backtobasics

I poured some scented oil on a carpet and thought of a million reasons why it meant something or could have meant something.

I was a sensitive kid and growing up it was all about convincing myself of this unique path, of this journey away from banality, of this lack of necessity to be average, and acceptable and above the water, floating. This idea kept me sane, driven and often made me happy. I thought I was different. Not better but different. That was enough.

Everything was a chaos at home and for some bizarre reason I was convinced that I was the answer to all the puzzles and also the one to blame, if things got worse.

I do not know where this self centered narrative about the world came about, but it was definitely a survival plan for a five year old girl, when her mum was depressed for years and suicidal on a few occasions right in front of her own eyes.

My Dad was present, on paper, but never there emotionally to pick up the pieces he had shattered himself. Whether knowingly or not, we perhaps won’t find out. Him and I do not talk in that way. We never did .

I am not here for the trauma therapy via writing, but more to figure out how to be kinder to others and start being less convincing that I am in control of all happening and lack of such around me, that my mere humanity and faultiness is going to cause these catastrophe around.

Every night before putting my toddler to bed, I pray that he does not answer for , and suffer the consequences of my own mistakes and faults and sins and all the things that I fail at and all the chances that I miss.

Every night before going to bed, I indulge in my own humanity by doing the most expected things of all, washing my face, putting a night mask on perhaps, brushing my hair and cleaning my teeth and mouth.

Then I pick up my phone, lie down in brushed linen bedding in my Brooklyn condo and look at the Manhattan skyline in the night feeling lonely and defeated yet ready to rest. Mostly, from being myself. Often I get at myself for lacking the gratitude to feel better.

there is a light somewhere. It may not be much light but it beats the darkness. Be on the watch. The gods will offer you chances. Know them. Take them. You can’t beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes. And the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be. Your life is your life. Know it while you have it.

Charles Bukowski

Tonight, I can smell the Phlur beach body scent that has sunken into my pores and made whole with my own molecules. It is bringing back emotions from the past. My feet touching the sand, laughter, running into the water and catching the sun through my mouth, eyes, hair and shoulders. Right then it seemed the world was waiting for me to transform into this brand new being, free from misery, suffering, sabotage and fear.

I hugged the pillow, heard the breathing of my spouse next to me and felt more banal and unhappier than I have ever felt, even when I was a child, even when everything was falling apart.

Once I read that when Bukowski stopped screaming, his father would stop beating him, and it stayed with me. Reacting to pain is a consolation, a rare isle of hope at times, a place where you drop all exhaustion and know what to expect. What if you stopped reacting completely, would the pain retreat?

This act of ultimate inner autonomy was where I would expect to eventually get to , a muscle I would like to train. But today I am too tired, and I am still screaming, in complete silence of a sweet, breezy Brooklyn night.