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There is a yearning in writing. A need to put the swirling overwhelming magnitude of what is inside into the 2D representation on the page. The words cannot fully represent the magnitude of all that is felt, but the words can make the magnitude feel manageable. The act of writing helps arrange the thoughts into a constructed sentence, an understanding of all that is floating in your head. All the thoughts and doubts, insecurities and criticisms. Underneath all of that, there is you and your true essence.
According to John Koenig in The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows, agnosthesia is
“the state of not knowing how you really feel about something, which forces you to sift through clues hidden in your own behavior, as if you were some other person- noticing a twist of acid in your voice, an obscene amount of effort you put into something trifling, or an inexplicable weight on your shoulders that makes it difficult to get out of bed.” The programmed and conditioned behavior of situations passed that are the template for the unknown feeling residing underneath the surface.
The past week my emotions were high. Highly expressed and felt. Anger, sadness, grief, and depression. I was submerged in agnosthesia. Not knowing why, unable to reach the surface for a breath. Trying to logic my way into context of an inner playground and unable to do so. My mantra was, I just have to ride the wave. In the midst, I wanted it to be over and at the same time did not want to find a way out. Battling the need for an explanation through hormones, cosmos, sleep. Anything that would provide context and might possibly provide a false sense of control.
My focus was on thinking, but not about rainbows and butterflies. Thoughts that I once was intimate with but have been estranged from in recent times. Depths I did not want to visit again, but now that I was in their midst I never wanted to leave. There is a sense of euphoria around despair. The tethering to the darkness that tells you that you are in danger, but you just do not want to let go. In its own demented way it is hope, a possibility for an end.
Some have never felt such a pull towards the never-ending pit of despair. Some of us have felt it in the depths of our body. I felt the familiar knowing, a tingling through my core, when the thoughts of old came back to give me a sense of obscure relief.
The darkness lives within me. Even though it is not always at a point to be seen or felt. It is there. Whether it is the cosmos, hormones, or lack of sleep that sets the stage, the despair is always waiting in the wings for the cue.
On the other side of the emotional wave, my understanding is not that I need to exorcise that part of me, but to embrace and understand that some days it will need to be seen and felt. A remembrance of where I have been. A comforting template for what worked before. Protection from a friend that knows a way out.
Continue pondering..
