Thursday, November 22, 2018

About Me.

by Deanna Meiresonne (writer), Chicago, IL, January 08, 2010

A life a long time ago in Orange County, I tried to define myself yet again, a new identity. In 2010, with the New Year, I find myself firmly situated in the obvious in-between, the undefinable.

These days you can usually find me at a bus stop, or walking, not driving. In either case, I'm continuously fading on the ins and outs of my life, one point to another. And I cannot really say that it is "one point to the next", because in most times I am simply stumbling between the same staggered points of my existence, and there is no backwards or forwards that exists. There are many parts of a whole; I suppose you could say of me, though I rarely consider myself a whole creature. I recognize myself only in my contradictions. For I am a creature of habit, and yet a creature of change. So much change, and I likewise yearn for it, but fight it's breaking point. I am of strong will and character, yet defeat myself with empty riddles and depressed thoughts. I lean on my friends to bring me up from swallows, yet I have a history of introvertedness that somewhat doesn't suit my character.

The question extrovert versus introvert has always boggled me. Which am I? I seek to be such a definable being that the idea of being a bit of both is not verily acceptable. Indeed, I am a writer. Times find me trolling over pages of philosophical readings, religious texts, psychological journals, things that thumb over the mind, and if it is ruled seperatly or in conjunction with the spirit. Another word, one may argue, for the heart. Or is it the other way around? Or perhaps not at all...ah, but that is for another time.

Now take this extrovertednes of mine. The preferred. But is it preferred because I seek to be another person that how I was born? Do I lean in that direction only for the idea of being accepted, an unforgivable urge that I can readily attribute to my diseases? To my mind, yes, they are diseases. Some newly considered, others old friends that have lived beside me for too long now. I wish to shake them off like the ice bitten my shoulders from a commute to class in Chicago; but here is where I live in contradiction. Because my life has been graduated by these diseases. Who it is that writes these proses, would the art of pen have come by a mind less afflicted? Were it not for inward pain, mental pain, unforseen and un-"real", would I have turned to be so comfortable in the abstract?
I think; therefore, I am. I think abstractly; therefore, I am abstract. "I am that I am."

The words, ever since they were first pressed to my breast, keep coming back to me. No one shall ever know the origin nor their meaning nor their importance, and yet do I use them to their fullest extent? Perhaps I limit the power of these words in much the ways that I limit myself. I think that I pull my own strengths, yes, but they are used and exhausted in simply a fight to stay alive, to find it in myself with every waking day to urge to continue to breathe. There is so much in my life that I consider I love. But I fight sometimes the will to care, to carry on, and though I love the things I do, there is a depression there that hides whatever love I have and says to let go! To stop fighting, because fighting is exhausting, and my body is tired. I grew up always "too skinny"; I grew up always tired from malnutrition. But I was always going, for a smile, for a praise, for a kiss, for a hug; for a friend. I turned to anyone I could get the feeling from, and did whatever I thought it took to be that way. Rather than explore who I was and what truly was of value to me, I mistook the need to BE OF VALUE and called to question whether I was worht anything at all.

Somewhere in the midst of this, perhaps I was born of it, I made the concious decision that I was of none at all, and so I took what others valued and loved and fussed over and dedicated my sole purposes to becoming exactly that. I succeed, perhaps too well, in every rote and in every gesture. Wherever I set my goal towards, so was the obsession, compulsion, that I was able to excel in whichever I so choose for that moment. At times it came out as ADD; always changing one's mind, always having a new goal and a new fixation. But mostly it was not the plan that changed - the plan to be loved - but one I noticed it was not perhaps manifesting in the ways I dreamt, I changed my plan of attack. And again, and again, until finally, I am here.

What is it then, you say, that you are? I can outline it simply and knowledgably say; I am 21, I am in Orange, Southern California, I am in a room, I am in a house, I am on a street, I am in climbing pants and a wife-beater, I am in shoes, I am inside. Figuratively, literally.

But by "here" I am that I am not here at all. I am never Here. I have altered my routes, my course so many times, I have "learned" and "relearned" but truly makes me happy, I have made leaps and jumps in decisions to figure out what it what for me, and never does it seem to turn out that I really did chooose something worthwhile to ME. I changed my major again this last time around from Creative Writing, knowing that I could not foresee myself sitting in an empty place and writing for hours at a time my life away. And yet *gasp* here I sit.

Here. And yet not there at all.

I am out of my mind, quite in some many senses of the term. Tell another my medications, tell another my diagnoses, tell another my histories, tell another my dreams my thoughts my scars my terrors my screams my fights my struggles my plots to destroy me tell another how I want to hurt myself and yet not hurt at all tell another how I want to find out what I love and find out what makes me happy when I know, deep down, nothing matters and nother makes me happy because it is me that makes me sick and how can I thing love something esle when no love exists inside it's being? The love that I have spread to others has been twisted, misplaced, distraught in the a being's frustrated grappling at a lone dream, and the hopes that she might have finally stumbled upon it.

Love for me is not for another; love, when I have loved, means a contradiction to the horrors of my heart, a gratification that perhaps now I am safe, for now I am good, now I am accepted. Yes, I can attest, I am sick. Is my listing here a cop-out? In some ways I know in full right I make excuses for myself.

On the other hand, I am proud of what I have done. Where life has taken me and the things that I have done; on paper, I will always say, I look fabulous. If there were anything about me, I suppose that this marker would mean something, but I cannot finger at what. There is some broach of TRUE character that reveals itself to a person who can say she fights daily upon the opening of eyes the will to get up, to stay up, to do the thigns that she knows is right and happy and good and NORMAL (oh God for such a treat!). Even though there is a ruling part of brain that recognizes these things as fun or happy, and still is tired and wnats to shut it's eye to them, because happiness is a fight. Yes, even the things that make me happy, for example, rock climbing, the thought of EXHAUSTs me, simply because I fight myself. The self that says that happiness will never come, the self that says I am not worth it, the self that says that if I were skinny, if I were pretty, if I were funny and loud and sweet, then maybe I would be worth it, and then I could allow myself to be happy.

But instead I hate the ground I walk on. And I walk on. Or take a bus. I wait ; I come and go. I will never lead, I will never follow. I exist between the contradictions.

About the Writer

Deanna Meiresonne is a writer for BrooWaha. For more information, visit the writer's website.
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2 comments on About Me.

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By Lady D on January 08, 2010 at 08:02 pm

Many feel that way and yet can't express it as well.

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By TonyBerkman on July 22, 2010 at 12:41 am

Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings with us. We all face such similar challenges, yet we treat others like we are so different. It is this desire to be significant yet our real need to connect that causes this conflict. When we seek to be "special" and different it doesnt enable to connect.

We are such creatures of our own upgringing or domestication. For the most part, the thoughts that run through our brains, unchallenged, and confusing, are one's that we've picked up randomly, without thought. Almost like garbage piling up in our minds, because of a random thing someone said to us once. We created the meaning. After all the one thing we are free to do is select what things mean. Choose empowering meanings for the events of your life and your life will change. Take the thoughts that dont make sense and ask, "is this really true?" And ask it again. Then start reading everything that you can about how beautiful of a person you are. How your heart desires to give and you desire to grow. It is in the needs of growth and contribution where we can all find real fulfillment.

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