Found Guilty

Does anyone else have a really difficult time getting back into the groove of “normal” life after tragedies happen? Tragedies, even those that don’t even have anything to do with me, make me buckle at the knees. I feel tremendous guilt over being happy, and the things I love doing and playing with (skin care, jewelry, artwork, etc.) seem so stupid and petty. How do I talk about coffee scented soap and dangly earrings when there is so much suffering going on?!? And we’ve had so many terrible tragedies in the world, and in our nation, one after the next after the next.

It’s unreal how much pain one person can inflict, and upon so many. And how awful people can be to each other. I’m as guilty of looking down on my neighbor as anyone I’d criticize. I don’t leave the house, for fear of running into people I know. I just don’t have the energy, even on a good day. Granted, I have some mental health challenges, but still… Should it be SO hard to go to the grocery store?

I just wish I knew the answer. How to fix things, how to make everything better. For me and for everyone. I can’t get through an evening without getting irritated at the people I love. So how can I hope for the world to be kinder?

What I do know, amidst a sea of things I don’t understand, is that I have to seek solace. I desperately need comfort. I am weak. Strong in some things, yes, but not in all. What comforts me may not comfort others. That is ok. Different things work for different people, and different things work better at some times than during others.

I need my soaps, my books, my church magazines and talks. I need to send out pretty earrings to people I know will treasure them. I need to lie on the couch while my husband paints my toenails. I need to watch silly Chihuahua videos with my daughter.

I need to figure out how to ‘live happy’, without always feeling like my joy, rare though it be, must be justified. I still haven’t figured out the trick yet, though. But there’s got to be a book for that, right??

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An Intro to Melancholia

My life on the high desert. It’s been nearly three years, and I’ve not yet fully acclimated. I’d consider the ocean to be my natural habitat, but this high desert home is dry and acidic. It has its own strange beauty (the deer and the antelope know), and at times it sweeps me away with its vast emptiness and grand, violet-blue sky. But the openness of it is discomforting, disquieting.

There is a book I read in college, Giants in the Earth, about an immigrant woman from Norway, who is led by her husband to the prairies of South Dakota. The vastness overcomes her, and she climbs into her steamer trunk to escape the desolation, to hide from the emptiness, to cocoon.

Sometimes think I’ll climb into my closet, curl up in a back corner in my smallest kitty-cat self, and try to relearn how to breathe.

Instead, though, I play with mineral pigments and soaps, a buy sparkly costume jewelry. I reorganize my writing desk and bookshelves. I watch documentaries and ridiculously embarrassing historical dramas. Anything with jewelry and extravagant fashion.

I like pretty things.

I have blogged for a number of years. So many evolutions have occurred, so many life changes. Reading back makes me tired. I love blogging. There is something so satisfying about writing out the heart, knowing that someone unknown may read it, and possibly relate. And there is something about public writing that holds one accountable, even if the writing is anonymously written, and anonymously read.

This blog is more a journal than anything. I am not here to teach, to advise or inspire. I am not in any position to guide anyone else, although there can be lessons learned from the mistakes I’ve so often made.

Primarily, I am writing here in order to keep my sense of self solid, to hear bones rattling in an empty  house. The high desert sometimes suffocates, and this might be a place I come to breathe.

 

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