I know my last post, Resolutions and Solutions and How I Broke my Friggin’ Head, ended without resolution.
If you missed the first part, you can read it here -
I’d like to say that was kind of the point of it all for people to stop looking for external resolutions to things to provide themselves with a sense of purpose, but in all actuality, I was tired and my head hurt, because I broke it, just like the title of the post claims, duh. Part of the symptoms of cracking my skull is difficulty focusing, concentrating, staying on one subject, forgetting what the heck was already written, forgetting what the heck was intended to be written, and forgetting what the whole friggin’ point of the entire blog was meant to accomplish. – Oh, wait, that’s all symptoms I had before I broke my head. Hmmm.
I imagine all of you thought it was probably click bait anyway, because not once in that most recent blog did I even mention how I broke my head. I mentioned that Chyna, the female wrestler, was my rolemodel in my teen years, and we’d have real live wrestling sessions with tacs, chairs, ladders, and whatever other random objects we could find to fight our opponent with, before we realized that the majority of that stuff was staged, and they don’t actually slam chairs overtop of people’s heads as hard as they possibly can. In real life, you get knocked unconscious and swallow a couple teeth. I mentioned that my wresting name was Miss Triple Knipple. (No, I don’t have three of them – Inside story, people. Gutter. Head. Out.) I mentioned that there are items of clothing that wrestlers just simply don’t wear in order to avoid further injury – Oh, wait, I didn’t mention any of those things.
Okay, here’s the thing. I can’t actually tell you how I physically broke my head, because I don’t remember. Not an iota of a clue. Nothing. Nada. I just woke up 8 or 9 hours later, said ‘Ow’ in a much more profane way, turned my head, and then spent the next 23 hours yacking in a puke bucket. (Ha ha, I just looked up the definition for yacking, and it’s to talk at length about trivial or boring subjects if you’re looking in the non-urban dictionary. Point taken. Moving on)
Mentally, on the other hand, my head has been broken for quite some time, so for a good year or year-and-a-half, I have been mentally wracking my brain to try to come up with a fix, a solution. The more resolutions I made, the more broken I seemed. The more conditions I set forth, the more robotic I felt. The more I searched for meaning and purpose, the more I came up empty. Over time, gradually, bit by bit, everything I once enjoyed no longer felt satisfying. I stopped writing poems and lyrics to songs. I stopped singing at the top of my lungs and shattering lightbulbs. (That really happened – one of my proudest moments in life following watching Shrek and watching her voice make a bird explode). I stopped playing piano. Stopped listening to music. Stopped dancing. Stopped reading books, and ultimately, stopped writing. I even stopped jumping on the bed!
At first, I thought it was because I was finally growing up. I never wanted to grow up, because I’ve always seen adults and their lives as miserable and unhappy, but once I hit 33 or 34 – hold on, how old am I? WHAT?! 30-FRIGGIN’-6?! When the heck did that happen? Meh-heh-heh. You want to know when I realized that there’s an age-limit for miracles? It’s when I asked that my kids get older, but I stay the same age. And It Never Came True!
Anyway, once I hit 33 or 34, people stopped forgiving my behaviors based on my being young and stupid. People would say, “Grow up,” and I’d respond with, “I can’t grow up, 5 foot is my limit.” Or they’d say, “You need to start taking responsibility for your own actions”, and I’d quip, “You need to take responsibility for your Face, cuz it’s killing people. Bahaha.” “You’re a mother. You need to start behaving like one.” And I’d look around, and be like, “Crap, I thought they were just mini stalkers that followed me around everywhere. Where did I last leave those little buggers?” And I’d wait for them to laugh, but they’d just snarl at me and walk away instead.
Little did I know, I was being conditioned. We’re conditioned to seek people’s approval and praise right from the getgo. In our teens, when we want to be shown respect, we’re conditioned to having to earn that respect. As an adult, that respect comes in the conditioned form of accomplishments, and, ultimately, successes. We’re all categorized and stereotyped -not in colors, or race, or ethnicity, or size, or sexual orientation in the 21st century – but by our titles, our possessions, our financial status, how well-behaved our kids are, how well we carry ourselves and hold ourselves together and follow societal norms and social etiquette. All of this does is take us further and further away from who we REALLY are.
Our person isn’t just a dad or a mom or a worker or a spouse or any number of titles that we call people or that we ourselves are called, or that even we call ourselves. “So, who are you?” “Well, I’m a Mom.” “Holy crap, you were born a Mom?” These titles wind up defining us and they become the way we start defining ourselves. And that is why instead of embracing the aging process, we’re terrified of it, because with age comes change. Whether you’re the toddler that once pooped in his diapers now having to be the ‘big boy’ that goes on the potty. The highschooler whose bills are being cared for while being pressured into the adult life of coming up with a career so as to pay their own bills. The young adult facing adult disappointments they didn’t tell you about in highschool. Or the middle-aged adult stuck between wanting to stay young while being pressured to grow up. With each age, the titles we use to define ourselves change as well. We start asking, “Who am I going to be? Who do I want to be?”
Dude, you can change your job, change your clothes, change your hair, but that soul inside you is the same one you were born with. Even when your body dies, your soul lives on. Every soul unique, like a fingerprint. You made your mark on the world the moment you were born. Special, in your own way, and unlike any other, and it’s the most natural thing about you. Looking outward won’t give you answers. Being more like this person or that person will only lead you further away from what’s inside you, what’s truly yours and only yours, a possession none other can have.
Don’t let society, other people define you as a title that’s used for others’ purposes. Don’t continue to be conditioned to thinking that you have to prove your worth and your reason for existing. We were never meant to be programmed robots that just do as we’re told without independent thought or feeling.
Find who you truly are and embrace you, and if other people have a problem with it – such as those who want to keep you in a box, doing, saying, and acting the way they want you to – they can suck it, because they’re just using you as a means to defining themselves, because they’ve forgotten who they are, and go about the world like Pavlov’s conditioned dogs.
Put away that stimuli. Shut down your phone that gets you grabbing it as soon as you hear the ding. Shut down the TV that surrounds you with lights and colors and noise and sound and keeps you from hearing yourself think. Take time where you’re not surrounded by people, coworkers, family, kids that enforce that you live and do as your title expects. Take a walk away from chaos and enjoy some solitude. Sit in a dark room and pick your nose, for all I care. It doesn’t matter how you do it or what you do during that time of soul-searching. Just friggin’ do it. Strip away the inhibitions, the guards, the walls, the filters. Get naked. Open your mind, free your heart, and listen to your soul speak, because your soul knows exactly who you are and who you have always been. It knows what truly matters to you. It holds your happiness. Your joy. Your sense of peace. It maintains your innocence. Untainted, unstained, uncorrupt. The same way you were when you came into the world, untouched and unchanged by life.
Challenge yourself to be completely alone with yourself for half-an-hour every day for a set period of time. No distractions. Nothing to preoccupy your mind. 30 minutes without external stimuli. At first, it might seem like the longest half hour ever. Kicking your feet. Looking at your fingernails. Looking at you kicking your feet. And the craziest, weirdest, wildest, random thoughts will probably ramble around in your brain and you’ll be like, “What the heck? Why am I thinking about what size shoe an elephant would wear if they wore shoes? Hmm. Probably be like size 42 or something. Do they make size 42 shoes? I should get new shoes. Or maybe some elephant slippers to look at while I kick my feet. My feet hurt. I should soak them. I wonder what the difference between Epson salt and regular salt is. I should eat less salt.”
Before you know it, you’ll be laughing at yourself and your thoughts and creating your own inside stories, and that half an hour will pass in a flash, but it’ll be the most enjoyable half-hour you had all day, because it’ll be you unfiltered.
And once you find you and become soulmates again, maintain it, because that, my friends, is where your happiness resides. Right inside yours truly. (As in your soul. I’m not yours truly. I’m mine truly. For better and for worse. Through thick and thin. Good times and bad. For friggin’ eternity.)
Embrace your you! (I know, I’m really starting to sound like a shoe saleswoman, at this point).
Feel free to comment and share what works for you. Just keep it PG, people.
Diedre – author of Pizza Girl Chronicles – not yet released, because it needs illustrations and I can’t friggin’ draw.