Welcome to what will probably be the most emotionally daunting and potentially humiliating segment of my life. I intend to use this outlet as a forum of brutal honesty; a sort of public diary. Mind you, I certainly don’t think I’m important enough that anyone will feel especially inclined to read this, or care. I just believe that the image I often portray on social media, and even in my day to day life, gives a very small look at who I am and why I do what I do. For me to feel truly authentic, it’s important to bring the ugly, boring, uncomfortable, embarrassing, and hidden parts of myself and my life to the surface. We hear a lot of talk these days about wanting to find people who are “real”, but see very little action to assure that we, ourselves, are living up to that standard. So here’s my real; my action. I hope, if nothing else, this makes someone feel comfortable enough to embrace the freedom that comes with honesty. After all, that’s all I really want.
Freedom is the best place for me to start. It is the most fitting “subject” I could think of for this blog as a whole. Webster’s Dictionary defines eleutheromania as a “mania or frantic zeal for freedom”. I define it as everything that is wrong and right in my soul. Eleutheria is the original Greek goddess of freedom. She is the predecessor and inspiration for Libertas, the goddess that inspired The Statue of Liberty. I don’t feel I’m even remotely worthy to use her name, but I intend to treat it as a symbol of the best version of myself I can imagine; dauntingly beautiful and recklessly free.
I crave so badly for personal freedom; and yet I am trapped. I live in a constant state of ambivalence. This is a common theme found in almost every aspect of my life. I have bipolar disorder, or manic depression, which results in periods of time in which entirely different beings occupy my body. The Libra in me allows those two sides to balance so the wreckage is easier to ignore. Ultimately, my mental illness is not the sole dictator of my character. It has influence but not control. Even if I was entirely sane, I would still be me, as me would still be I.
One part of me is fiercely independent, confident, and driven. I like the way I look, I love my body, and I am quick to show off. I can often be more forward than I should, and easily disregard the consequences of my actions that I will have to face, simply so I can feel fun or joy or pleasure in the moment. I love to stand out and draw attention to myself, and gladly embrace the “weird” or “unattractive” pieces of my personality. When I hear the judgments people have of me, or the labels that have been carelessly slapped on my back, I consciously will become even more of that label; generally that means slutty, desperate, or weird. Perhaps I feel more in control this way. Perhaps I like to be talked about, or disliked, or anything other than normal. I feel like an old soul, I love my writing and my intellect, I’m proud that my ears prefer outlaw country to pop, and I feel like who I am is pretty cool. In my mind, I can picture myself as wanted and admired. I feel comfortable in my own skin, and I can almost taste freedom on the tip of my tongue. I’m so close.
Then there’s the other part – the sort of depressive partner to the above described manic me. This part of me is insecure and self obsessed. I fall into phases of self pity and anxiety that devour me from the inside out. I put an immense amount of thought into the way I present; the image I am supposed to keep up. I try hard to make jokes in order to relate to people. I am deeply impacted by the words or actions of those that I care for, regardless of if they care for me or not. In fact, I am way more likely to pursue the uninterested than anyone who genuinely seems to want me. More than anything, I spend hours and hours fantasizing about a “better” version of my life. In these fantasies, I am an entirely idealized version of myself; perfect skin, different voice, more in shape, inherently charismatic, and highly desirable. I conduct scenes in my head of how I wish conversations would go. I play through elaborate scenarios of what it would be like to be wanted, or fucked, or loved by people I am drawn to but won’t ever have. I imagine different lifestyles, different experiences, and different outcomes. I often play music, and compulsively pace back and forth to help create an environment in which I can fully commit to the daydream. In simpler terms, I desperately escape who I am at all costs with the idea that as long as these scenarios involve some small part of the “actual me”, and other people or places in my life, they are possible. This is not freedom. It’s hell.
Maybe the “real” me falls directly in the middle. Maybe both sides are equally authentic. Maybe. All I know is that my soul is being torn to pieces every second that I sit around and remain a prisoner of my own mind and heart. I have reached a point in my life where the strongest desire I have is to find my freedom. Historically, I have nearly died in the desperate pursuit of liberation. My issue is that the path to freedom is covered in self destruction – and I end up destroyed far before I make it to the end.
Regardless, the eleutheromania hasn’t died, and I’m willing to do whatever I need to in order to feed it.
Laying my skeleton out on the table for anyone or everyone to see is a start. I pray that this first blog entry will mark a turning point in my life; the first step in the pursuit of genuine liberty. From here on out, I will use this forum to document the choices I make, the impulses I let myself act on, the feelings that I pursue, the art that I make, the poems that I write, and the pictures that I take in an attempt to let go of everything still restraining me. If nothing else, I will express myself with full transparency and honesty on this page.
I want to make love to my fears, do whatever sets my heart ablaze, and get to a place in life where my daydreams don’t even come close to measuring up to reality.
So here I go. This is eleutheromania.
-C.M.
eleutheromania 