......and back again.

There, and back again.

This blog has long been dormant: I blame the ever changing thread that is my life; don't we all?

Is it because I have given up on writing?
absolutely not.

I still struggle to form the words that will give voice to the thoughts inside.

In my absence from this blog I have written significant portions of what I hope will become my first published work (I have yet to go through the process of seeking a publisher. Tips are welcome!)

But in my absence I have also been plagued by self doubt, by anger, by self loathing, by believing that every word I type or pen and save is futile or useless or cliche or utterly laughable.... and most recently I have been plagued by loss.

I have been plagued by loss of great proportions; I do not wish to recount these individually but suffice it to say that they have been of a permanent nature and have numbered more than three all within the last three years.

I do not deal well with loss, I find it convenient to fold into myself and close away.

In the wake of these and my life in general, I have deemed a blog name change appropriate.
And so I present to you; "There, And Back Again."

Held out in the shreds of what were my hands... my head... and heart, and hopes, and dreams.
Formed by loss, fire, pain, blood, the tearing apart and rebuilding of myself... times one hundred.

I suppose many of you when presented with this name will think "HOBBITSES!!!"
No.
Sorry.

This has nothing to do with Hobbits.
I suppose it does represent a journey; what I know as my continual journey or struggle:
to be utterly broken and rebuilt and broken and then rebuilt... and broken again and rebuilt once more.

I think that one of the main struggles for me has been to simply be.

To be without worrying whether I was "well on my way" to the "american dream."
I struggle with working in retail while knowing that it is much better to plan my course and wait instead of going to school, getting a degree, and getting married  right away solely because it is what society expects of me.
I know that in the long run waiting to get a degree will suit me better than forcing it right now in the throes of indecision.
As will waiting to get married or start any form of serious dating.

But I digress.

The purpose of this blog is to explain its new title and present a hopeful "I shall write."

I have often felt that I have no right to feel horrible and despondent because at the end off the day there is always someone worse off than myself.

I do not belittle the struggles of the less fortunate.

I have seen huts of plant matter in Romania. I have seen children with no shoes. I have seen hunger, beggars, and babies who are orphans stiff from lack of love. I have experienced want and fear; fear that perhaps at the month's end I would no longer have a home.

Somehow through the grace of God I have not experienced the actual loss of a home or any sort of prolonged hunger.
For this I feel so very fortunate and so very thankful.

Yet this does not mask the pain I often carry inside.

There, and back again:
There to pain, there to the wish that I would cease to exist by the day's end and back: by realizing that still I am here and still I must go on despite everything.

Despite the utter fear that next year I will be in the exact place I am now; struggling to grow up, to be what I must in what is known in the "adult" world.

"There" feeling rejected by those who do not take me at my full value or feel that I am here simply to suit their needs and nothing more.

"There" feeling despondent, feeling that I am a waste of space, feeling so twisted inside that the only way to relieve such pain was by carving lines to relieve and control the inner pain.

"There" feeling pulled apart by simultaneous pain and joy in the form of loss and happy knowledge that those whom I, my family, and friends had lost were no longer suffering.

"There" in the form of feeling that the world is better off without me because I am full of contradictions, willful actions, anger, trivial longings, I am lacking control. I often find myself struggling to remain objective and mature in the face of recurrent situations which I have no control over.

I suppose I have resisted the urge to admit what I feel because the majority of society views those who feel as if the world is better off without them as disgraceful and ungrateful; they are outcasts almost already given up upon.
They are often questioned "How dare you feel that way when someone else might feel more than you do in this moment?"

I believe that denying that you feel in that manner is worse than admitting it; denial destroys.

In the moments that I am there I find it hard to believe that things will change for the better.

In the face of loss there I find it hard to find joy in life to return back again..

Yet here I am; awake, (at an ungodly hour) alive, in possession of a job, and a bed...

I have been there, I still go there; but I come back again.

I will write.
I will work.
I will be.

This doesn't mean I don't need your support; I do. I would be a fool to say I did not.
I care; I care so deeply that I go there when I hurt.

They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger and I must say that I completely disagree; continual pain and no support breaks one down to the very bottom of their being and coming back from that is a most horrific struggle which one is bound to lose if they are alone. . . knowing the technology that is available to us, continual silence is even harder to bear.

I no longer feel that admitting I am despondent to the point of considering oblivion is embarrassing or weak or ungrateful.
 I think we all can understand being at that point; some more than others and some like me, visit that place more often than we wish to; we are broken and we rebuild over and over again because we must; we go there and we come back again.

And we desperately hope that we were not wrong to do so.