The Bloodless Battle

This is a dark piece. I've struggled with an unhealthy view of myself, especially in middle school and college. This story attempts to vocalize the thoughts that built a solid neurological pathway within my mind. I feel like I've finally overcome this dark period of my life, but I don't want to forget how I got out of it just in case it happens again. Although my faith is shaky and I often question God's existence, I can't deny that I found comfort by turning to God during these despairing moments of irrationality. 

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What the heck is going on?!

I screamed inside my thoughts. It was just another one of my dramatic monologues crashing through the insides of my brain.

Realistically, you'll never accomplish anything.

A sigh of relief.

It was better to admit it inside my head, rather than wonder if it was true.

You're ugly and wretched.

...I hate myself.

Aerosol Vitriol sprayed my inner thoughts, ripping holes through the delicate edifice of self-respect...but I was wielding the can, I was creating the inner dialog. So goes the epic collision with reason, but Thomas Paine could not save me now.

I was trapped inside my mind.

You're worthless

and heartless

and selfish

and stupid.

I know, I know.

You're pathetic. Stop trying.

...I know, I hate myself.

Heartless, unloved, unloving, you're pathetic and worthless.

Ugly, and remember that time when you failed, and again this other time. You always try, but fail. You think you have potential, but you never succeed.

No, I'm better than this person, and better than this other person. But wait, I guess this person is better than me and this person is better than me. And why are you comparing yourself at all? You're not supposed to compare. You're bad. You only love yourself, you don't care about anyone or anything. You're selfish and lonely. You'll always be alone because no one wants to be with a selfish bitch like you. Stop trying you wretch. You're a disaster. I hate you. Why did I have to be you. You were the worst person I could have been.................................................

"I hate myself."

...surprised, I looked around and then suddenly realized that it was me who had spoken...out loud. My thoughts had suddenly escaped into a verbal declaration. Did anyone hear that? No. I smiled. I'm so weird. Why would I say that out loud?  My eyes closed softly, chin held high. Because I could admit it and still be strong. I could live with my constant failure.

-and then I crumpled into a ball and started sobbing.

A sudden burst of emotion would not seem quite so sporadic if you could hear the thoughts she hears.

My body ached, my head reeled, my heart bled. But at least this time the cognition of black tar was evicted through water droplets falling from my eyes. It was worse when my numbness held it captive. Seconds, minutes, hours, eons. How long have I been crying?

And then my sobs ran out. My tears welled to the brim, then settled.

What just happened? A whispered prayer fell from my lips and I waited for heaven - though the transmission speed is always unpredictable. However, this time God seemed relieved that I had finally asked and His response came quickly. Peace suddenly poured over my dusty wits, revealing a muddy disarray deep inside the caverns of this girl's grasp with self-reality. The prayer did not nothing to comfort, but it did provide clarity and my thoughts were exposed for what they truly were, broken and distorted.

I rolled out of the crumbled ball onto my back, exhausted. I stared at the ceiling and picked out images in the paint's texture.

A cat, a balloon, a house, a backward "S,"

another cat.

enough. Enough. I slowly sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees and I sharply whispered my counter, charged with defiance:

"I am a beautiful daughter of God, loving and capable."

The words were given to me by the graces of an armored angel. I called her mom, though she preferred Nancy.

Self Portrait

A well of deep azure

 Sinking in blue

 …so she floats atop sunbeams to embellish her hue.

Dada

“What does that one look like, georgie?” My dada and I looked through the branches of the big tree that towered over our little basement apartment. Big fluffy clouds hung in the sky forming shapes to awaken even the dullest imagination. I smiled at this new game. We laid on our backs next to each other and my dada pointed out frogs, elephants, and donuts hidden in the cumulous blanket.

 The memory is more like a shadow that quivers in and out of focus. I can’t quite grasp it from the archives of my mind. I don’t think I could even talk yet, but I remember lying there and my eyes didn’t hurt even though we were looking strait up into the sky. Soft white seed balls fell from the tree and piled up around us like warm snow.

 “Dada” was my first word.

Unconscious Philosophers

I’ve met a lot of unconscious philosophers who don’t know they are philosophers; instead they see themselves as spigots of clear truth not noticing that ideas ripple across reflection.

 …our paradigms collide.

 At first they annoy me because…well, philosophers are annoying. They have ideologies that expand and grow, but that growth is ultimately locked within the confine of their limited sphere. They don’t know my experiences; they don’t have my knowledge. How can they assume that they are right?

 But I’m an unconscious philosopher too…and I also live by assumptions. You have to live by assumptions because without assumptions you’d be stuck in bed with Descartes ranting “I think! Therefore I am…unable to get out of bed because the floor might suddenly fall out from under me!” This is the result of a falling-out with assumption.

So we walk across a delicate edifice of assumptions, some call it faith. We walk, hoping to learn something of truth. These annoying philosophers theorize all day long about their cosmos …making predictions and judgments, contradicting themselves every step of the way.

 But I love them for it because, let’s be honest, we’re all walking contradictions muddling through our own experiences and the experiences of others passed down from thousands of years of truth seeking. Some efforts yield a more lasting grasp on ultimate reality than others, but the continuous attempt is almost as important as the discovery.

So here’s to the unconscious philosophers—they who have opinions and don’t know it!