I haven’t been doing justice to this blog’s title lately – in fact, it’s made me feel somewhat guilty and ashamed. Reaching too high.
This is because the last weeks have been another “zero point” phase – and these phases are so frequent in my life. (Sometimes I’m thinking of reading Dabrowski’s Theory of Positive Disintegration to see whether he’s come up with anything that I haven’t seen yet, in the … dozens? hundreds? of repetitions of this.)
In fact, I am amazed, astonished, and somewhat distrustful of reality whenever there are a few days (I don’t think I’ve ever achieved weeks) that can’t be cast as one type or another of transformative existential crisis.
If it’s not one aspect of identity, it’s another. If it’s not that, it’s events. If it’s not events, it’s illnesses, anxieties, insights, visions, discoveries … and if it’s none of that, it’s old fears rages desires ideals images feelings knowings rising up, shaking up the body.
If it’s not that, it’s dreams.
It’s almost like my system doesn’t tolerate peace; doesn’t tolerate stability and status quo.
A few days of balance, tranquility and seeming happiness are always punctuated quickly either by the external world; and if not, it seems, then by the internal one.
And there the carousel goes spinning, diving deep, gasping for air, shedding self, selves, branches, leaves, growing roots desperately, undressing out of my skin, standing on my head, becoming nothing – a kind of nothing that at some point discovers that it actually exists, somehow, weirdly, is alive.
Still / again / for the first time. (Again, for the first time. This is one thing I like about this cycle. So many first times.)
This has been the case since my teens; briefly subsided in my early twenties; then in my late twenties and early thirties it started like crazy.
To be honest, I know it can get more intense because the only reason it didn’t is the innate strength of my body, and a younger body is typically more resilient than an older one (I’d assume, although self-care can of course have an effect).
It goes seem like life simply levels up.
Mastering survival (sometimes psychological or spiritual survival) at one level doesn’t result in more than a few days of feeling reasonably fine. Of being able to maintain a routine, daily “functioning”.
There are always new layers to be peeled off.
I am never finished.
This makes life exciting.
But it makes it crazily intense.
Even when I’m seemingly alone, withdrawing to the countryside, talking to few. Reaching inwards, trying to build a cocoon, a comfort zone (hard for an autistic person with intensely excitable senses, and on top of that a sixth psychic sense that gets out of control). (Also very hard with constant anxieties about material things.)
In that case, the spirits will come to challenge me.
Either the spirits of past, present (future?) or just the spirits that apparently need to talk to me at the moment. I can then occupy myself with figuring out what their business with me is. Never bored.
Peeling off layers, walking through walls (yes), walking on water, breathing water, stepping out of my skin and into – who knows what – … stepping into my skin, finding someone else entirely, but someone who is very familiar.