Dear Frustration,
We don't hang out a lot - you and I. I tend to move over to lady Anger shortly after you arrive. Or straight to Miss Sadness, or Disappointment. Even Despair has greeted me after your visit. So yeah, our time together is often short. But it stands out: The frowning that comes along with you, the shrugging of the shoulders, the shaking of the head, the lip smack, the eye roll, the whiny voice... You bring a lot of friends with you, don't you? Do you do that to prepare me for what'd come next? So I'll feel every inch of you in my body and my voice, as if to send me an amber alert - a loud one that makes sure I read its content? You must seek attention from me real bad. You must want to be heard. Seen. Acknowledged. Well, here I am - SEEING you, and I appreciate your deliberate banging on my head. I appreciate your warning to what comes next. Because Anger, Sadness, Despair... those are all far more severe than you are. You are simply a train stop on the way to somewhere harsher for me to swallow. You are a warning sign that somewhere I have been triggered, or something has actually happened, and that I'm on a train heading somewhere now. You also remind me of the child in me: the brat. The spoiled. The selfish. The child who has yet realized that nothing is within her control. The child who thinks the world revolves around her needs. The child who doesn't know yet that she won't always get what she wants. No matter how much she'll want it. (Sorry to blow your bubble all you manifestors of the world!) You and her are a bit linked. So thank you for the warning and the reminder that the child is always there in me, waiting to burst into the air. She, too - longs to be seen. Heard. Acknowledged. Perhaps you, dear Frustration, ARE the child. Perhaps. Until we meet again... ~Your vessel.
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Dear Pride,
I sometimes think ill of you, like you are this mean high-schooler who thinks she's better than everyone else. Like you have the curse of hubris. And when I am in your presence I have the curse of hubris. And anyways who do I think I am ever being PROUD of myself!? But see, now I realize, there are layers to you. Today I feel the subtle humble side of you. The Pride that doesn't need to flaunt herself, but she is just there. Just there for ME. The Pride that is closer to grounded Confidence in her essence, than the harsher-than-life Vanity. The Pride that feels good to be around. Not from a place of ego, but rather from a place of acknowledgment. Of validation. Of accomplishment. Of gratitude. That humble side of you, dear Pride, is in a nutshell - being grateful for myself. Being truly grateful for the luck in my way, the supporters in my life, the loves, the growth, the challenges, the tears... anything and everything that lead me to be someone I would be proud to be. I realize, dear Pride, that in order to see all sides of you, I must get to know all sides of ME, of what I would consider a proud action, or endeavor, or moment. Who am I when I am in your world, dear Pride? In your layered world, that isn't only a bragging too-proud villain, and isn't only a mean too-proud school-girl. Who am I when a real sense of Pride comes over me. A humble quiet grateful Pride. Proud to be yours, T. Dear Disappointment,
No offense... but you SUCK. Mainly because I know that I 100% brought you into my life, with a good ole' expectation. You don't breathe, exist or show up anywhere without it. You're like the teammate of Expectation! A partner in crime! A loyal spouse! Or a leech that sticks around even when it is not wanted... To relieve myself of you means to never expect a thing. And to never expect a thing means to never dream about a possibility, a change, an elevation of some sort - an elevation that goes somewhere. Do Zen monks get to know you as much as I do?! Is anyone relieved from the misery that is your existence?! I realize I am coming off strong and vilifying you quite a bit... but I am speaking from feeling YOU entirely in my veins, and the feeling of you is so dreadful and full of regret and sadness. So if I act out - that is WHY. And I apologize. And I guess I also thank you for showing up if only for the lesson of relieving myself of expectations to begin with. Any form of futurism that is set in stone more than the occasional dreaming and fantasizing and strategizing is a dangerous tempting avenue to embrace some expectations that will bring nothing but YOU into my mix. So bring it on, Disappointment. Bring YOU on. Me. Dear Solitude,
Evidently, I need you more than I realized. Like fuel, You and I merge and I fill up and can face the world again. You are my lifeline. My battery. My sacred space where I can listen closely to my soul, to my insides, to my bitterness, loneliness, silliness, cleverness. My sacred space when inspiration hits, and tears flow. Where flow flows in all its wonder. No one else is needed when you are around. In fact, no one even exists in my mind. I am in a blind spot when you are near, and YOU is all I need. When we are separate for too long, I lose my anchor, my ground, my center. I run with no fuel, with no system to record patiently and thoughtfully. In less poetic words: I'm a total impatient and irritable jerk when I don't get spend time with you for a while. Dear Solitude, Yes - I need you WAY more than I realized. I thought I was the life of the party. An extravert who thrived on people. A people person. HUH! Little did I know... I am as addicted to solitude as it comes. A melancholic silly introvert. Such is me. But none of this is news to you, Solitude. You know your worth and you know how needed you are. You knew it all along, so you kept being there - offering your presence whenever possible. Those long teen nights when I would spend my time yearning and longing to love, to be loved, to be something, to be somebody... you were always there. Waiting for me to pick up my notebook, listen to some jazz tunes, and go on dates with no one other than YOU. And we'd dance together, make love together, evolve together... just as a melancholic silly introvert must do. You are my forever first love, dear Solitude. Love, Your person. Dear Confidence,
I used to think you were something different than what you are. I used to think you were brash, and loud, and walked with stride. That you were the center of attention. That you wanted to be heard from every rooftop and in every alley. I used to think you were hard to reach. That I would have to 'fake' you, in order to 'become' you. But now I know: You are none of those things. You, dear Confidence, are a small light that lights up deep in the stomach. You're a root of knowing that comes from somewhere inside me, and you are just there, at peace and ease with yourself. You don't need to showcase your presence. You don't need to announce your arrival. You don't need to raise your voice, in order to be heard. No, your voice carries loudly even in the softest whisper. Because it comes from the root of all things: the heart. Confidence, you are a knowing that anchors me to who I am, and NOT who I want the world to think me to be. You and I mingle most, when I am in flow. It is your happy place, indeed. And mine as well. Together we waltz and forget the time, lost in our endeavor, bound to our creative flow. That is when your truest form appears to me. Without the veil of my "idea" of you. A picture in a Magazine of what you are, or something. But the only picture I can truly make of you is how you feel when you are inside of me. And you feel like ease. You feel like the ground. You feel like truth. Thank you, dear Confidence, for residing in me. You make me truer. Yours, Tamar Dear Desire,
I heart you. I heart you so much. You sneaky thing... you trail off into the wilderness, abandoning me at times, and other times? Like NOW, You overwhelm me with your tenacious drive to fill me with all of your being. I am surrounded by you. I am at your mercy. I am your... for lack of better words... BITCH. I first got enveloped by you in puberty. Some time around twelve or so, when passion and confusion went rampant in my mind and body. I wanted things before, sure, but I didn't quite as much DESIRE things... people... quests... then I grew into a young woman, and you, Desire, became quite different to me than any other Want or Need. You became synonymous with my womanhood. You became warm like fire. You became fleeting like a sunset. You became powerful like the future womanly me. You are not just sexual, or sensual. Those are obvious traits of you, sure, but there is something else about you that I find intoxicating: the way in which you occupy my mind, you cloud my judgment, you direct my attention. You are powerful in your persuasion of me. You say the word and I tilt in a direction I desire. You point to it and I'm off to the races. You make a comment and I write a novel in my mind. And so there we are, the two of us, partners in crime, merging in our existence. I am your clay and you, my dear, are the artist bending me to your liking. I am indeed your bitch, dear Desire, and I like it. NO. I DESIRE it. Yours, Me. Dear Shame,
Whew. It's rough to be in your presence. With you, I feel small. I feel airy, like someone could walk through me. I feel transparent. Like I'm missing my normal mass size. I feel my throat choking, my body trembling, and my anxiety rising. That what YOU feel like, Shame. And strangely, you don't always show up with an announcement, or even a reason. You're just like... always there... waiting to be seen, to be felt, to be less alone. Today you popped up because I started thinking about the future I want to have. The hopes and dreams I have. The aspirations and goals I want to achieve. I thought about the person I want to be, the person that seems far away from who I am today. A person who would be seven feet tall, but as deeply rooted and anchored as a palm tree. A person who doesn't live for other people's praise or for other people's scorn. A person who doesn't live for other people because that person doesn't see other people as separate than herself. A person that is whole in herself, and in her purpose and in her nature and the nature she lives in. A person who is free of pressure, of ideas, of intellect, of small mind, of hubris, of jealousy, of bitterness, of sadness. A person who is rich in depth, in insight, in curiosity. A person who is fulfilled in every moment and in the next moment she fantasizes about. A person who is happy just being a human, telling stories of other humans, reaching others with empathy and tenderness to the human experience. A person with no shame. I saw that person I want to be in my mind. I know her. I know what she looks like, how she talks, how she carries herself in the world, how she feels about it, how she loves, how she creates, how she is seen and how she sees. I saw her alive and well in my mind, in my dream, in my wishful thinking. And then I became filled of Shame, yes - became filled of YOU my dear, because that person I long to be is not who I am. And maybe I will never be that person. Maybe I will never be her. Maybe you came up to tell me what a fool I am to want to be that person. What hubris I must have to think I am cut out for that. Who do I think I am with those aspirations!? I should be ashamed of myself. Yup. And here I am, ashamed of myself. Filled with you and detesting us both. You are the messenger of the loneliest self talk. You are the messenger to the quietest saddest feelings humans tap into. With hate, exasperation and fascination, Tamari. Dear Overwhelm,
You show up so announced, 'Out of the blue' should be your middle name. Oh, Overwhelm, why do you have to be so...... OVERWHELMING???! I feel you in my chest, pressing on my lungs. In my head squeezing on my brain. In my gut when food is not digesting well because I'm shaking inside. In my heart, beating faster that I can take. You stress me out, Overwhelm. You are SO UNWANTED in my life. Like, I'm not even shy about flat-out REJECTING you. No rejection would work on you, though. (Sigh) You don't care about how I feel about you. You are too... OVERWHELMING for me to have any say. You are all encompassing, fully containing. You own yourself and place yourself center stage. Even if I meditate every day, and repeat calming affirmations and self-care like I got nothing else to do.... even then I am a prey for your sinking teeth. You wretched, horrid thing. When things happen all at once, and feelings compound on top of each other accompanied by stress... you show up, scaring everyone away and shouting 'I got this!' I mean, I don't even know what feelings run through me when you're in charge. No clue. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Even writing to you is flat out.... OVERWHELMING. Look. Listen. Hear me out: Life is short. REALLY short. And I don't believe I will come back for another go at it. So will you step aside and allow feelings to be as they are!? Your presence overshadows everything else. Overwhelm, I am so OVER you. Will you step aside and you and I will be over, finished, finito!? Sincerely, Your prey. Dear Hypocrisy,
I don't know you. I mean, I DO know you. But only in other people. I don't know you in myself. You're there, in me, obviously. You are a human trait, and I am a human. I am not immune to your seductive powers. I am no better than the best of humans and no worse then the vilest of them. The likelihood that you are in me is high. Very high. Maybe equal to the likelihood that I blind myself to your presence. Have I EVER met you, face to face? Or are we strangers to each other, secretly fantasizing on the other, wondering when will the moment of truth be revealed...when shall we meet? When will our love affair begin? Or... has it been happening all along? I suspect you are there when I bring up my opinionated critic's eye on the latest film I've watched, or when my actions don't match to my words, or when I am quick to judge another person as being 'so judgmental.' I'll be the first to point you out in a debate. The first to use you as a tool to silence my opponent. To wear you like a badge of moral honor. Oh, the dare I have! The HYPOCRISY! You are laughing all the way to your moral high ground and I am left frozen, thinking 'Am I a hyppocrite!?' NO. I can't be. Can I...? And the bitter sad truth is YES I am a hypocrite like the best of them and the worst of them. None of us likes to think of ourselves as such. Maybe that's why you and I play this dance...: You show up, bang on the door a little, but I conveniently am blind to your presence, thinking the only hypocrisy laying around here is OTHER PEOPLE'S. Time to face the music. Time to face myself. Time to see you the next time you show up. Sincerenly yours, ~Me. Dear Panic,
I see you, peeking your head out. As if asking 'is it time? Is it MY turn now?? Is she ready for ME???' I see you and I honor you and I gently put your back in my body. As if saying 'no, honey. It is not time. Do not be swayed by the voices of others.' And then.... you peek out again, saying 'but...but... but...' and I gently put you back and then again we have this back and forth game that doesn't seem to end. But it's okay. Because I GET you, Panic. You are simply... panicked. I get you. Especially since lately it seems like your kind has had its reasons to panic. Many reasons. One of them - the widely infectious Omicron Variant of Covid 19. And the thing about collective panic, as you know, is that it tempts you to peek out and want to join the herd of Panics out there. And when I don't let you - I'd like to think you get mad at me for that but secretly respect my reluctancy to panic and my 'cool girl' vibe, but in reality - you probably don't care about anything other then TO SURVIVE. So in a way... Your entity is being my very own PANIC ROOM, and it's up to ME to choose to walk in the room. Today I managed to tuck you in, but who knows what tomorrow'll bring. Possibly - a sound reason to PANiC. Until you peek out again.... ~Yours. |
AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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Header Art: Daniel Landerman |