When I was a young girl, usually on Saturday mornings, I would lie in bed and try to throw my brain into what can possibly be described as a black hole or nirvana. My thoughts would chase themselves into oblivion. I would begin by “thinking about thinking” to the point where I wouldn’t be able to discern where my thoughts began or ended–a spiral.
Being disoriented. Throwing things off slightly. Not really thrilling. Not really comforting. Curious. Escape. More fascinating than cartoons.
That sensation has morphed recently. Taken a freaky turn.
Unintentionally, the knowledge will engulf me that I exist parallel to an understanding just out of grasp. That there is no connection between what makes sense to me and what most people accept as truth. Self-doubt.
It’s not just a panic that life experiences or personality or physical appearance . . . or let’s face it, a raw case of nerdiness, has prevented me from existing in relationship with others. It’s an awareness that the world is full of codes, private jokes, inside knowledge that elude me.
Is this simple raw loneliness? I don’t think so. It’s a questioning. A deep disconnect that throws everything into suspicion. This isn’t about the crushing end of a relationship you never fully understood.
This feeling is most acute when I am in situations that have an odd mix of familiar and unfamiliar.
I attended a talent show performed by international students. Their camaraderie left me floating in a timeless / spaceless cloud. As if my body and soul were separated. Like I might have belonged. Instead, I was sidelined. A member of the audience.
Browsing the spring fashions at a certain store. None of the clothes made sense. I felt dizzy. Some of the tops / dresses already looked like items at a garage sale. The fit appeared dubious.
In these moments, my life appears as an extreme esoteric structure. An audience of one, who will never read these words.
Like that instant when you realize that maybe you’re not that funny. It’s just that the people in your family are easily amused.
It’s not regret, exactly. It’s more a sense of being hoodwinked.
When did the veneer become accepted as reality? How did it take hold? At what point could I have cracked the code and understood more profoundly? Is it possible to escape?
Even this collection of pondering. Especially this post. Endlessly spinning. Thinking about thinking about thinking . . .