I've written countless pages on the subject of my past, my depression, and the physical torments endured. They are, apparently, favorite subjects of contemplation. I tell myself that scribbling my thoughts on paper helps me work out these issues, but chances are it only helps me dwell on the problems. Still. I can't seem to stop myself. Hah... Darkly Dwelling Dayton. I recently had a conversation on the nature of pain in humanity. I know, an impossible topic, but it sparked a need to muse on the subject of my personal experience.
I know a woman who's had similar, and probably worse, stomach issues than I. Sometimes, we get stuck in these harsh dialogues. You see, we have diametric viewpoints when it comes to suffering. Her viewpoint is that of "someone else has it worse", which I always saw a trivialization of personal pain. Whenever someone fed me that line, I always felt intensely insulted. I can understand the origin of her view, though. It helps her move on through pain and to survive. I've not taken that path, and am no doubt worse off. I've probably mentioned my coping mechanism in the past. It's best summed up in a single phrase: Strength Through Fire. In fact, in my mind the saying has a scenario. A strong, pounding thump for every word; the stamping of polearms on harsh rock below a brigade of armored soldiers. Each soldier shouts the motto, their battle cry, every time the saying crosses my mind. I know. It's silly. Yet, the imagery remains firmly rooted.
All of the imagery is fine and dandy, but what exactly does the phrase mean to me? Strength Through Fire. Well. My fire is anger. A rage beyond measure, and words, and my own imagination. This fury is inwardly pointed, and thus self destructive. However, I've managed to use it as a fuel source. I use that same anger to power me through each day. Every day is a fight, to be certain. I've needed motivation to continue combat. For a long time, anger was that motivation. There is a systemic flaw to that strategy: it's temporary. Similar to fire, fury can fuel a furnace, but that fire is only momentarily tamed. One day, that flame will burn you. Long ago I began to get singed, and have been burned to a smolder numerous times since. My fuel source has soured, and left me handicapped.
When my rage stopped firing my furnace, I could feel the fight beginning to leave my bones. A man hollowed out by his own survival mechanism. I would lie in bed in the mornings and nights staring at the ceiling, and wish I was capable of crying. Or screaming. Most dreams had me dying in some fashion. Getting out of bed was only possible because of intrinsic routine. The torment was bad enough for my emotions to flee entirely, and I entered a kind of automated state. Months passed like this. People around me knew something was off, but I've become a fantastic actor, or more accurately a faker. So, in my singularity I suffered. Everyone has limits though, and somewhere along those lines I hit mine.
So what does a darkly dwelling dementoid do when devastation digs it's claws too deeply? A tough question, and one that has no clear answer. I knew I needed to change. I'd been lifting weights, so I increased that. Got tattoos, started pushing myself to be more outward and forward with women. I've essentially become a new person built from the wastes of furious flame. I've changed myself so much that I barely recognize the man I was just last year. Still... The core of me is the same.
All the personal modifications allow me to create meaningful connections, but I still feel that depressive center. To what purpose are these connections if I must hide who I am? This topic is a source of constant struggle, but I think I understand the reason. I hide my essence as to not overload anyone new. So. I hide it. After a while, I slowly reveal pieces of myself. Sometimes people are warded off, but not all of them. On good days, when all elements are just right, I find people I can relate to, and who can return the favor. Those days are few and far between, but they're there.
For me, that's new.
