It’s been a month, I realize. I do that sometimes. I guess, one could say, I “hibernate”. I’ve been writing, for the most part, and research, because as a wise man once said:
The difference between fact and fiction, is that fiction has to make sense.
Or something akin to that. I’ve also been reading. I picked up a book that I hadn’t read in over 5 years and thought, it’s time to be delightfully amused again *.* and I was. It’s part of a series so, clearly not done with my reading ventures. If I’m not reading, I’m playing a video game with the sweetie (or D&D). And yes, of course, as an adult, I work for a living, so there will be days when I have little to say, or little time to say it in. Such is life.
But lately, I’ve been too sensitive and emotional to travel down any memory lanes. Things that have happened, things that continue to happen, even after donating to causes to aid those disasters…I still feel it. It’s not happening to me, I may be doing what I can to do something, but it still hits me. And I know the donations help, and they help move the hands that can do something, but I still worry. That’s me. The over-worrier (which explains why I texted my mom almost twice, every day, while Irma kept looming over the island. Panic is my middle name, it seems.)
I think that’s why I never liked watching the news, of any kind. But ignoring the news doesn’t erase the fact that things are going down into a spiral of scary. Or, as mom would say, beds are burning (link leads to a YouTube video, Beds are Burning – Midnight Oil. Hey, it was either that one, or We Didn’t Start the Fire – Billy Joel. I’ve inherited my mom’s taste in music, aaaand also her perspective on some things.)
Siiiigh. And that, folks, is why I’ve been avoiding a blog update. My mood, currently, is in a pffft setting which means the likelihood of rambles not only increases, but it also gets seasoned with morose blah-ness. And if that made any sense, kudos.
I’ve also been thinking a lot about Chester Bennington’s death. I remember a friend of mine telling me about it when I was at work and I felt goosebumps, not only because of the loss, but because I knew the meaning his voice, his songs, that band, held for me. Still does. Always will.
No, I didn’t know him. Nope, never went to a Linkin Park concert. But as someone who lives with the everyday issues of the mental health variety, Linkin Park released music that spoke to me in a time when I needed it most.
As a kid, I grew up thinking a lot of things were wrong with me because, lets face it, there were things wrong with me, I just hadn’t put a name to the disease at the time. No one is born knowing all their kinks and limits. We meet them as we live our lives and, sometimes, we’re lucky to recognize what it is and get help. Other times, we grow up hearing, “Oh, you’re just overreacting. There’s nothing there. It’s all in your head.”
Well, that’s partly true. It was in my head. But I didn’t put it there. It was there to begin with. I just fracking found it and its gnawing at my insides, refusing to communicate with me on any level except an emotional one, with sadness and fear and loneliness. These things happen. It is real.
I mean, come on, world, is it so easy to believe in the human soul, but not in the complexities of the human mind?
Linkin Park helped me stop the gnawing. It helped me take hold of that whirlwind of emotions because the words made sense to me. I read those lyrics time and time again, so that I wouldn’t just listen, I could also sing it (horribly, terribly, but it didn’t matter). Linkin Park was the beginning of finding solace in music. I can’t sing, can’t play an instrument, but music helps me in ways medication probably never will (and since music won’t give me weird/icky side effects, music wins. So much.)
I guess, once I heard about it, I felt the loss as someone who has also lost a loved one. Empathy should always come first.
Their music helped me see things better, to step away from self-blame and see things for what they are. It saved me, it still does, and has also kept me from telling a few people to go frack themselves with a kazoo (true story).
Siiigh. And again, pffft setting, morose blah. It’ll take time to turn it off. Amusingly enough, I can function as needed, but my writing, blog or story-wise, they’re the one place where my emotions are my paint brushes. I can’t staple a smile on my face and expect that to do my writing for me. Pffft, nope. Not how it works. I can make analytical observations based on the subject placed in front of me, but that’s work, that’s a whole ‘nother mindset, but this? This is my canvas, so I paint with my colors and, right now, my colors are what they are.
A bit messy, gloomy, pensive, but hopeful. There’s always room for hope.