Saturday, February 17, 2018
Writing a daily journal is tedious, it forces me into examining the previous day. It ambushes me into corners I have been blindsided to, either by choice or by some subliminal neural programming. I have been forced into acknowledging the fragmented personality that is I, me, and myself.
I never quite understood the subtle connotations of that phrase, I, me and myself. Three days of introspection and I have been plated that realization. I realize, much to my disdain, that there are many versions of me. There is an I, the lively, generous, optimistic, industrious, ambitious individual that you would most likely bump into when you cross paths with me. There is a me, she is reserved, suspicious, judgmental, pessimistic, intuitive, cautious, and forever alert. Her you will never meet but she is there lurking behind the surface, quick to the rescue should either persona cajole me into a predicament. There is myself, a daydreamer, introspective, forgiving, slow, patient, painfully slow, trusting and innocent. She is the creative one, the writer, the artist, the culinary prodigy, and the one who is in command when I suffer a heartbreak or meltdown.
Each version of me, not to be confused with the judgmental me, is intense and deep-seated in my psyche. There are no blurring of the lines, no shaded area where one personality overlaps with the other and herein lies the conundrum that befalls me, as a whole. For I can, with the jarring ease of a schizophrenic, transfer control to either personality and there is no smooth transition. Like Sodium being cut, the new exposed me is bright and shiny for all to notice and a stark contrast to what was.
It explains much of my life, the comments of those closest to me, ‘you flip! This is not how I expected you to react!’ begins to make complete sense. The sagacity of my need and desire to live a life that is compartmentalized is dawning on me. I have always had tastes that were polar opposites, classical music, hip-hop, trance, dance, and Catholic chants all feature in my playlist. The books I devour range from academic, self-help, motivational, thrillers, classic or children’s fiction. I can stay riveted watching a documentary, quantum physics, comedy, action, or children’s cartoons.
So the point of this journal entry? Nothing, I am beginning to try to live life without a focus on the point, I find it very stressful, very demanding like a perpetual carrot that dangles forever beyond reach. It’s purpose to tantalize and nudge you into being manipulated for another’s benefit. I am making that brave attempt to live life by my own rules, to throw away those markers handed down to me by society in their bid to make me conform.
Maybe the purpose of life is to have no purpose, at least not the ones that society thrusts upon us but to discover new ones that are liberating and not restricting.