venustar

I had a dream last night, in that I was doing something that I’ve always wanted to do. It was in this dream that I had an epiphany. Happiness comes from actually DOING something, rather than merely dreaming about it. How about that? What’s more…attempting to accomplish that thing that seems so monumental really puts the mountain in perspective…and so it becomes less of a monstrosity, and more of an anthill. It is within the attempt that the fear begins to dissipate and you realize that it is fear that makes it seem so huge in the first place.

This epiphany, however insignificant it may be, really speaks a lot of truths about me and the way that I handle my life; even though I don’t always like to admit that. I mean, how do you acknowledge fear when you aren’t sure what you are afraid OF? To simply apply the label to a current obsession doesn’t seem quite fair, as fear is something entirely different from fixation. Fear prohibits growth, while fixation grows out of control.

Now, I can look at myself and say with relative certainty that I am an obsessive type of person. I latch on to things…to people, objects, thoughts and ideas…and allow them to steer me in whatever direction seems most appealing at the time. I do not see the forest for the trees in this way, as the forest is obscured by the eye-catching shrubbery that is my current obsession. So, I dedicate myself to the short-range greenery, all the while knowing that there is something way more grandiose beyond it…grandiose, yet filled with shadows of doubt and fear.

And maybe that is how I deal with it. Maybe I welcome the obsessions in order to stave off the impending fears. So if I can admit to that, does it make it any easier to change? Does admittance bequeath motivation?

Somehow, I do not think so. Somehow, I have this feeling that I need to find a way to latch on to the fear itself, and use it as a launching pad to accomplishment. After all, there’s no guarantee that a sky diver’s parachute will open, yet multitudes of them jump from the plane anyway. What makes me so different? If I am smart enough to admit to having faults, I might as well secure my beliefs about them and utilize what they can offer, lest they become wasted thoughts from a wistful mind.

I wouldn’t want my thoughts to go to waste.

It’s just a thing. Like having freckles or an extra toe, it’s JUST a diagnosis. I am no worse off than the next schmuck, and I refuse to lose myself to it.

I won’t.

My children need me. So does my husband…and if it means being med-compliant and paying attention to my sleep hygiene, then so be it. Life is worth living, even if my darkest thoughts tell me that it isn’t.

They are THOUGHTS. Nothing more. The dark tendrils of the disease that reach up and suck you down into this blackened sea of angst.

When the world is in ruin, the strong continue on while the weak are held immobile. Where the weak watch and wonder at the events that are to unfold, the strong set the wheels in motion, essentially creating the future. It is in these dark moments, when the air is thick with fear and the moon bathes the landscape in mystery, in which a person finds out who they really are, and whether or not they can trust themselves long enough to persevere.

There are two options; to rise above the shadows, or fade away within them. We have to choose. We have to decide. We have to act, lest we lose ourselves within the darkness that surrounds us.

How do you choose though? Is it instinct, desire; that drives us? Is it the unwillingness to suffer or the need to prove to ourselves that we can rise above? Are the words that we tell ourselves, the guidelines that help decide what we can accomplish and when it is time to give up? Maybe it is different for everybody. Maybe it is dependent upon the strength and drive of the individual. Or maybe we are all puppets, pulled along a string of destiny that we cannot control.

It is difficult for some to ascertain between viable instinct and phantasmal idiosyncrasy. The way one views the world as an individual does not translate the same to the next person. Reality becomes skewed, like a giant game of Telephone, where truths evolve into ridiculous interpretation. Words and meanings are, all too often, tossed around and rearranged to suit the interpreter’s point of view.

And then there are those who just mess up the game, in order to witness the humorous end-result. Is that gratifying, I wonder? Who is happier; the person trying to get the message across, or the anarchic pyromaniac who sets fire to the telephone line? And in the moment of truth, who rises above the darkness to claim the responsibility for the miscommunication?

Does claiming that responsibility absolve one of the crime?

And what about those that create anarchy for themselves? The self-destructors? Maybe THEY are the ones who are truly happy, as THEY are the ones wielding the control.

So then that begs the question…does happiness come from self-disparaging control over one’s life, or is it created within sweet, blissful ignorance? I am speaking of TRUE happiness, of course…whatever that may be.

I do not think that, in the end, the absolute end; where actuality is separated from dreams, that it matters how happiness is obtained. I think, roundabout or direct route, knowing that you’ve reached that point in your life when you can look back and say, “yeah, I’m happy…truly happy”, you’ve discovered the great “Meaning of Life” right there. So, following that thought…I suppose the true struggle is in the choices you make to get there.

It is the stories that you can look back on and tell.

It is the memories that you create.

It is the relationships that you form, and the degrees in which you are able to allow yourself to trust.

There’s so much that I want to say about this, but right now is not the time. To put it simply, I want to write. I want to give the gift of beauty to the world. I want to reignite the passion that I used to have for the written word, and I want to do it in a way that will make my children proud of me.