The turn of a phrase.

For all of my life, up to this point, I have thought "ignorance is bliss" to be the most spectacularly stupid phrase. I question, and seek out answers, and want to know why all of the moving parts move the way that they do. I enjoy knowing why things are the way they are. My brain jots down random trivia and stores it with the other garbage I've collected over the years, like how to sing certain songs in french I learned in childhood. I could comfortably say, "it is the way it is," because I knew why it was that way.

But I can't help feeling, lately, maybe if I knew less, understood less, felt less, wanted less, expected less from life; maybe I could be as content as everyone else is. The happily coupled people, and the ones who know exactly where they're headed in life, and the ones who are just happy to be alive and raising hell, or, hell, raising chickens. I feel like my head is crammed full of uselessness that has alienated me from happiness. From contentment. From finding my place in my own life.

My life is whizzing by at the speed of light, and I'm just sat here shrugging because it doesn't even feel like it belongs to me. I have outsmarted myself. Ignorance could be bliss. I get it now.

I want to unlearn everything. I want to unlearn mistrust, and fear, and abandonment; cynicism, regret. I want to unlearn how to use humor and sarcasm and ambivalence as a shield. I want to unlearn overthinking and anxiety and how to blurt out every last thought that runs through my unfiltered tongue. I want to unlearn all of these coping mechanisms, and start over in a world in which they were never necessary to my survival.

"But then, you wouldn't be you," my brain says. "How would that work?"

I don't know.
Ignorance could be bliss.

The thing growing in the closet

So far, I've spent the first week of 2015 trying to clean out a giant mess of mold in my closet. I would like to think of this as a metaphor. I would like to, but, there is, or was, a giant mess of mold in my closet; the real deal stuff, that I am extremely allergic to. We sealed the windows to shut out the drafty cold in our old house, and in the process we gave the spores of decay a place to fester and thrive amongst the overflow of boxes of memories and junk we failed to unpack. We didn't notice right away until it was climbing the walls and carpeting the outsides of our boxes of memories, and the illness had already set in.

It's really the perfect metaphor, isn't it?

The truth is, I have a lot of mold in my metaphorical closet, as well, that I hope to finally clean out this year. I want to unpack those long forgotten boxes of memories, good and bad, toss out the ones that I don't want or need any longer, air the newly emptied space out until I feel healthy and whole again. I feel like I have become a hoarder of things that have been detrimental to my psyche, and I am ready to call in the cleaning crew. I don't want to be insulated from the rest of the life that I could be living.

I'm going to write one of my books this year, and find someone to publish it. That is the sum total, along with the above closet cleaning, of my new year resolution. It's a big one, but I believe I am going to do it.

Love is blind, and other illusions.

Sometimes I find myself in this place that feels like a total rejection of who I know myself to be; it's opposite day on Planet Em, and I am the sole occupant and player. The words run out, and I don't see the pictures my camera is supposed to make, and all I can do is try to distract myself with music and ...hang on. Put on a helmet, even. Perhaps a seat belt. As a creature of routine and optimism, it is hard for me to let go and settle in for the ride. It seems that fighting it makes the whole journey all the more difficult, though; I am ill-prepared for the self reflection and intimate examinations of my life that are sure to precede the self loathing, anger, cynicism, and hopelessness.

It starts like this: one day, I quietly realize I'm happy; dare I even say, content, with my life. Sure, there is room for improvement, but overall, the complaints are few and far between. I bask in the warm fuzzy glow of this comfortable life I have made, much like a cat lazing in the shaft of sunlight stretching across the floor on a summer afternoon. That is also the exact moment that I have come to dread, because without fail, I wake up and find myself in this place. It's like my subconscious pipes up with, "oh, feeling good, eh? Perhaps you can finally deal with this pile of bullshit you've been sweeping over into this corner? No? Just thought I'd ask; you don't have to get all hysterical."

Into the hysteria of it all, I descend, however; an unwilling participant to the whim of my id. The man behind the curtain is me, and he has been dazzling me with illusions long enough that I have momentarily forgotten that some of the reasons I sought out those illusions to begin with were pretty unbearable to live with out in the open every day. Facing them for even a few moments is still painful beyond comprehension. They seem insurmountable. So I make busy work until I'm too busy to remember what all the fuss was about, and pretty soon I have pulled the rabbit of happiness up out of the hat once more, and on with the show. Pomp and circumstance; smoke and mirrors.

When "it is what it is" describes the hobble-hop from one distraction to another, ever searching for the IT that my life is supposed to BE, and I still come up with an armload of nothing, it's hard to not imagine that somewhere along the way, things have gone horribly wrong at some point. That the common denominator is ME, and obviously I am the thing that has gone horribly wrong. After all, I am the architect of my own happiness and build my own future through the decisions I have made... right? So there is simply no one else to blame. Clearly I have forgotten to go along to get along until I march my tired ass to the slaughter house of old age.

Today I have been reading science-based studies on love, and what happens to our brains when we step in it, and if love is blind, why, and then what happens. How our brains do this thing where we can no longer make objective decisions regarding the subject of our affections because the reward for living in La La Land is supposed to outweigh the risk, and how the longer you get to know someone, the more you fall out of love, most of the time. Boredom, complacency, repetition, disillusionment; all of these things come crawling out of the woodwork to gnaw away at this thing that you thought was pretty darn great when you first stumbled upon it. How, without our genetically inclined need to procreate, or the endorphin rush of the shiny penny newness of lust, we probably wouldn't make it as a species. That seems to be all that holds us together; the search for immortality, and pleasure. I think much of this can also be applied to the way we view ourselves, too. We reach a point where we can no longer be objective about our own feelings, because there is too much at risk, like trading one happiness for another. You can have your cake, or you can eat it. We make trades on our comfort, while trying to walk the tightrope of commitment, or contentment. There is no fucking net.

And sometimes it all just. Seems. So. Dumb.