Fingers On The Hands Of Fear
I'm scared of everything.
I used to think I was only afraid of things like being bit by a snake or breaking my arm. Well, I was wrong. In the past I was just never sober or single long enough to realize life scares me. Things not going the way I think they should or people not acting the ways I like sends me into fits of anger, or worry, or blame or hate... which are all fingers on the hand of fear. (Sometimes I feel all four of those!)
I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't want to be uptight, angry, selfish and anxious. I don't want to be resentful. I just want peace. I want to be able to wake up in the morning with a quiet mind. I want to actually enjoy being inside my head.
I'm depressed and I have been for the past two days. I don't want to die but I don't particularly care if I live. Everything seems so pointless. I know that if I started drinking again I would be dead in two weeks (most likely by my own hand). But I feel like I can't stand to be sober for another moment. I want to run away; I want to escape from the darkness inside of me.
But where can I run? I can't go back to Florida, and I can't go to Colorado where my mom is, and I don't have money to blow right now to gallavant off to another country. I'm on a little island on a little farm with a lot of powerful, intuitive women that know a lot more than I do and don't hesitate to tell me.
I want to go somewhere, anywhere, away from me. The only place I can find comfort is in art, which is something I did a lot when I was younger but not much when I started partying heavier and when I was too busy chain smoking in my early sobriety. But last night and this morning I sat on my bed and drew and drew and drew, and once I finish this post I'm going out to the silent meditation bungalow and I'm going to write and write and write... I'm going to dissapear into the stories like I used to when I was little.
I know that reading the Big Book and praying would probably be a "better" choice right now then sinking into my writing. But honestly right now I want relief... relief from not caring whether I live or not. Relief from the thoughts in my head that tell me it's not going to get any better for me. However, at least I've found my longing for art again, to make something beautiful just for the joy of making it. Sobriety may be a mistake for me in so many ways, but it is right in one.
"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time." -- Thomas Merton
I used to think I was only afraid of things like being bit by a snake or breaking my arm. Well, I was wrong. In the past I was just never sober or single long enough to realize life scares me. Things not going the way I think they should or people not acting the ways I like sends me into fits of anger, or worry, or blame or hate... which are all fingers on the hand of fear. (Sometimes I feel all four of those!)
I don't want to be afraid anymore. I don't want to be uptight, angry, selfish and anxious. I don't want to be resentful. I just want peace. I want to be able to wake up in the morning with a quiet mind. I want to actually enjoy being inside my head.
I'm depressed and I have been for the past two days. I don't want to die but I don't particularly care if I live. Everything seems so pointless. I know that if I started drinking again I would be dead in two weeks (most likely by my own hand). But I feel like I can't stand to be sober for another moment. I want to run away; I want to escape from the darkness inside of me.
But where can I run? I can't go back to Florida, and I can't go to Colorado where my mom is, and I don't have money to blow right now to gallavant off to another country. I'm on a little island on a little farm with a lot of powerful, intuitive women that know a lot more than I do and don't hesitate to tell me.
I want to go somewhere, anywhere, away from me. The only place I can find comfort is in art, which is something I did a lot when I was younger but not much when I started partying heavier and when I was too busy chain smoking in my early sobriety. But last night and this morning I sat on my bed and drew and drew and drew, and once I finish this post I'm going out to the silent meditation bungalow and I'm going to write and write and write... I'm going to dissapear into the stories like I used to when I was little.
I know that reading the Big Book and praying would probably be a "better" choice right now then sinking into my writing. But honestly right now I want relief... relief from not caring whether I live or not. Relief from the thoughts in my head that tell me it's not going to get any better for me. However, at least I've found my longing for art again, to make something beautiful just for the joy of making it. Sobriety may be a mistake for me in so many ways, but it is right in one.
"Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time." -- Thomas Merton
