17/10/2023 edit: Many of the segments of this article will read like the musings of a clown, in the event of 14/10/2023. I suggest reading that first, then coming back here and having a hearty laugh.
02/10/2023
As I’ve gauged, I maintain an internal knot that constantly prods at my emotional stability. On this day I awoke after a wondrous concert presented by the German “kosmische musik” band Tangerine Dream. Having listened to them for years, and a decade since their last visit, I could not miss the opportunity. I entranced myself in the mystique of layered soundscapes and the stoic head-tossings of Thorsten Quaeschning, contemplating life choices and my German angel, NAME REMOVED (17/10/2023 edit: name was removed at the request of NAME REMOVED, who requested after consenting to entire article prior to name removal, having a change of heart after breakup and follow-up article). Prior to showtime, I was struck by the outgoing nature of two accompanying friends. At one instance, they began to dance, suddenly, in the street outside the Olympia Theatre. They asked me to dance, but I refused. It was not a rejection based upon decision, but upon the pure discomfort it would put me through. My entire essence denied it.
I have a particular view of humans, where discomfort should scarcely lead to disengagement; to feel discomfort does not permit one, through logical self-argumentation, to not confront the object of discomfort. For instance, to say “Since the thought of action X brings discomfort, it is likely meaningless to me. It even stirs anxious physiological reactions in me. It must be that such an action isn’t for me to do, and I need not spend efforts towards it.” It is an easy argument to feed yourself because it rejects change. Although we needn’t tend to each discomfort, we should tend those with a voice that beckons you towards it. However incremental the progress, it should occur.
From this – both the discomfort of dance, and my belief in its anti-disengagement – my issue becomes, “Why the discomfort in me that brings about disengagement in dance?” The question has plagued me for years. I have avoided birthday parties from it. It severely limits my social ability. Who wants to frolic with the unfrolicable, the one who vanishes before the “exciting” stop in a night of spontaneous fun? I’ll tell you who; nobody.
Such persistent questions occupied my mind’s eye as I arose. Why can’t you simply express yourself? Why does your body feel tight and tense so much of the time? Why does the word “fun” and your existence repel each other? Don’t you know if you don’t fix this, you will never be the natural, expressive and loving agent your partner and friends need? And do you know not that if this persists, you will conversely lose the one who loves you most? Do not the conditions of your rigid nature predestine you to perpetual lonesomeness?
I could not gather the courage to face the world and took a sick day. I have acute awareness of my emotional state as it radiates pulses of warmth through my body that keeps it bedridden and worried. I’ll be more effective the next day than I would quietening these feelings against work tasks.
Eventually I fully arise and entered a warm bath. I asked myself, with purpose this time, “Why does this mechanism exist inside you? Why did you once need it? Why do find little enjoyment in fun? Why is it so difficult to untense your body and enjoy the full breadth of being?” Without forcing any thought processes or lines of reasoning, I let the thoughts come as they please… like waiting on the wind. It may have been 15 minutes to an hour later that a particular memory vividly presented itself from nothingness; an aged memory that I believe came with answers.
The memory was from my early teenage years, at some moment following one instance of the unending stream of heated arguments and marital struggles produced by my parents. I had finally mustered up the courage explain them my internal strife, “I can’t bear going out with friends, trying to enjoy my time, when I know this is going on between the two of you.” Their classic response was, “Don’t worry! Go out and enjoy yourself! We’ll be okay! Have fun and don’t worry about us, Anthony!” It clearly was a problem I was incapable of not thinking of, and nobody else could stop either, including my mother. Fast forward about 15 years and she is dead by suicide.
How could my parents expect this, as if sitting for beer with my friends would happen on Mars, far away from Earth, where the problems occurred. They seemed to forget that the home I would return to after a night of “fun” should be a place of love. Yet it was a home in complete disarray; a place where I never felt comfortable.
A night of fun with friends is frivolous when it ends in return to a home, twisted and fucked. You don’t want to go out. You want to swim in the disappointment for good, because there is no true escape. Eventually the concept of “fun” fades away to death, because it is inaccessible, infeasible, and thus becomes the grim skeletal remnant of its earlier, vital and untarnished self.
I reflected on this thought with NAME REMOVED. As I did, I began to sob uncontrollably. Why? Two reasons. First, it is incredibly tragic to realize that I’ve lost the natural spark of life, instead having to work to learn to be natural. Second, when I asked myself the multitude “Why”s, the force of the past sprang forth with an accurate answer. I was overwhelmed by these, and cried, pausing for NAME REMOVED as she poured honey into my ears, gently reminding me that she loves me regardless of these “issues”; that she loves me as I am, that I’m enough for her, and that she is not only satisfied but impressed by the fact that I’ve made it this far given the conditions. More crying, this time from the knowledge of my good fortunate at sharing love with such a compassionate woman. Having witnessed my mother’s extreme end and the type of good-for-nothing situations, people, and demeanour that ruin fruitful living, I wake up each day knowing what a blessing it is to have this woman by my side. I will never bring onto her a sliver of the pain experienced by my mother.
Following the phone call, I felt relief wash over me. A heaviness was lightened. Am I cured? Absolutely not. Knowing the issue and its origins is one step towards transformation. What follows must be a carrying through of easing the body. I’m unfamiliar with this side of myself, and don’t know where to start.
