My toilet keeps making odd noises at random intervals. It's not leaking. I don't know what to make of this, but I'm sure a plumber will. ***waves dollar signs goodbye.***
Let's move on. This image hit me in a way that made me smile like the Cheshire Cat, but also made me a little sad.
I struggled to find a sense of stability after the event that caused my PTSD for many years. Ten years. I would have rather spent those ten years doing almost anything else. Those should have been years where I had freedom. They were stolen from me. I'm more angry than anything else at this point... obviously.
But I digress. Throughout the process of arranging and then rearranging myself, gluing and ungluing, I have learned some important things. First off, "being seen" isn't satisfying for more than a few seconds, much like that stupid Giraffe gum - unless it's a mutual thing. Intimacy. Not "ego stroking". Not "you're brilliant/talented/funny" comments on the internet.
I can't rely on others to fuel me. It's selfish. Childish. Parasitic even.
It doesn't matter what other people think. I could be as boring as a twig. I'm not "better" than anyone else. Nothing I could do, say, or create could change this. I'm a human. An incomplete lifetime made from stardust and love (if were are lucky, and I was). I can't live in someone else's' love of me or an assessment of my personality, work, life.
I want a life, to do good work, experience wonder and change. I don't expect to be consistently "happy" at this point or ever. It's not that I've given up. I've just seen... a mad puppeteer behind the scenes too many times. The worst in other people and myself. Bad outcomes. Strength and hope? Kindness so bright it has doubled me over? Yes, of course. It seems to comes out to 50/50.
In terms of that image... I do not think it would be possible to find someone that wouldn't end up boring me (or vice versa) in 20 years. Or 7. Or 4. Marriage seems ridiculous. I got half of what I wanted - space, freedom, identity, chances, choices... and I do nothing but read and write.
I want to be a successful writer. It feels so unlikely because it IS unlikely. I am isolated. I achieved an identity... congratulations. You are Caitlin Cassidy, and no one bleeds into you. Here's your gold star. It's what you wanted.
You are just unsettled by the silence.
No more third person. What am I supposed to create from silence?
It's not a choice anymore.
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