distractions...and more

Maybe it’s the classes I’m taking or maybe it’s the books I’m reading. Or maybe there’s no external tangible reason at all. Nevertheless, I have recently begun to feel as though there is more to me. More than the persona I present to the people of my daily encounters, more even than the truth I speak through the written language of my personal existence. I cannot prevent the intuitive feeling that there is more beneath the surface, existing beyond the depths to which I have previously dug.

During my masters program, I began to question the notions of what my numerous therapists over the years had speculated. I began to wonder more about the blank spaces of my childhood, the times of which I had no recollection. I began to wonder about the underlying reasons for the rebelliousness of my youth, to question the descriptive reality of the events leading up to my severe bouts with depression. I started to investigate the potential formulating grounds of my deepest fears. And throughout the process, I found myself both intrigued and terrified. I would often call my mom during those times, questioning her about my infancy and my childhood. I listened to her recollections of the history I myself could not remember and the past ambivalence of our relationship began to fade away in its evolution. During these talks, I learned more about myself and my history. I learned about my own childhood, as well as my mother’s early experiences. I began to understand more about the person I had become, and the contributing factors that had led me to that point in my life.

A couple of years later, I again found myself in a time of intense self-exploration. Following the disintegration of my marriage to a man I had never really known, I began to embark upon a journey of reflection. Surrounded by more solitude than I had ever previously known, I started to question the dynamics of my relationships. My curiosity regarding my destructive patterns of intimacy eventually led me to a place of unknown honesty and unforeseen clarity. My therapist at the time recommended that I allow myself to just “be” with myself. She suggested that I inhibit myself from engaging in the distractions that consumed the frequency of my time. Despite the uncomfortable and restless feelings, I attempted to participate in this experiment. During the six months following my divorce, I spent many days lost within my own inner world of thoughts, overflowing with tears and intense writings of catharsis.

Now, I have once again found myself with this nagging sense that there is more. What is it that the distractions of my daily life keep me from discovering? Even during the moments when the distractions of school and work are not available, it seems as though I have been filling my time with distractions of my own creation. If I allow myself to become still and just to exist within the moment, what is it that I am so terrified I might find? Perhaps it is simply the fear of the unknown. Perhaps is the fear of reactions, both from myself and from others. Perhaps it is the prospect of confronting realizations that I am not yet ready to face. What would happen if I allowed myself to free those thoughts and feelings that I can sense floating toward the surface of my life? Perhaps the sense of more would become enough.