Impedimenta Minefields

This is dangerous

Open up your head, feel the shell shock

This is dangerous

I walk through minefields, I watch your head rot

Unpacking everything is a lot. Too much some days.

I told her as we wrapped up that I prefer not talking about it most of the time because now it’s like I have this suitcase exploded in my mind’s bedroom and all I wanna do is go to sleep but the bed is covered in old baggage.

Unpacking every memory is an endless interconnected process. Sure, yesterday’s outfit needs to be handled but let’s be real... the thing we’re really after here is that baggy t-shirt that used to swallow me whole that barely fits over my head anymore. That’s the one that needs to get finally unpacked, washed, and sorted into a box. No one gets sleep till that one, and all the wrinkled clothes sitting on top of it are finally unpacked.

This is where “complex” comes into play. At the end of every rabbit hole, there’s another rabbit hole. Each one holds a frighteningly expansive set of possible destinations. Every tunnel runs through the same tangled system of passages, every one of them bound to connect with the others at one point or another. It's not like I'm just unpacking an overnight bag. It's every wardrobe I've ever walked through life in. Footie pajamas, prom dresses, threadbare camp shirts, and old boyfriend's stolen hoodies. Things that should have been packed in boxes or given away decades ago but they're all shoved in this one Samsonite with a busted locking mechanism.

I'm tired. I'm tired of lugging it all around. I'm tired of ”unpacking” just to shove most of it back in to deal with the next time. I'm weary of trying to make sense of the senseless and learning to let go of baggage that I never should have held onto in the first place. I'm over it, man. Like, just do the light voodoo thing so I can chuck this shit in the ”give away” pile and breathe again. 

My body is scarred, bruised, and can’t figure out how to heal itself for anything. I’m a hobbling metaphor for this disorder. Half the time I can’t tell if the physical symptoms are from the mental weights or actually from the bullshit autoimmune diseases, not that it matters much I suppose. Pain is pain is pain. Fatigue still means I’m trudging through the day no matter why it’s there. Either way, I’m tired of just surviving my own life.

God... you read that back and it sounds like everything is terrible. 

I guess that’s the frustrating part. Life really isn’t all that bad. There is so much good right now. I have people who love me well no matter how difficult it can be. I have these incredible kids who I get to love and protect and encourage and witness. We’re doing ok. I’m doing ok. There is a lot to be happy about, and I am happy. The exploding suitcase and the somatic garbage just makes it hard to enjoy sometimes.

I just want to be a person who can lay down and go to sleep without needing to be tranquilized. I just want to not feel like every day is a minefield, like I am minefield. I’m tired tripping myself up. I’m tired of feeling like I am a burden to those who love me. I’m tired of not trusting myself and other people’s genuine care.

_{And we're dancing in the minefields
We're sailing in the storms
This is harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for
That's what the promise is for}

_{So when I lose my way, find me
When I lose love's chains, bind me
At the end of all my faith, till the end of all my days
When I forget my name, remind me}