Drawings: Haapa, Pikkukoski

                                Haapa, Pikkukoski 30.5.2016

Conditioned for Kindness

I can understand how hard it must be to believe how depressed I really am. I mean, I'm a nice person. I'm a thoroughly nice person. And let me tell you, there is absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent nothing fake about it either. I care about other people, I care about pleasing other people, I desperately don't want to let anyone down, I desperately don't want to hurt anyone.

Oh, of course I do, hurt people that is. Occasionally. I don't imagine I'm a saint, I'm not that stupid. But if I can help it, if I can at all help it, I won't. I'm like the guy in A Clockwork Orange, remember? The one who was conditioned to feel ill when he was confronted with any kind of violence. The same way I'm unable to hurt someone without hurting myself. So I just don't do it. (And well, of course when I nevertheless end up doing it sometimes (like when I'm too depressed to function like I'd like to (and isn't that another thought for another little blogpost all on it's own (damn it))) then of course I feel like utter utter utter crap.)

So when people smile at me and approach me and talk to me and ask me questions and ask my help. Of course I smile at them. Of course I say yes. That's who I am after all, deep down. And then I go home and stare at the wall for five days nonstop because that one single smile and that one single yes has drained all the energy I had and now there is simply nothing left.

I don't resent you for smiling and approaching and talking and questioning and asking either. I cherish it. I love you for doing it. Because it shows you care. And when I smile and when I say yes, I really mean it too. And I still do mean it afterwards. I still do mean it now. There is nothing fake in it after all, I already told you that. It doesn't mean it doesn't kill me a little at the same time. Every single time.

I understand that you are very confused. I was just now smiling after all. I did say yes. I'm very good at convincing you I'm fine, I'm ok, I'm good. Because I am, I really am, I must be to get through this, through all of this, through all the smiling.

You see, I'm doing it for you, yes, but I'm also doing it for me. Much more for me in fact. Because just imagine how exhausting it would be for me to actually go through all the negative emotions in front of you. Neither of us needs that. That is not a way in which things move forward, that is not a way in which healing can happen for me. It might be for some people but it is not for me. Remember my extraordinary conditioning. I cannot heal through confrontation.

It does help too, your smile. That's why I come when you smile. But slowly. Slowly. Too much and it's already too much. I'm still practising this, socialising, living like a normal person, like a healthy person. It's good to practise. I like it. And it's understandable that you'd like a repeat when one practice goes well, I do too. But I have to reserve my strength. You don't want to see too much when it's too much. You really don't. So if I stay home the next day. It has nothing to do with you.

I want.

I want to open the front door to the sun and go running.
I want to loose myself in the garden covered in soil and wearing a wide grin.
I want to choose music on my player again and take the bus to the studio.
I want to turn the compost and carry heavy stones and cut high branches.
I want to call my students and watch them dance and be able to help again.
I want to plan future projects and go to the stores to buy fabric.
I want to go to the gym and I really really really want to sweat.
I want to take the trash out and I want to clear all the pots in the back yard.
I want to walk to work and carry my heavy bags and travel wherever I want.
I want to dance and feel the music inside me.
I want to choreograph and feel the movements shaping in my own body.
I want to feel whole again.
I want to stand and walk and run and jump.
I want to know that I'm strong.
I want to be me.

Drawings: Versoja

 

                    Versoja 28.4.2016

Dropping Stairs

It's a funny thing when you are building your own stairs. The higher you build the stronger the foundation grows. But the first steps are so fragile, so fragile. So you build and build and the storm breaks and your stairs break and you drop down again and you build again and you drop down again and you build again and you drop down again and how much it hurts to drop once you've managed one or two or even three steps, almost there. Back on the hard floor again. Bruises multiplying on your skin.

So there must be a critical limit where the strength of the steps finally holds the weather and supports your own feet. Where you are reasonably safe and perhaps, when the wind inevitably blows or the tree falls down on your path, perhaps then you only break the very last step and perhaps not even that. Perhaps you remain standing high up, secure, ready to build higher, stronger.

It is a dream, that elusive limit. If it exists? Whether there is a danger zone just before? Where you are high enough for the critical fall, but not yet high enough for the critical strength? I don't think your chosen stair design factors into the probabilities. I don't think it matters where you build. This is a universal process.

Down here with the crooked nails and the splinters it is easy to understand those who've decided to just walk the bottom. But perhaps the process of building that first step over and over and over again makes your head stronger to be banged on the wall later. But please don't tell me the wall is actually real. Easier to imagine this boundless floor with infinite sky and limitless nails.

Drawings: Wind

 

                    Wind, Seashore, Akranes 6.4.2016

Missing

I miss the person I was. I miss the feel of my body working, obeying, strong, invincible.

I miss the seamless control over my physicality, the feeling of total symbiosis between my body and my mind, the feeling of being alive inside and out, breathing the heady power of being whole in yourself.

I miss the taste of sweat on my skin, the air in my lungs, the burn in my legs, the tired bliss in my eyes as I look in the mirror, drunk from movement, high on emotional creative energy, fuzzy soft dazed elevated from pushing over every possible limit.

I miss the heat on my cheeks, the blood rushing in my ears, the quiver in my muscles, the pain of pushing but not quite reaching yet, the frustration of aiming higher, the determination of never giving up, the exquisite strength of persistence. Once more, tighter, delicate, precise, with feeling, direction, higher, more, again, now think, alert, clever, bigger, stronger, more, again, now.

I fucking want that back. I want it all back.

It's not about goals, it's not about prizes, not about achieving, not about projects, missed time or opportunities. Who the fuck cares?

It's about feeling alive.

And I fucking want it back.