Finally. 2011 has gone by the wayside, now a part of a very convoluted and complicated history that has recently become a bit more turbulent and difficult than some of the years before. I can't write that 2011 was a bad year. I prefer to look at it as having been strange, dissatisfying, challenging(; however, a tremendous learning experience). I fought and failed at various points. I exerted suspicious energy in incorrect directions, and I learned from the mistake(s).
The results were poor financial management and dubious bank account records at various points from January to the termination of the year, copious amounts of ill-advised health practices that could have been and should have gone a different route, inconsistency in the realms of family, personal relationships, creativity, and goal-orientation. For far too long, I've blogged about the generalized concept of having lost some sense of purpose in my life. I've written of having sorry feelings for myself, made myself into something of a self-imposed martyr (for what ends, I do not know). I'd lost sight of everything that was important and necessary and purposeful in my existence. Those notions are no more.
For weeks, I've been on the definitive cusp of a great and wonderful new direction. Last night, as horrendous a New Year's Eve fest as it was, I discovered that I haven't lost any of those things that were so very important to me. I had them on my person the whole time. I just put them in my pocket and forgot about them, or rather, I chose to forget about them. It's like I knew they were there, and I knew that all I needed was to reach down, scoop them out, and put them back to work, but I somehow blocked out that very idea and basked in a mire of discontent. I rang in 2012 in my car. Driving from Junior Trosclair's comfortable house in the Haven to the bacchanalian debauchery of liberal Shreveport-Bossier's favorite watering hole. This is the first time that I can remember being totally on my own when the year went up one.
The saying related to the ringing in of the new year is that whatever you're doing at midnight is an indication of the direction the next 365 to 366 days will go. I found solace in the idea of absolute independence and fulfillment in the idea of doing things completely and totally differently from the way that I've ever done them before. I'm not necessarily making any resolutions. Instead, revelations, which, incidentally, is quite appropriate should all this end-of-year/end-of-civilization-as-we-know-it Mayan calendar brouhaha actually come to fruition - be it that we're totally wiped out or actually move forward into a new age of enlightenment. I have more to discuss on this topic, but it'll come as it always does here.
For now, I need to finish typing out what I'd started revamping and posting in my previous post. When last I left, I think I'd brought my autobiographical memorial rant back to having viewed Paranormal Activity 2 with Junior Trosclair last week...
I am by no means sorry that I watched it. Like I've mentioned, I cannot conceive of anything I'd truly wish to undo, for it all combines to make me into who I am; however, in spite of my strong yen to now see the third installment (which Jacob informed me would explain what happened to the girls when they were children), I'm not sure that I'll ever be able to re-watch either of the first two films again. They affected me. Not adversely, but with certainty.
I'm grateful for experiences like that because they remind me of two things: one, that I am human, and two, that I must not be anything like either Kristi or Katie. The sisters believed that if they discussed anything related to what was resurfacing in their lives, they would give the negative energy power to grow. Instead of hesitance to talk about the reality of my past for fear of giving it power, I must examine those very aspects to empower myself and get to the crux of all that combines to make me tick.
I've begun to realize that, in order to tell my story, I have to reveal certain aspects of the personal lives of others. I fought this idea for quite some time, but two dear friends of mine, Stacy Stubblefield and Timothy Robertson (who, as I type these words - to the best of my knowledge - have neither ever met nor even heard of ether's name) have helped me to realize that until I get all of myself down on paper, until I tell the story that I really want and need to tell, I'll never exorcise the many personal demons that negatively censor my creative energy on a regular basis. Without repudiation and redemption, I'll never truly be a writer. Therefore, I must apologize in advance. Of course, I'll most likely change names whenever possible but I know that there's always the chance that some who read these words may recognize themselves in the anecdotes and asides and announcements of a tale that really only belongs to one person: myself.
Yesterday, Mom and I were talking. Nostalgia abounded as we discussed closing the book on 2011 - an historically difficult year for us both - and we surveyed the results of our endeavors as we prepared to embark on what we're both hoping we can work toward making the first great year of our separate, but closely in tune lives. At one point, Mom was tearful as she lamented on the idea that she'd made mistakes as a mother. "I always tried to do the best that I could, but I know that you were all let down." I vehemently disagreed (and even moreso today, disagree) with her assertion. My parents were phenomenal. Even without my father around to gently ease her in any direction, I believe that he still guides her in spirit toward doing the very best she can and succeeding admirably despite overwhelming odds against her favor at times. It was odd that she'd bring this up as I've been using my journals to take a closer look at the events of my past, especially my childhood and adolescence, that shaped me into the person I am today. I've been looking for behavioral patterns and the circumstances that rear their heads consistently, and I've been wondering why still, at the age of thirty-two, I continue to make really idiotic decisions that I know better than.
Through such personal and honest journalling, I am realizing several things. I am my own worst critic. I am my biggest adversary. In the end, the only person I have to blame for me is me. I believe that once I can truly look at this and honestly accept this, I'll be ready to move away from writing and creating that's a little less specifically personal and a little more along the lines of the true storytelling that I'm so hoping to begin.
Here's where I start telling my story. The closest I've ever come to this was first in the air conditioned rooms of Mrs. Cathy's Mellow Yellow process group at the Pines Treatment Center, then sprawled out on Mariann McDonald's big, comfy couch at her house on Lincoln, and most recently with Juli Schriner, chain smoking cigarettes at her kitchen table at the sort of cabin in the woods deep in Waskom, Texas. Active recovery is something that I've not truly been involved with for quite some time, and I definitely feel that; however, I know everything that I need to do to get back to a point of definitive direction. Rigorous honesty is one aspect. Prayer and meditation are others. Wise physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual practices all work together when the foundation of the program is in place. For me, though, the most important aspect is finding truth through my writing. And so it begins now.
Despite my overwhelming certainty that I had (have) the greatest parents on the planet, my formative years are replete with foggy memories that I often focus on in my mind for far longer than I ought to have. I wouldn't, couldn't, deem my childhood a happy one, but such an idea is based wholly on perspective.
Unfortunately, if there were only one word I would use to describe my childhood as a whole, the best word would be "afraid." Now, let me see if I can tell you why...
to be continued...
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