This Morning’s Commentary
On Last Night’s Rant
Note: This morning’s words are in bold italic.
Grrrrr. Yesterday was a fun, healthy, normal day. Why can I not provide a more thoughtful reflection of THAT time at THIS time? Because……that’s why! Why so childish? I don’t know how much was affected by dominant inner child or by perplexed grown woman. I really hate to think I would have injured inner child at this stage of my emotional progress; surely inner child would have been able –although perhaps she did finally find a way to express herself by the end of the post.
I want to talk about what is “healthy” for an individual compared to what we may think of as “normal.”
Speculating about my childish behavior is a waste of time, isn’t it. Unfortunately, I’m not feeling much better yet. I’m working through it as I write; at least, I hope that’s what’s happening.
Unhealthy feelings of insecurity within oneself and inferiority within society, we probably share in common as human beings; yet during personal bouts of such emotions, we can hardly be convinced that we are “normal, ” probably owing to the sense of isolation inherent in feeling insecure and inferior. Normal can, after all, be thought of as a condition of maximum affiliation with the wide range of possibilities, aka “the norm”. ///// Within society, we “normally” establish causes to celebrate life with one another… I’m reminded of Bible passages about loving our enemies. The following links to an interesting Wikipedia article about a particular passage from the Sermon on the Mount…. (The issue of celebrating diversity is way beyond the scope of this project. I may write more about that in my next project which will take up “fun”—the subject I had to drop from the current project. And when I do, I want to consider the word “enemy” as well.)
Note: I will probably write SOME THING in a new post to express my joy of the earlier “fun, healthy,” etc. day when I get to feeling better.
Yeah, and maybe I am spineless, masochist, hedonist….and maybe something is torturing my conscence, something that should never have been evil, yet is; for the vast majority of us, something that brings up the crime from which none of us could ever reform……the original sin………..
Where do insults leave off and psychiatric terms begin? I don’t want to discuss such things with the detachment of an academic; however, what concerns me is how a person can feel genuinely well while also working through the private challenges of experiencing the legacy of mankind.
I don’t honestly believe that I have the right to judge what should or should not have ever been “evil”. I’ll just go ahead and describe myself as “hysterical,” but that’s quite all right. I would rather be an hysterical woman than a repressed one. Expression of energy has to take place. I’d rather wear it on this page, if I must, than on my face. Yet, I did not succeed in drawing out meaning from the experience–that’s the trouble with hysteria.
The truth is, I wasn’t guilty at all. I was frustrated and sad. I wanted to be happy. But in order to feel happy, there has to be a path from my outer experience to the nugget of soul that defines who I am. Otherwise, “I’m fakin’ it; I’m not really makin’ it (Simon and Garfunkle song).” Speaking of that song, here’s a link to a pretty awesome live performance of it.
I may be a little schizophrenic. Thank you for your patience.
Now, here’s link to a Jim Croce song. Yesterday, by chance, I came across Ingrid Croce’s biography of Jim at Books-a-Million. May Jim Croce cheer all of us up by and by. This is “A Good Time Man Like Me Ain’t Got No Business Singin’ the Blues.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQyw7CO_f84
I am NOT inspired. That was yesterday–but still true. And I still can’t talk about it, because all I want to do is talk about it. Not with insight. Not even with the genuine intent to work through my problem.
A moment ago, I spoke on the phone with my tormentor, my angel. Just now, I’m convinced I’ll ruin the rest of my day crying over the fact that I can’t be sure I’m loved.
I’m not proud of being a bruised heart–and bold! I believe myself to be innocent– and this is the woman speaking, not inner child. There is a word that I hope people who know me do not believe applies to me; it’s an awful word–in my opinion. The word is “histrionic”. I mention it because I just don’t think emotions get the respect they deserve.
Text below is taken from Act IV, Scene 1 of “Romeo and Juliet.”
Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I’ll help it presently. 2420
God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo seal’d,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both: 2425
Therefore, out of thy long-experienced time,
Give me some present counsel, or, behold,
‘Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the umpire, arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art 2430
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak; I long to die,
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.
The thought of either of those words brings up unpleasant associations. Tranquilizers and the aftermath of bloody battle.
I confess to being something which—Thank the Higher Power–has lost meaning (at least in academia) . I’m “neurotic”. (Wikipedia has a good article on that word.) I do not mean to minimize my risk of poor health due to stress, nor the concern, mixed with some relief (at my progress) of people who care about me. I can’t help but use the word “neurotic.”
Neurotic reminds me of my Dad’s description of his mom’s personality. But, now I’m gonna stop before I stupidly feign to analyze my sweet grandmother whom I hardly knew. Thing is, though–Dad said she suffered from “neuralgia”, a word I’ve always thought had similar connotations to neurotic. Neuralgia generally meant chronic pain. “Algia” means pain. “Neuro” means nerve. My grandmother suffered from unexplained neurological disturbances–which caused her pain.
——It should be noted: Such symptoms, whatever they were, are understandable in the year 2013, though not to her benefit.
I hope my grandmother always felt the comforting hand of compassion in her life. It is my understanding that she did. In fact, had she not, I do believe that my father would have held a grudge—-although as long as I knew him, I personally knew of two grudges in his life, and one of them he had most likely forgiven by the time of his death. Curiously, the possibly forgiven one died of a heart attack quite soon after my father’s demise. The other grudge was almost certainly faked on my father’s part. (The recipient of that attempted grudge of Dad’s disrespected Daddy as being an ornery old man. The circumstances involved Real Property and actual trespass upon Dad’s property, as well as the quiet and sanctity of Dad’s home. But Daddy loved this person. Love can’t hold a grudge. The man remains ignorant of his deep injury to my father, and fares well.) My father was the embodiment of forgiveness.
If reading “embodiment of forgiveness,” you now think of Jesus, I understand. In fact, I hope you do. My dad deserves the comparison as much as anyone who bears the mark of “Holy Spirit” imbued by forgiveness in suffering.
But, I also hope you have an idea of how well I knew my Dad. That’s all. I knew my Dad; and that’s a good thing. It’s good when life’s challenges bring you closer to the true heart of another.