside. As certain as I am, the world does not join me. People still see me - or at least leftover evidence of me. They are things I cannot control: the memories they have that tell them I exist or the aural clues I leave behind - a corporeal sneeze or the blowing of the bedroom fan. All signs that traces of a person still exist.
For two years I lived this way; not going anywhere, seeing visitors, speaking with friends, or attending family gatherings. It was a paranoid sadness. At my core, I was just tired, embarrassed, and terribly suspicious of myself. I believed in my unworthiness with such fervor that I knew everyone else must see it, too. It was so clear that strangers and loved ones alike were sure to see me as a joke and know me to be wicked. It was enough to make me give up for a time.
Why is it I'm living this way again?
How did this happen?
It was not long ago I felt extraordinary momentum, pushing me out in to the world to challenge my self-concepts. It was not long ago that I felt driven to live as I had never lived before.
Has the weight that I've gained altered my self-esteem?
Yes, but is it reason enough to vanish?
I've gained and lost large amounts of weight before.
What goes up must come down.
It has no power to keep me shackled.
Driving on a night not long ago, I missed seeing the curve in a road and I hit the curb of a median, damaging the car, a streak of black along the car, another flat tire under my belt. I gave Grams my set of car keys back and told her I'd not drive her car again - and I won't. I don't have the money for repairs nor do I have the heart to put my uncle and grandmother through the inconvenience of my messes. I'll drive again at some future time - but in my own car and in the light of day. Do I feel a little less free without wheels? Yes, but car(e)lessness does not a ghost make.
General frustration at my lot in life?
The tried and tired comparison to others?
It cannot be; my situation is firmly under my control.
I understand people see isolation as maladaptive.
It's a fear-based coping mechanism. Yes. Maybe so.
My mother, the look she has, when she sees what I am doing.
It's almost enough to make me think I'm wrong.
There is a difference, though, between now and those two years:
Hope is present. Love is here, acknowledged. My power is not denied.
I am connected to the Divine in a way I was not before.
This is not a disaster.
It's simply...a way.
The personality-self is a tattered, long-suffering rag.
Special and capable of greatness, provider of warmth.
I peel it off and toss it to the floor, kick it to the corner of the closet.
I don't want warmth.
For now, I'm wearing
- and living as -