I have wanted knowledge and discovery to substantiate myself. People became important as a means to affirm my process. To help myself I thought I was on another adventure. Experiences given my tenacious energy became a habit in educating myself through life. Still I had an ignorance of the implications I created. This was a practice of incidental and formal knowledge while being passionate whenever I could. I sped forward devouring whatever crossed my path, whomever crossed my path. If you were important and had a title or fame I envied, excitement followed. Perhaps you were the image of the father I never had, someone to potentially take care of me. The hungry child lived within my books, journals in self exploration.
I moved from the world of others' excitement, shifting memories to living my life as it is. Vivacity has become a daily exercise in peacemaking with my aversion to change in feeling abandonment. I was questioning why I must do anything differently. Is this my aging wisdom, grace or battle. Control and healing has been found in my story making, where it seems to be slipping into memories and writing to accept what is happening to me. Confrontation with my truth waits for the listener, the reader or voice of opposition for my learning.
I need my stories as if they were my drug of choice. I won’t stop my inquisitions until I have understood how to make peace with a story. Whatever is occurring within my life becomes a new chapter. I was my own show entertaining everyone when possible. I would take custody with whomever was listening when I didn’t have any perceptions of what was happening. Creating fun through conflict for misperceived feelings. This was my default performance, or just dissociating. My evasive, distracting, activities found understanding to block my pain, hiding my real feelings? Becoming cute and funny or just giving up.
I wanted to look good and understand what I did even though it was with great trepidation of thought and feelings. I fined courageousness in my exterior. Really not understanding what perceptions I created. Often I would over think, when I did think, leading me to being paralyzed within my deliberations. If I couldn’t find an explanation, if something felt missing; my inner war began. Then I slipped into the external world of expression. I looked for any accountings’’ to comfort myself until my stories ceased. Never did I realize as I began story telling for fun there would be healing occurring, healing in my past wounds, even in conflict. I healed. My amusing manner wasn’t always welcomed. I now know I could perhaps have arrogances in recognizing this new truth. I had to accept waiting while my process continued in its discomfort. I began learning there are no quick fixes in life.
Life became my art form and attitudes from my past kept changing and each with vivid responses, stories. In all my discomfort I kept pushing and pulling with my illusions of control or comfort. I would get lost in my chronicles, these dances in thoughts flowed only in poetry. I was carrying the legacy of the work it took to form the written word and thought and to become the writer I want to be. I no longer could be the cute old lady when I wanted another image. How will I do this, well I have begun.hav
