round and round and round and round…

As usual, Harriet from Fugitivus has her finger on the pulse of my brain, so to speak. From her post, On Boundaries:

…Finally, I thought, “Maybe what I mean by boundaries is no longer what a boundary is. Maybe the word I’m using is describing a different concept entirely.” I sort of just let my mind flow over that thought for a moment, seeing if anything popped up. And I began to think of my bike rides. All the thoughts that are pushing their way into my brain, the thoughts I keep shoving off and locking down. I’m over that, I think. I’ve done my therapy. I don’t need to wallow. Don’t need to raise my blood pressure. Don’t need to get all sad now.

That’s a boundary, too. By deciding that I’m done with those memories, I’ve decided that I’m done with health. I’m done with freedom. Whatever those memories might unlock for me, might tell me about myself, might motivate me to do, I abdicate that. My boundaries used to tell me that everything I did and felt was okay. Now they tell me that only some things are okay. Others are bad. Other thoughts and feelings are officially Not Me, and they have to exist outside somewhere.

Except, there’s nowhere for that stuff to go. It’s all in my head. There’s no metaphysical dumping ground where I can leave them. They just go to a fragmented place, and seethe and seethe and seethe. Stress bubbles up, anger bubbles up, products of the seething, and those things are also Not Me. Those things also go elsewhere. My boundaries say I am all safe and sane and happy now. I don’t have to Deal With Shit anymore. So, none of this stuff that looks perilously like it needs to be dealt with. That is not okay. I am not okay if I am doing that.

I’ve never been good with boundaries. Either I keep everything inside and everyone out, or I open up completely and leave the doors open for anyone to tromp through my psyche. And some things were completely locked down for safety’s sake – I mean, how many people knew I’d been abused by a family member until just a few years ago? Some people I care about still don’t know it, or know much about it. Hell, some people don’t even know about the depression, because I’m good at hiding it.

Stu used to say that I was secretive, I didn’t let him in. Of course, I felt that every time I let him in, I got hurt. Where’s the middle there?

I write, as openly as possible, about my experiences with life, love, creativity, depression and not-depression. I share opinions. I promote compassion and change. I talk about music. I also write poetry and short stories. I like to share them here.

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