Self-flagellation

Sometimes I go through this crazy phase where I just want to escape. Living in my life feels like living in a box and I just want to push and punch my way out of it, punch through the walls, escape to someplace else, leave everything behind like a snake shedding its skin, or a butterfly bursting through its caterpillar skin to fly free, unencumbered; alone.  It happens about twice a year.  “I want to see the ocean,” I say, or “I want my own place,” or “Just leave me be, let me go, untangle me, untie me, free me.”  I live inside this small place inside me, crouched in a corner, kicking and slapping at anyone that comes near.  I want out.

But of course I have nothing to want to be free from. My life is as I have sculpted it; I have everything I want or need. And yet, still, I feel encased in plastic wrap, suffocated, bound tight in a way that has nothing to do with fun or bondage.

I ask myself these questions:  where would I go, what would I do?  What would my life be like to be somewhere else, to be alone, to take care of myself, to have my own space, to not be responsible to anyone but myself?

I think about these things because I have never had them, not for any significant period of time. I just want…my own space.  Myself. I want to answer to no one. Just for awhile.

I know these thoughts are wrong, and that I don’t actually want to do them, and that if I did, I would quickly be very, very unhappy. So part of the exercise is to poke at those feelings, too, explore what it actually might feel like to be alone, to be away from my life, my loves, the things that bring joy and stability to my life; to be sad.  The pain I feel, the loss I feel in those moments, is my punishment for thinking those thoughts at all.  I punish myself with them willingly, knowing I deserve it.

Sometimes I wonder if I don’t really, actually, want my own space though.  Would having my own space mean giving up everything else?  Chatting with a friend earlier, she made the observation that each of my guys gets time to themselves, while I am off with the other…but I don’t. I’ve never felt much need for that, except, apparently, in these odd crazy moods of mine. I get alone-time in my head, I always say.  When I run, or write. And, truthfully, I don’t like to be alone much. (I know, I know, I am supposed to “love being alone, love myself, yadda yadda yadda.”  But I am truly not one of those that enjoys being alone.)  But sometimes…I don’t know.

I guess I need to get that cat-o-nine tails out again.

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