We store toxins in the fat cells of our body. Perhaps I'm losing fat and the toxins are being released, and that is the cause of everything I've been feeling. I can hope this is the reason, and bear it out, but who knows how long this will go on. I have a lot of fat, a lot of toxins.
Several days ago I got fed up with the routine of eating, completely bored with food and wishing I didn't have to bother with it. A few days later I realized how much I hated my body. How dirty and toxic it feels, how unnatural. I just don't want to deal with it at all until it gets better. I am enraged for feeling hungry, having to either bear the gnawing in my stomach or find something to put into it. I've decided to go on a fruit fast, so sick am I of cooking and preparing and eating. I'd stop eating all together if I felt I could deal with the hunger. But I've done fruit fasts before - eating nothing but fruit, and I always feel well when I do it. Right now it seems like the thing to do.
The past day or so I've come to accept my situation and grown a bit numb. Forced myself to get up and do a load of dishes, or take out the trash, before crawling back into bed, into my book, to get lost from the utter dullness of my own life. I am completely bored, tired and "over" my own existence. I feel like there is nothing more for me here, only my mind and the experiences I can have within books. My dog has been constantly in bed with me, crying if I don't bring her up into the loft to while away the hours. She's become the only thing in reality that I care about.
In my worst moments of despair, I came to the realization that all my desires for the love of another soul are pointless. No one can give me what I need, no one can mend my long-broken heart. No matter how many people love me, or how deeply, it will never be enough, and this has been the detriment of all my relationships - looking to that person to heal me, then becoming ever resentful that they can't, not being able to accept their full love, and finally disrespecting them for loving such a wretched creature as me. I know now that the only possibility of healing resides only within myself, and that it is not necessarily a possibility at all. I don't know that I'm capable of it. But for now it is enough to accept that I will never find it outside myself. I will never be able to accept love from another person until I have healed my own heart. And this is a kind of liberating thing, to let go of the dream of the knight in shining armour, the rescuer.
But it also comes with the keen awareness that I am, and have always been, awash in loneliness, ever since my heart was first fractured. Like the fish that is blind to the water that has always sustains it, I have been living in loneliness and unable to recognize it. Refusing to see it, acknowledge it. I have felt it but actively denied it at times. Now I realize that it has permeated my existence for so long, I am absolutely of it, and like the fish, cannot imagine what life is like above the surface. It has always been. I know there is a surface, I know there is clear air up there, but I don't know how to breathe it.
And so my thoughts returned to the purpose of my life, and I see that everything I've been doing has been mere distraction. The writing, the crafts, even most of the reading, though some of it has sparked progress on my true path, and I never know which books will do so. So the reading is not altogether pointless, so I continue to do it. It seems the only thing worth doing anyway, reading above eating even, seems like the thing to do.
I am paralyzed otherwise. I see the path, know I must only look within, follow perhaps my Buddhist practices, but even those I cannot find the will to do. Time has stopped. My singular life has stopped, lacks any purpose but to merely exist. And perhaps that is the beginning. I keep coming back to the phrase which has haunted me since I was a teenager, a phrase which I came upon in The Wizard of Earthsea. I don't know the exact wording, but it is something like: A man's path narrows until he comes to the point where the only thing he can do is what he must do. I've found new meanings in this quote over the years, and another one now. For I am in a prison - this body, this apartment which is so like a cell, this life which is now so constrained that at the moment I wonder if I have less freedom than a true prisoner, because I know I have less social contact! I am in near solitary confinement. Some of my limits are self-imposed, I could go out on the street and talk to people, but for what purpose? The real world is becoming meaningless, real people like ghosts, and I find this no longer frightens me like it has in the past. I don't fear losing my sanity in this isolation anymore. I don't know what has changed in me, but it is so. Perhaps it is that sanity has already left me.
And so, I wait. Until whatever is growing in me, whatever is dying away, has fully come to pass. I don't know my next steps, nor when they will come. For once this despair does not provoke the wish to die, even in the absence of a real will to live. I just go on breathing and wait, under some thrall of destiny. Wait for whatever is happening to my body to happen, and see what is left on the other side. What crawls out of this den, I will have to take my cues from that - will it be health and a rebirth into physical life? Or will it still be sickly and imprisoned? For once, it doesn't seem to matter. I only know that I have to go on for some reason, have to keep being and trying to find a way to be whole in spirit. I know that loneliness only exists because we resist the truth that we are one with everything. I don't have to leave these four walls to have all that there is. The only thing that stands in the way of communion is the self.
And yet the self holds fast with its last ounce of strength to its existence. It has such a fear - a FEAR - of opening and dissolving. Despite the agony of loneliness it fears liberation with utter desperation. I've felt this fear crawling and tearing through my body as I contemplated letting go. Such a paradox. Knowing there is nothing to fear, there is no death, only eternal life, and yet petrified anyway. Trying to convince itself through meaningless self-reference that it MUST continue to exist. And so I cannot overcome it, cannot let the light shine through it. Cannot dissolve and join with the All. And there, I am a prisoner only because I fear liberation! Paradox of fear.
Sartre was right - not about hell being other people, but about bad faith. We fear our own freedom so ultimately that we lock ourselves into prisons, and in my life, the walls of this prison have grown closer and closer even as they become more transparent. I can see through them completely at times. The walls are only made of fear. Fear, more than anything, has ruled my existence, created the loneliness in which I breathe and swim. Fear - the last obstacle, the dragon that must be slain. And little remains to fear now except the loss of the safety of these glass walls.
Am I crazed? I have never written a blog post like this, though I've written plenty of journal entries as vague and philosophical, many more despairing. It will be impossible for anyone who reads it to understand, I know. They will think I'm obsessed with death, that I've gone over the cliff of reason like Phaedrus. But it is life that obsesses me, really. Life to which I am committed, life that I've been fastened to by fate. There is something I am supposed to see, to come to know. And yet it's not clear if I will ever get there. Fear stands in the way like an immutable fortress. I have been propelled on this path always, only occasionally have embraced it fully. Most of the time I don't see the steps until they are past me, in hindsight. The only choice I have about it is to live in good or bad faith about it. Will I distract myself from it or seek it? And do I really have this choice at all? Over the cliff....