"When there's nowhere to run, to our Lord we will turn..."

     I've spoken to a counsellor. Yeah, a counsellor. I know some part of me is supposed to be ashamed to admit this, or to hide it within the folds of some sort of social stigma headdress, filled with bright and shiny feathers and candy and butterflies all the good things in the world. As a writer, and I guess as a human being, I'm supposed to be hungry for the truth. And how in the world will I hear the truth if I do not speak it for fear of ... well fear of what exactly? Fear of social isolation? Fear of appearing weak? Fear of ruining whatever image people carry of me? Well good news friends, that image is going to be ruined, and it's going out in style.

     I never thought moving halfway across the country would be hard. I never thought that even after I gained somewhat of a social life it would be hard. I never thought thinking about one's future could be so ... well ... draining. Mind you, I'm not worried about what may come. I think I just might be envious of all the people around me whose lives are so settled and regular and in a sense, successful, whereas mine just seems to be going nowhere. 

    The counsellor seemed to be impressed with me. I guess I was willing and eager to approach my problems, or at least give a name to them. That's what we did, you know. We tamed the beast by giving it a name. It wasn't loneliness or depression, it wasn't sadness or angst - it was isolation. In this city, there was no connection to people, and that's what I thrive on. Some shallow roots were shot here and there, but there was depth or substance and I slowly withered because there was no adequate mental or emotional nutrition that could continue to sustain me. It's funny how personal a matter this is, yet how easy it is for me to see it as if I'm on the outside, analyzing, judging, appraising.

     On this Mardi Gras, when people are emptying their cupboards and souls, partying it up before the somber declaration of ashes on foreheads, I am reflecting. I'm not a very good Catholic, and have been less and less good as of late . I question and curse and fight God every step of the way. I have no idea why He is still good to me, or why He even bothers. Really. In fact, I'm just waiting for the punishment, now is the calm before the storm. I know our God is not a malicious God, but a fair one. And I have been nothing but ungrateful. I guess I'm trying to make sense of it all: the big questions, the big answers, and I have too much time to think and too much music that makes me think about things that are better left unthought of, yet all I seem to do is dwell and write. I need to write to get it out. I haven't written in ages you know. My emotional fodder seems to be waning yet there's so much left to be said. 

     I know a lot of you might be rolling your eyes. Pressing "Publish Post" is a very difficult thought, let alone the actual action. "Verbal diarrhea. Probably too honest." That's what the subtext of this blog always was. Maybe one of you reading this somewhere in the world identifies with some of this. Maybe you feel isolated. Misunderstood. Angry. Jealous. Petty. Ignored. Happy. Euphoric. Horny. Angsty. Hungry. And tired. Oh so tired all the time. Whatever it is, it's human. This at least we've learned.

Cheers!