Disconnected.

Disconnected

I feel disconnected.

I feel disconnected from my family.
I feel disconnected because it’s hard for me to talk to them. Because the deep stuff I probably should and probably need to talk to them about scares me. Because it doesn’t feel natural, because it feels awkward. Because I don’t know why I can’t start doing it.

I feel disconnected from my home town.
I feel disconnected because it’s so far away. Because nothing and everything about it is the same as I left it. Because some people told me I should leave, even though they later changed their minds. Because I was hurt so badly there. Because it’s so much a part of me, and still, I can never go back. Because there is no place else gives me the solitude and openness I once knew.

I feel disconnected from my people.
I feel disconnected because no one here talks they way they did. Because  nobody thinks the way they did. Because none of the earthy, familiar smells exist for me now; the spruce boughs, the simmering tea, the musty canvas, the thick warm hide. Because no one looks at me with pride the way they once did. Because I still dream in their language.

I feel disconnected from my God.
I feel disconnected because I worry too much. Because if I don’t fix it myself, I feel like a failure. Because nothing around me is quiet, nothing lets me hear that still, small voice. Because my dreams are no longer alive. Because I drifted away. Because I don’t know how to get back.

I feel disconnected from the people around me.
I feel disconnected because they don’t understand who I am and where I come from. Because I don’t understand where they come from, or why they are the way they are. Because they’re far too busy to care. Because most people won’t even read this. Because fewer people will do anything once they do. Because people don’t think to listen deeply. Because listening like that doesn’t matter to them like it does to me.

I feel disconnected from my art.
I feel disconnected because it no longer feels like something I am inside of. Because when I create something beautiful and meaningful, I don’t have time to sit and wonder at the gift I’ve been given. Because I don’t sit and just muse any longer.

I feel disconnected from myself.
I feel disconnected because when I am doing something. Anything. It feels like I am on autopilot. Because I can’t remember normal things that most people can remember. Because things get switched around in my brain, and yet it still feels like fact. Because I complain aloud how people can do certain things, then realize I myself am doing those things. Because my own history is blurred, mixed, tangled; not a solid line like it should be. Because I can’t figure out if I have always been like this, or if this is something new.

But what does it mean to be disconnected? Does it means that you are solitary, alone, an intrepid nomad? Does it mean you get to figure out things and reinvent them as you see fit? Is it bad to be disconnected?

I don’t really know. But feeling like you should be connected?

Hurts.

4 Replies to “Disconnected.”

  1. I read this and hurt for you. I got a new phone and lost your numbers. Call me! We need to talk. I think and pray for you guys often. Berte

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