“Analysis kills spontaneity. The grain once ground into flour springs and germinates no more.”
~Henri Frederic Amiel~
During my counselling session this afternoon the topic of spontaneity arose, or rather my distinct lack of spontaneity, or rather my current distinct lack of spontaneity. Many moons ago I was far more likely to act on impulse than I am today.
Sometimes I spend hours editing and re-editing my blog posts, whittling them down from something unique and indelibly me to a cold piece of text that has lost all meaning and relevance. Years of building walls and layers of protection to prevent any further possible abuse has numbed my senses to the point that I live in an almost impenetrable bubble. My mind refusing to allow myself to just ‘go with it’ as once I did.
When I was travelling around Scotland I made a vow to never go on a ‘bus tour’, but when I arrived on Orkney and realised I would see little of this beautiful island, on the spur of the moment I organised to partake in a Wildabout tour – and in so doing created one of the best days I’d had travelling.
Whilst backpacking across Canada I decided, spontaneously, to spend a few nights at a backpacker hostel. If I hadn’t done this I wouldn’t have met one of the greatest women I’ve ever known.
On a similar level, although elevated in mood courtesy of bipolar, my spontaneous act to streak Rundle Mall as the result of a bet led to several wonderful moments which have lived on in my memory ever since.
Even whilst homeless, the incidents of spontaneity provided my happiest moments. Of munching on pizza in the nude whilst in a motel. Of the sudden decision to leave a boarding house in June 2010 (note: I haven’t reached this in my reflections series yet, but I will soon). Of coming to the town I now call ‘home’.
Sure, throughout the years negative things have arisen as a result of spontaneous action – both with and without mental health episodes at play. But are those moments of pain enough to stop me allowing myself to live again?
My life already feels as if it is nothing, so what do I have to lose? I have already lose everything, so why am I so scared to let people see who I really am? Why does fear grip me so tightly every minute of my life?
I need to find a way to allow myself to embrace life again. To not keep myself so protected. I wish – nay need – my life to germinate once more, for the thought of this for an eternity is too much to bear.
Perhaps I will sleep on it, try to see if I can find a solution, a path, one not blocked with thorn and bramble, or even if it is, to find a bloody sharp machete in which to forge a new route out of the darkness.
Note: this was written as a stream of consciousness, so apologies for any spelling and/or grammatical errors contained within. Also, it’s effing late, and I’m knackered, need to sleep :p