This is the first time I’m doing this–writing without thinking. Sometimes I have thoughts and words buzzing in my head, that i can’t seem to communicate. Feels like some disability of sort, epilepsy of the mind perhaps? Which someone was kind enough to term ‘writers block’. And other times when I manage to get something coherent out, I feel stupid afterwards.
You think maybe that’s some complex? I don’t feel inferior to anybody, intellectually intimidatedto a few I guess, but never inferior. So what do we call this?
Life is hard. Love is hard. Family can be difficult. And rambling is hard too–which is what I’m doing. My new friend, Archeopetryx says sometimes a rant is good, “it clears the cobweb of the mind”. I guess that makes it as good as seeing a shrink then.
Consider this an act of removing the cobwebs of my mind then. I’m going on a rantpage.
I’m 24, I’ll be 40 soon. I’ve felt like I’m carrying a chip on my shoulder for weeks now–which isn’t abnormal for me except that it’s affecting my regular life currently.
Let’s take inventory:
*Countless blogging topics; no update since the 19th of May–I’ve been counting.
*Movies to watch and great friends to hang out with; no urge to leave the little confinement that I’ve created for me.
*Falling in what I’d probably call love without the faintest idea what I’m doing.
*Listening to sappy songs that make me want to bawl like a baby–Styx’s Show Me The Way now playing.
*Wanting so bad to run away for a year. Bad idea I know.
*And since 10minutes ago, wanting to dance the Samba–thank you Rio.
It isn’t exhaustive, but I’ll stop here before I begin to sound like a drone.
This brings us to the root of my dilemma: Repression. I’d attempt to define the word more elaborately, but let’s stop at ‘control’. I’m such a control freak–with my life alone.
Some handbag psychology article I read sometime ago said women are designed to make room for their problems–hence the bags, while men compartmentalize–hence wallets. Problem is I love wallets. Handbags are so bulky! So I carry wallets in my hand–and head.
How possible is it that someone messed up the design that is me?
Creating compartments is the first stage of repression. I mean all that weight has got to go somewhere they don’t get to affect everything else, right? So I pick, weigh the implication of a slight digression from the grand plan, decide if it’s worth handling now, and if it’s not, file and push into a mental cabinet to be retrieved some other time. Neat and tidy.
So what happens when the compartment is full?
I think most men have wallets that are falling apart. Begs the questions: Aren’t wallets sold in the stores? If they are, is there some bro code that mandates one to use a wallet for 50years less 1, or do you make a “forever and always” pact with it?
Wallets fall apart when so much is jammed into it, and whatever pressure that’s kept it together–say the hook–is lost. A lot of mental energy is needed to repress thoughts and emotions, so I guess when you divert that energy to something else at once–say a crash course…..boom. In essence, the pressure that holds everything in place crumbles and our emotions come tumbling out.
That’s where I am. My list + has been poking out from various spots demanding attention at the same time, and I fear I may end up like crazy pants Amara (Vampire Diaries).
Or maybe I won’t.
How does one handle a spilling wallet of unprocessed thoughts and emotions without falling apart?
Show me the way