I feel the cold.
I have always run hot - warm hands, warm face. Have a lot of energy, a lot of time for the sun. I seem to recall that my very first diagnosis was Seasonal Affective Disorder - an emotional and motivational deficit caused by a lack of exposure to sunlight. I always have a feeling, like I want to drink the sky in, it gets into my veins and I embody it.
This autumn I was taken apart, changed, and put back together again; I am referring to my surgery, of course. This has rendered me laughably incapable of living my everyday life - I am furiously independent and resent having to ask for help or have my housemates do things for me. I had thought I was prepared for the physical aspects of the surgery, but not the emotional or mental ones - I was wrong, I wasn’t prepared for any of it.
All this sitting down and ‘relaxing’ - I do not enjoy to relax. I don’t understand how people do it so much. I can’t stand to feel time passing me by without my forthright involvement, I enjoy to impose myself upon the present, to cultivate a space around me in which I am perpetually engaging, Doing A Thing.
Halloween is, of course, my favourite holiday - most years, every adult year, I have partied, adorned ridiculous and outrageous costumes and frolicked my deviance on the cities of England, baring fangs to the tourists. This year, I have had to lie down. We had a small gathering of our inner circle in our house, and I wore contacts and wings, at least, and carved a pumpkin to whom I am irrevocably attached.
I quietly watch the life that was once my fire wheel on without me - a club night in my social spiritual home, all the people who know me as a pixie, a fairy, a flare in the fucking sky. Rolling on in my absence, of course, of course. I take a measure of satisfaction in having moved on from all of the drugs, (of course,) but I miss the lights, I do miss it, the rush.
I have been increasingly feeling the need to spill my bitterness. I had always prided myself upon being naive, childlike, with a perpetual capacity for wonder - someone who could not, be definition, be worn down by the world because I couldn’t truly touch it. As someone who cannot become jaded, scorned, dragged down. I still feel this about myself, but I also feel an untapped need to acknowledge and voice my darkness, my cynicism, my pain, my rage.
I have always been young, girl, lady, woman. I have always been able to make myself small. Yet now I feel old enough to carry fire and stones in my heart. I open myself up to them, I know that this is where art lives.
I hope to use this as an outlet for my spears, dear reader. Go gently in your feeling of me - I am surely not what you think I am.
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