“Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he who finds himself, loses his misery.” —Matthew Arnold
So as the days draw closer to my birthday, I’ve found myself in a rather nonchalant mood. My inner peace had become estranged by the subtle background noise that has claimed pieces of my easy-going temperament. To put it bluntly, I’ve just about reached my limits of dysfunctional joint connections!
When my body engages in “stressors,” either of two things happen: I eat or shut down. Recently, I’ve become too familiar with both. My sour disposition has been the direct result of failed rescue attempts and unsuccessful interventions. I’ve continually overextended myself, leaving very little behind for my disposal. I’ve managed to abandon my goals to make myself available for others— those that have already decided that they don’t want my help because they haven’t even acknowledged that they needed it. In turn, my “perceived failure” forced me to realize that I’m trying way too hard! I’ve unsuccessfully tried to climb mountains to “rescue” people that kept moving further up rocky terrain, away from my clutches.
The repeated cycles of exhaustion have triggered physical warnings to my body via frequent migraines that it’s time to quit!
I undoubtedly removed the dressings from my wounds to bandage others. Others, who have freely decided, that they would rather hold tight to their afflictions. I’ve subconsciously mastered becoming the martyr at my own expense.
I entertained demons that were not my own.
I carried burdens that weighed me down.
I tried to save people that were committed to drowning by their own bloodshed.
In desperation, I lashed out in a self-sabotaging, familiar ritual by cutting the roots of everything that’s grown within my immediate vicinity. In fact, I shaved my head in an act of public submission to live out my bitter grievances. My body often serves as the “blank canvas” in which I openly express my raging emotions—good or bad.
This “epic failure” was way too overwhelming for my dedicated nature to silently contain and
my loyalty forced me to stay confined longer than I ever intended. My energy unraveled from the seams of restlessness coupled with an anxiety tonic.
My burst of anger showed up as eloquent rage! A walking, bold, controversial statement screaming curse words (that I couldn’t allow to escape my mouth), accompanied by a glaring look that snapped, because it’s mine and I can cut it, weave it, or do whatever I like, unapologetically (whenever people questioned my free will).
Eloquent or displaced?
Only God knows the “creative root” of this eccentricity.
Remember: Don’t judge public actions without examining the private reasoning.
So as the days draw closer to my birthday, I’ve found myself in a rather nonchalant mood. My inner peace had become estranged by the subtle background noise that has claimed pieces of my easy-going temperament. To put it bluntly, I’ve just about reached my limits of dysfunctional joint connections!
When my body engages in “stressors,” either of two things happen: I eat or shut down. Recently, I’ve become too familiar with both. My sour disposition has been the direct result of failed rescue attempts and unsuccessful interventions. I’ve continually overextended myself, leaving very little behind for my disposal. I’ve managed to abandon my goals to make myself available for others— those that have already decided that they don’t want my help because they haven’t even acknowledged that they needed it. In turn, my “perceived failure” forced me to realize that I’m trying way too hard! I’ve unsuccessfully tried to climb mountains to “rescue” people that kept moving further up rocky terrain, away from my clutches.
The repeated cycles of exhaustion have triggered physical warnings to my body via frequent migraines that it’s time to quit!
I undoubtedly removed the dressings from my wounds to bandage others. Others, who have freely decided, that they would rather hold tight to their afflictions. I’ve subconsciously mastered becoming the martyr at my own expense.
I entertained demons that were not my own.
I carried burdens that weighed me down.
I tried to save people that were committed to drowning by their own bloodshed.
In desperation, I lashed out in a self-sabotaging, familiar ritual by cutting the roots of everything that’s grown within my immediate vicinity. In fact, I shaved my head in an act of public submission to live out my bitter grievances. My body often serves as the “blank canvas” in which I openly express my raging emotions—good or bad.
This “epic failure” was way too overwhelming for my dedicated nature to silently contain and
my loyalty forced me to stay confined longer than I ever intended. My energy unraveled from the seams of restlessness coupled with an anxiety tonic.
My burst of anger showed up as eloquent rage! A walking, bold, controversial statement screaming curse words (that I couldn’t allow to escape my mouth), accompanied by a glaring look that snapped, because it’s mine and I can cut it, weave it, or do whatever I like, unapologetically (whenever people questioned my free will).
Eloquent or displaced?
Only God knows the “creative root” of this eccentricity.
Remember: Don’t judge public actions without examining the private reasoning.
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