I spend a lot of time with one foot in reality – the here and now – and the other in my unreality at the same time. It’s kind of like living in Wonderland while also having a window into the outside (which is probably why I am as obsessed with all reincarnations of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ as I am). That’s probably not the best explanation I could give, but it’s something I haven’t really ever been able to put into words. It’s interesting in its own way though, pertaining to me personally and how I’ve always been in life with my gender, with family, and all else. I’ve always been in that ‘in-between’ somehow, so maybe it’s just a state of being that’s more natural to me than it should be.
I’ve written things before to try to explain this much better than rambling words on a page like this. Ironically, after saying that, most who have read these writings liken them to confusing ramblings on a page as well. I figured I’d post one of them here for the sake of it since I always seem to have this unshakeable desire for people to understand things, or to just understand me. It’s kind of a fruitless effort anyway because humans are all so diverse and complex, and we can’t ever possibly begin to understand each other let alone ourselves. But, without rambling further, here is something I wrote about three years ago when I was at my lowest (It is quite dark near the end, so a warning):
Drifting through wood-barren cases and grayed out walls – the frightening images in the distance welcome me yet horrify me. Faces indescribable; distortions clacking teeth of impossible length. Flat, horse teeth in canine mouths with minuscule eyes surrounded in white and red. Doll faces of antiquity twisting and thwarting my senses with their raised eyebrows and wide-eyed madness; mouths curved sideways to follow my mirrored mask of horrors.
I cannot confront you, but merely watch with dread and helplessness as you inquire me – speculate what frightens me the most. Or is this just a grotesque waking dream that I will never know the ending to? Not a dream, but a waking nightmare that is experienced lucidly in reality or on the fringes of reality. Your plastic visage can only mock me here on this fringe, yet what is the most tormenting fact of all: That I live in this very fringe and fabric that reality barely is able to sheer through.
You! terrible Voice in my head. Upon waking, you’ve already begun your one-way conversation of deprecation. You allow me not even a moment’s glance at the rising sun before you relentlessly beat me down with your disgusting vocabulary. It is your job to remind me of my failures – of the lies and deceptions humanity has fed to me. ‘Force-fed’ down my small, dry throat. My own flesh and blood are a common recurrence in your cruelest musings, Voice. You gambol about their empty promises, lies, and negligence. You remind me of companions lost, never to return, most likely, you remind me. My heart is their playground, as has been proven one too many a time, as you are so kind to recall for me, Voice.
I drown you beneath the bass of somber tones and instruments, blind you with the smoke that emanates from the nicotine-fueled poison seeping into my brain. Even then you manage to spit on my musings as I write, sour my journal pages with your word vomit. You drive me to my one last resort – my final coping method when nothing else can blot you out of existence.
At one time this very thing brought me beauty and smooth skin; now this weapon of choice brings only destruction as it splits the very skin it sought to keep clean. I cannot remain clean while I am in love with you, Voice. You remind me of this simple vice that can silence you, therefore I beckon to you when the intensity gains in volume. You put gentle pressure on the fast-forward button as my mind slowly fills with racing memories I fail to catch. I cannot keep up with you now, Voice. I must continue in my attempts to blot you out.
It burns. It causes so much pain to have you remain silent if only for a short time. My skin turns from pale to red – my skin tears and pops open in response to my final pleas to you, Voice. To make you become silent. And yet, I’ve finally done enough. Before the apathy has set in, before my visage becomes stone, you are long gone. You’ve gotten what you’ve wanted, and as I sit with this horrid instrument of destruction in hand, I realize that everything is once again silent.
But for how long? Perhaps I will meet you here once more tomorrow, Voice. Then we will continue this sadistic friendship once more. How I would love to enlighten you, yet be rid of you all the same. Until tomorrow, you glutton.
Shane Lestan – 11/2/2014
When I read it back now, it just seems like a more intricate way of wording a personification of an abusive voice that always looms over my shoulder. I often wonder if I’ll ever get to meet the source of this voice, and I am certain it isn’t any of my current alters or spirit guides. Maybe they are doing their best to keep the true identity of this voice far from me, as they’ve always promised to protect me. If nothing else, whoever or whatever this voice is, it’s set on my own personal destruction in this sick masochistic type of relationship.
I suppose the biggest plot twist of it all, which everyone would see coming at the end of a bad horror movie, would be that the voice is actually nothing buy my own self – my own brain. Almost as if it were split into two and my other self is my worst enemy. That’s just over-the-top corny at that point, but it’s the best I can think of.
The reason I named this entry ‘Liminal Spaces’ is because it’s probably the best way to describe my ‘in-betweens’. I suppose I should give you a definition of Liminal Spaces for reference:
It’s pretty much just a feeling of being displaced in space and time – a place where space and time don’t even seem to really exist. The link above to the article at the end of the quote provides some examples of everyday places and times people often associate with liminal spaces.
But what about liminal spaces created in your own mind? Liminal spaces that you live in day to day even when not seemingly in any location or time that is usually attributed to them? Maybe it’s an over-active imagination, maybe it’s my creative soul going on overdrive, or maybe it’s even something spiritual that I should feel gifted for. I don’t think there’s ever going to be a clear answer for these questions, but as for the original writing of my own that I posted above, I had tried to explain that odd liminal space I find myself in sometimes. The result is poetic fumbling through words in an attempt to describe the indescribable. After all, how do you describe things, spaces, or entities that don’t resemble figures, patterns, or shapes that humans know to exist? I guess, in that sense, a liminal space could be best defined as something that doesn’t even have a definition. Or maybe, the definition is just different for everyone due to its highly personal experience. As for myself, although it seems the consensus seems to say that liminal spaces should make you feel anxious or uncomfortable, I love them and I find comfort in them, but my entry until this point probably explains why that is.
More about Liminal Spaces: Places Where Reality Feels Altered – Oddysey
More: Places Where Reality Is A Bit Altered – Tumblr