In Search Of The Trap Door
Like Getting The Wind Knocked Out Of You
In 4th grade I was walking home from school when a boy a year older than me decided to swing his bookbag into my belly, unprovoked. I still remember that feeling – how my stomach sickened just before the wind got thrown from me, how I collapsed to my knees, waiting to catch my breath & bring it back again. Like spending purgatory in a vacuum watching someone’s hand stagnant on the hatch door.
Lately I feel like I’ve been socked in the gut just before the wind gets knocked out of me. That quick sickening of the stomach. At this point I have no idea what to do about it, especially since circumstances seem to be getting stickier, not easier.
My Understanding Of Adulthood Includes A New Definition Of Worry; or Other Unfortunate Effects Of Semi-Recent Circumstances
To worry doesn’t only mean to fear that less-than-desirable future possibilities will win the universal karmic match against desirable ones. Instead I think the word describes an intellectual cog & wheel system that keeps turning and turning and turning and turning and turning the same unhelpful thoughts (repeating problems without finding a solution; acknowledging that I’m lost with no known way out of the labyrinth; continuously reminding myself of things I need to get done, even if they’re a week away – which prevents me from truly resting & relaxing; etc.) over and over and over and over and over again in my mind. When churned, these thoughts turn into a sticky anxiety, irresolvable. William Burroughs had something when he said that language was a virus. I can’t silence these worries anymore, although I’m trying every day. I even attended a meditation session. O guru Baba G, yadda yadda Baba G. . .
Committing
Journals are a crime I seldom commit. I can’t tell you why. It’s not that they’re embarrassing, and it’s not that I’m scared to reveal what I’m really thinking. Somewhere I think that by letting out all this anxiety I’m creating more within the world, but I can’t even believe this myself. Somewhere else I feel like I shouldn’t bother anyone with my troubles. And yet another place whispers he’s already got enough trouble, enough to commit him to an institution for a few months, why you bringing yours to him too you think he can handle these thoughts just shut your mouth and quiet those fingers and deal with it you’re getting older and you should have more inner resources
In 4th grade I was walking home from school when a boy a year older than me decided to swing his bookbag into my belly, unprovoked. I still remember that feeling – how my stomach sickened just before the wind got thrown from me, how I collapsed to my knees, waiting to catch my breath & bring it back again. Like spending purgatory in a vacuum watching someone’s hand stagnant on the hatch door.
Lately I feel like I’ve been socked in the gut just before the wind gets knocked out of me. That quick sickening of the stomach. At this point I have no idea what to do about it, especially since circumstances seem to be getting stickier, not easier.
My Understanding Of Adulthood Includes A New Definition Of Worry; or Other Unfortunate Effects Of Semi-Recent Circumstances
To worry doesn’t only mean to fear that less-than-desirable future possibilities will win the universal karmic match against desirable ones. Instead I think the word describes an intellectual cog & wheel system that keeps turning and turning and turning and turning and turning the same unhelpful thoughts (repeating problems without finding a solution; acknowledging that I’m lost with no known way out of the labyrinth; continuously reminding myself of things I need to get done, even if they’re a week away – which prevents me from truly resting & relaxing; etc.) over and over and over and over and over again in my mind. When churned, these thoughts turn into a sticky anxiety, irresolvable. William Burroughs had something when he said that language was a virus. I can’t silence these worries anymore, although I’m trying every day. I even attended a meditation session. O guru Baba G, yadda yadda Baba G. . .
Committing
Journals are a crime I seldom commit. I can’t tell you why. It’s not that they’re embarrassing, and it’s not that I’m scared to reveal what I’m really thinking. Somewhere I think that by letting out all this anxiety I’m creating more within the world, but I can’t even believe this myself. Somewhere else I feel like I shouldn’t bother anyone with my troubles. And yet another place whispers he’s already got enough trouble, enough to commit him to an institution for a few months, why you bringing yours to him too you think he can handle these thoughts just shut your mouth and quiet those fingers and deal with it you’re getting older and you should have more inner resources
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