THE FEELING’S BACK – Suicidal Tendencies
I wrote a letter just the other day to nobody in particular
But if anyone were to read a bit-they’d think I was a bit peculiar
But it matters not what they think of me, it’s only what I know is real
And so all that’s left that matters now-is that the feeling’s back
The feeling’s back and you just can’t stop it
The feeling’s back and you just can’t stop it
I fought a thousand times-I never knew the meaning of the word fear
Till that one day when I stood alone-staring straight into the mirror
It’s not a pretty sight-and even worse it’s so hard to face
Until I realize I’m the only one that put me in this place
I’m gonna breathe I’m gonna live-that’s right-nothing’s gonna stop me
I’m gonna shout I’m gonna scream-that’s right-nothing’s gonna stop me
I’m gonna run I’m gonna fly-that’s right-nothing’s gonna stop me
I’m gonna fight I’m gonna win-that’s right-nothing’s gonna stop me
Nothing’s gonna stop me, nothing’s gonna stop me now-
Cause the feeling’s back
and you gotta love the feeling
I dug my hole too deep-I couldn’t admit, I didn’t know when to stop
But you can only dig your hole six feet until the dirt comes back on top
I’ve got a long way left to climb but I’ll still look you straight in the
And I can honestly say I’ll never quit-not even on the day I die
I believe that in many cases, a person’s blog is the weather vane of their soul.
I’ll rephrase that. Now that I think about it.
A weather vane is such an archaic concept. It seems embarrassing to use it in the context of 21st Century cybertechnology.
No, not a weather vane.
I believe that a person’s blog in many cases is the 3-5 day computer-modeled meteorological forecast of their soul.
I specified “in many cases” for a reason. It is not always the case. There are as many blogs as there are bloggers. There is no right. No wrong. There is only different. There is what you like, what you don’t like, and what you simply don’t even think about. So when I say that not all blogs are a true reflection of the blogger’s psyche, that is not a damnation of those blogs. And to say that a blog is a genuine reflection of the blogger’s soul is not necessarily praiseworthy either.
Hell, look at Phoenixism.
This shit has become wayyy too interchangeable with the mysterious (and slightly scary) quirky mind I possess. And it is such because I’m incapable of any other way. I pour myself entirely into this blog’s writings. Whatever I’m feeling and experiencing at the moment of posting is exactly what the post will mirror. This was sorta born out a couple of months ago when I took the Myer Briggs personality test and discovered I was an INTJ type. At the time, I found another website which scans your blog, churns what it finds (words, phrases, ?) through its secret machinery before it gives your blog an alleged Myers Briggs score. Phoenixism was INTP. If that scan test is to be believed, what I post here is pretty true to life. I’m not terribly surprised, basically the words you find here are undiluted and unfiltered. I would say I withhold about 5% of my life from the readers…everything else is fair game.
I’m not here to impress or make friends or exchange cutesy cuddly tales. If that happens, it’s a great byproduct which I welcome. But it’s not my goal. The point of this blog is to literally bare my soul to an overwhelmingly disinterested global community.
Some blogs are centered around politics or crime or news or entertainment or the attention whore owner who uses her blog as a vehicle for attaining male attention and adulation, the whole gamut man.
If I had to put a lame tag on it, I’d say Phoenixism is a “self-discovery” blog, a blog of personal revelations and introspective examination gone bad.
It is for this reason, and this reason only, that Phoenixism is such a grueling reflection of the tortured mindfuck that goes on behind this pretty face.
Good, bad, ugly, who knows, and who cares. It is what it is.
When I was 10, my neighborhood friends had a nickname for me. A terrible one, actually.
“Acting all serious.”
That was it.
Not only was it pathetic and lame, it was incredibly long.
“There comes ‘acting all serious’,” I was greeted.
Because I was serious. I’ve always been serious. But I’m not. That’s the curious thing. I’m one of least serious people you’ll ever meet.
In fact, my absence of seriousness and gravity is a source of strife within my life, then and now. I can be way too light-hearted and glib and impulsive. Yet, my exterior persona conveys absolute seriousness. There is a disconnect.
Utmost seriousness. I’ve never done small talk well. I’ve never done goofiness well. I have the greatest Goddamned sense of humor but I’m reluctant to use it as a vehicle to entertain others. Well, I do use it on this blog, but the entertainment factor is questionable.
So I had this ridiculous nickname that took a jab at my serious facade and all the while, I was anything but. I’m not built like others, never have been. I don’t find the same sense of joy and disgust and fear and horror and delight and satisfaction in the same stuff most people do. Which is a very alienating experience, but I’m so used to it now, I don’t care anymore. Total acceptance.
Sometimes, though, shit just hits the fan. I think I’ve been sinking into a peculiar state of mind and it’s revealing itself on this blog.
I’ve looked back at what I’ve posted in the past few weeks. And the feeling’s back. The darkness has returned, the morbidity.
But there is no despair. This is a personal challenge. A call to arms.
As the darkness settles in and envelopes my soul, I will fight and prove myself stronger. I will vanquish the night. Light will return.
But for the time being, I am the King of Morose.
I need to keep my eye on the ball. Life must remain…as usual. I need to remove, sequester, something that I know is triggering this stormy pall on my psyche.
The knowledge is comforting, the knowing reassures me, for it offers me something I can wrap my hands and brain around and forcefully steer it clear of my life. It will take every last ounce of mental and emotional strength I can summon. A battle looms.
Keep my eye on the ball.
The ball for me is routine. Normalcy.
Tomorrow morning, my periodic widowmakers.
Widowmakers, haha. A snarky little term used by weight trainers to describe high-rep squats. Usually a widowmaker is made up of 20 reps and it’s exhausting as hell. In my last widowmaker, 4 weeks ago, I did 25 reps of 225 lbs, which is OK, not great, but good, considering I’m not the biggest guy.
I think I have a little more in me but you can’t race ahead of yourself when it comes to weights or you’ll be looking at some serious hurting or injuries. There is nothing quite as dramatic and ugly as a failed squat.
My weight training keeps my head clear and out of the clouds. It builds strength without, and strength within.
Because the clouds are proving too dark for my own well-being.