Been reading Thomas Hardy per my mom's suggestion. Though his writing is dense, thickly entwined with mundane details of passing blades of grass and the like, the story was well..to put it simply, pretty darn wonderful. Everything ended how I wanted it to in the beginning and I can't say that didn't satisfy me.
Anyhow. In reading it. There were some dog-earred pages. I've noticed in my daily life, in my own private journal writing, and in my attempts to explain myself verbally in person, I have really, quite literally, lost the ability to translate what i'm feeling these days into words. For a lot of reasons. One is that I don't understand at all what i'm feeling, making it hard to put words to it. Another is that even if i did understand, I don't think i'd have words that meant what I was trying to say anyhow. So. I'll just keep collecting things and see how that goes. Here are some words straight from the finger tips of Thomas Hardy that I have felt in one way or another tied to:
"Bathsheba was stirred by emotions which latterly she had assumed to be altogether dead within her. The little attenuated voices of the children brought to her ear in distinct utterance the words they sang without thought or comprehension --
Lead kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on.
Bathsheba's feeling was always to some extent dependent upon her will, as is the case with many other women. Something big came into her throat and an uprising to her eyes - and she thought that she would allow the imminent tears to come if they wished. They did come and plenteously, and one fell upon the stone bench beside her. Once that she had begun to cry for she hardly knew what she could not leave off for crowding thoughts she knew too well. She would have given anything in the world to be as those children were, unconcerned at the meaning of their words because too innocent to feel the necessity for any such expression." -pgs 341 - 342
"So together they went and read the tomb. 'Eight months ago!' Gabriel murmured when he saw the date. 'It seems like yesterday to me.'
'And to me as if it were years ago -- long years, and I had been dead between.'" -pg 343
"...Oak walked on to the village, still astonished at the rencounter with Bathsheba, glad of his nearness to her, and perplexed at the rapidity with which the unpractised girl of Norcombe had developed into the supervising and cool woman here. But some women only require an emergency to make them fit for one. " - pg 44
"I don't know - at least I cannot tell you. It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs." -pg 308
And just because:
"Every window replies by a clang to the opening and shutting of every door, a tremble follows every bustling movement, and a creak accompanies a walker about the house like a spirit, wherever he goes." -pg 64
Happy New Year. 2012, i beg you to be a year of peace.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Post Thirty-Six: The World is Made out of Sugar
Watch the video here, read the poem below as a reminder of what you've just heard:
If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”
She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.
And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”
But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.
I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this,“There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.
You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sureyour mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.
“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”
Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.
Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.
This reminds me of myself and, more importantly, of my own mother. Thanks, Mama. For everything you do. For all the strength you provide. For the shelter. For the comfort. For the never ending waves of love, like the ocean. My "Ocean Eyes" mama. I always know where I can go when I feel as though the rest of the world has cast me out and is done with me. My mama will be there, ready to catch me, dust me off, and inspire, motivate me to go back out there and try again.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Post Thirty-Five: The Importance of Being Earnest
If you know the way this word was used during Oscar Wilde's time & you knew my new, most recent, loving companions I've been collecting, you'd realize the double meaning to being "earnest" and it's importance in my life.
Earnest:
Honest.
Earnest:
Fabulous.
Here's things I've been feeling deeply in tune with, things being songs (the links) and quotes. I've just started reading Wilde's short stories and about four pages in, he's alarmed me with wisdom on more than one (but only two) occasions. But still..the ENTIRE house of the Seven Gables only gave me FOUR counts of wisdom, and in four short pages, Oscar's given me two.
Am I fit for my role? Am I strong enough to make a bad story end well? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?
I've always loved that song. It's ironic how songs can just be beautiful songs to you at one point in your life, and later on, years later, be so relevant that you wonder if you had some sort of premonition in originally being drawn to it.
Okay! Wilde Time again!
Change those "he"s to "she"s and "him" to "her" & you may be surprised to find a pretty good description of me. Life, in recent years, has been incredibly discordant, because every time I thought I'd got it made it seemed the taste was not so sweet. And now, it seems truer than ever that time may change me, but that I cannot, no matter how hard I try, trace time. Fortunately, I am still very young!
Allow me, in these coming posts, to weave for me a picture of myself by doing what I said I'd do in private, exploring and figuring out who I am. I will use every relative piece of media I find to explain myself. And I will do my best to reorganize the chaos in my mind so that someday I may have an idea, a notion, as to who I am these days.
PS: Today marks only the 3rd month since Zach fell. It feels to me, like years ago, because I have been so many different versions of myself these past months in order to flex with the winds of life. I miss him, still as much as ever. I think about him, still as much as ever, if not more. I cry, definitely more, because as time wears on, truth ensconces. Oh Zachary.
Earnest:
Honest.
Earnest:
Fabulous.
Here's things I've been feeling deeply in tune with, things being songs (the links) and quotes. I've just started reading Wilde's short stories and about four pages in, he's alarmed me with wisdom on more than one (but only two) occasions. But still..the ENTIRE house of the Seven Gables only gave me FOUR counts of wisdom, and in four short pages, Oscar's given me two.
"Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for which they have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and our Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast" -Wilde in Lord Arthur Savile's Crime
Am I fit for my role? Am I strong enough to make a bad story end well? Can I sail through the changing ocean tides? Can I handle the seasons of my life?
I've always loved that song. It's ironic how songs can just be beautiful songs to you at one point in your life, and later on, years later, be so relevant that you wonder if you had some sort of premonition in originally being drawn to it.
Okay! Wilde Time again!
"And yet it was not the mystery, but the comedy of suffering that struck him; its absolute uselessness, its grotesque want of meaning. How incoherent everything seemed! How lacking in all harmony! He was amazed at the discord between the shallow optimism of the day, and the real facts of existence. He was still very young." -Lord Arthur Savile's Crime
Change those "he"s to "she"s and "him" to "her" & you may be surprised to find a pretty good description of me. Life, in recent years, has been incredibly discordant, because every time I thought I'd got it made it seemed the taste was not so sweet. And now, it seems truer than ever that time may change me, but that I cannot, no matter how hard I try, trace time. Fortunately, I am still very young!
Allow me, in these coming posts, to weave for me a picture of myself by doing what I said I'd do in private, exploring and figuring out who I am. I will use every relative piece of media I find to explain myself. And I will do my best to reorganize the chaos in my mind so that someday I may have an idea, a notion, as to who I am these days.
PS: Today marks only the 3rd month since Zach fell. It feels to me, like years ago, because I have been so many different versions of myself these past months in order to flex with the winds of life. I miss him, still as much as ever. I think about him, still as much as ever, if not more. I cry, definitely more, because as time wears on, truth ensconces. Oh Zachary.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Post-Thirty Four: The House of the Seven Gables
Has been my literary companion for these past several months, despite it's tiny pages. Nathaniel Hawthorne is no easy read, really quite a bore, but the story ended happily and left it's impressionable mark on me.
I dog eared a few pages because of what I read there & when I wasn't writing, I kept longing for a place to just record the passages that I felt so strongly about. I'll put them here now.
" 'Shall we never, never get rid of the Past?', cried he, keeping up the earnest tone of his preceding conversation. 'It lies upon the Present like a giant's dead body! In fact, the case is just as if a young giant were compelled to waste all his strength in carrying about the corpse of the old giant, his grandfather, who died a long while ago, and only needs to be decently buried. Just think a moment, and it will startle you to see what slaves we are to bygone times,---to Death, if we give the matter the right word!'
'But I do not see it,' observed Phoebe.
'For example, then,' continued Holgrave; 'a dead man, if he happen to have made a will, disposes of wealth no longer his own; or, if he die intestate, it is distributed in accordance with the notions of men much longer dead than he. A dead man sits on all our judgement-seats; and living judges do but search out and repeat his decisions. We read in dead men's books! We laugh at dead men's jokes, and cry at dead men's pathos! We are sick of dead men's diseases, physical and moral, and die of the same remedies with which dead doctors killed their patients! We worship the living Diety according to dead men's forms and creeds! Whatever we seek to do, of our own free motion, a dead man's icy hand obstructs us! Turn our eyes to what point we may, a dead man's white, immitigable face encounters them, and freezes our very heart! And we must be dead ourselves, before we can begin to have our proper influence on our own world, which will then be no longer our world, but the world of another generation, with which we shall have no shadow of a right to interfere. I ought to have said, too, that we live in dead men's houses; as, for instance, in this of the seven gables!"
'And why not,' said Phoebe, 'so long as we can be comfortable in them?'
'But we shall live to see the day, I trust,' went on the artist, 'when no man shall build his house for posterity. Why should he? He might just as reasonably order a durable suit of clothes,--leather, or gutta percha, or whatever else lasts longest,---so that his great-grandchildren should have the benefit of them, and cut precisely the same figure in the world that he himself does. If each generation were allowed and expected to build its own houses, that single change, comparatively unimportant in itself, would imply almost every reform which society is now suffering for. I doubt whether even our public edifices--our capitols, state-houses, court-houses, city halls, and churches--ought to be build of such permanent materials as stone or brick. It were better that they should crumble to ruin, once in twenty years, or thereabouts, as to hint to the people to examine into and reform the institutions which they symbolize." pgs 221-223
And also:
"It is clear to me as sunshine,--were there any in the sky,--that the greatest possible stumbling-blocks in the path of human happiness and improvement are these heaps of bricks and stones, consolidated with mortar, or hewn timber, fastened together with pike-nails, which men painfully contrive for their own torment, and call them house and home! The soul needs air; a wide sweep and frequent change of it. Morbid influences, in a thousand-fold variety, gather about hearths, and pollute the life of households. There is no such unwholesome atmosphere as that of an old home, rendered poisonous by one's defunct forefathers and relatives. I speak of what I know." pg 320
And:
"These wanderers are readily responsive to any natural kindness--be it no more than a smile, or a word, itself not understood, but only a warmth in it--which befalls them on the roadside of life. They remember these things, because they are the little enchantments which, for the instant,--for the space that reflects a landscape in a soap bubble,--build up a home about them." pg 360
finally:
"It is very singular, how the fact of a man's death often seems to give people a truer idea of his character, whether for good or evil, than they have ever possessed while he was living and acting among them. Death is so genuine a fact that it excludes falsehood, or betrays its emptiness; it is a touch-stone that proves the gold, and dishonours the baser metal. Could the departed, whoever he may be, return in a week after his decease, he would almost invariably find himself at a higher or lower point than he had formerly occupied, on the scale of public appreciation." pg 382
PHEW!
And, to top this quoteness all off, somethings from Tom Robbin's Even Cowgirls Get the Blues:
"The lust of the goat is bounty of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.
--William Blake"
"The first amoeba, like the last and the one after that, is here, there and everywhere, for its vehicle, its medium, its essence is water.
Water --- the ace of elements. Water dives from the clouds without parachute, wings or safety net. Water runs over the steepest precipice and blinks not a lash. Water is buried and rises again; water walks on fire and fire gets blisters. Stylishly composed in any situation ---solid, gas, or liquid--- speaking in penetrating dialects understood by all things ---animal, vegetable, or mineral--- water travels intrepidly through four dimensions, sustaining (Kick a lettuce in the field and it will yell "Water!"), destroying (The Dutch boy's finger remembered the view from Ararat) and creating (It has even been said that human beings were invented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to another, but that's another story). Always in motion, ever-flowing (whether at steam rate or glacier speed), rhythmic, dynamic, ubiquitous, changing, and working its changes, a mathematics turned wrong side out, a philosophy in reverse, the ongoing odyssey of water is virtually irresistible. And wherever water goes, amoebae go along for the ride." pg 2
So there's the things I felt I needed to read at least twice & really think about. And furthermore, post somewhere so others could read them and think about them too.
Now that I've wasted as much time as I have, I guess I'll go try to be productive so that I can be a semblance of pleasantness at work.
I dog eared a few pages because of what I read there & when I wasn't writing, I kept longing for a place to just record the passages that I felt so strongly about. I'll put them here now.
" 'Shall we never, never get rid of the Past?', cried he, keeping up the earnest tone of his preceding conversation. 'It lies upon the Present like a giant's dead body! In fact, the case is just as if a young giant were compelled to waste all his strength in carrying about the corpse of the old giant, his grandfather, who died a long while ago, and only needs to be decently buried. Just think a moment, and it will startle you to see what slaves we are to bygone times,---to Death, if we give the matter the right word!'
'But I do not see it,' observed Phoebe.
'For example, then,' continued Holgrave; 'a dead man, if he happen to have made a will, disposes of wealth no longer his own; or, if he die intestate, it is distributed in accordance with the notions of men much longer dead than he. A dead man sits on all our judgement-seats; and living judges do but search out and repeat his decisions. We read in dead men's books! We laugh at dead men's jokes, and cry at dead men's pathos! We are sick of dead men's diseases, physical and moral, and die of the same remedies with which dead doctors killed their patients! We worship the living Diety according to dead men's forms and creeds! Whatever we seek to do, of our own free motion, a dead man's icy hand obstructs us! Turn our eyes to what point we may, a dead man's white, immitigable face encounters them, and freezes our very heart! And we must be dead ourselves, before we can begin to have our proper influence on our own world, which will then be no longer our world, but the world of another generation, with which we shall have no shadow of a right to interfere. I ought to have said, too, that we live in dead men's houses; as, for instance, in this of the seven gables!"
'And why not,' said Phoebe, 'so long as we can be comfortable in them?'
'But we shall live to see the day, I trust,' went on the artist, 'when no man shall build his house for posterity. Why should he? He might just as reasonably order a durable suit of clothes,--leather, or gutta percha, or whatever else lasts longest,---so that his great-grandchildren should have the benefit of them, and cut precisely the same figure in the world that he himself does. If each generation were allowed and expected to build its own houses, that single change, comparatively unimportant in itself, would imply almost every reform which society is now suffering for. I doubt whether even our public edifices--our capitols, state-houses, court-houses, city halls, and churches--ought to be build of such permanent materials as stone or brick. It were better that they should crumble to ruin, once in twenty years, or thereabouts, as to hint to the people to examine into and reform the institutions which they symbolize." pgs 221-223
And also:
"It is clear to me as sunshine,--were there any in the sky,--that the greatest possible stumbling-blocks in the path of human happiness and improvement are these heaps of bricks and stones, consolidated with mortar, or hewn timber, fastened together with pike-nails, which men painfully contrive for their own torment, and call them house and home! The soul needs air; a wide sweep and frequent change of it. Morbid influences, in a thousand-fold variety, gather about hearths, and pollute the life of households. There is no such unwholesome atmosphere as that of an old home, rendered poisonous by one's defunct forefathers and relatives. I speak of what I know." pg 320
And:
"These wanderers are readily responsive to any natural kindness--be it no more than a smile, or a word, itself not understood, but only a warmth in it--which befalls them on the roadside of life. They remember these things, because they are the little enchantments which, for the instant,--for the space that reflects a landscape in a soap bubble,--build up a home about them." pg 360
finally:
"It is very singular, how the fact of a man's death often seems to give people a truer idea of his character, whether for good or evil, than they have ever possessed while he was living and acting among them. Death is so genuine a fact that it excludes falsehood, or betrays its emptiness; it is a touch-stone that proves the gold, and dishonours the baser metal. Could the departed, whoever he may be, return in a week after his decease, he would almost invariably find himself at a higher or lower point than he had formerly occupied, on the scale of public appreciation." pg 382
PHEW!
And, to top this quoteness all off, somethings from Tom Robbin's Even Cowgirls Get the Blues:
"The lust of the goat is bounty of God.
The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
Excess of sorrow laughs. Excess of joy weeps.
--William Blake"
"The first amoeba, like the last and the one after that, is here, there and everywhere, for its vehicle, its medium, its essence is water.
Water --- the ace of elements. Water dives from the clouds without parachute, wings or safety net. Water runs over the steepest precipice and blinks not a lash. Water is buried and rises again; water walks on fire and fire gets blisters. Stylishly composed in any situation ---solid, gas, or liquid--- speaking in penetrating dialects understood by all things ---animal, vegetable, or mineral--- water travels intrepidly through four dimensions, sustaining (Kick a lettuce in the field and it will yell "Water!"), destroying (The Dutch boy's finger remembered the view from Ararat) and creating (It has even been said that human beings were invented by water as a device for transporting itself from one place to another, but that's another story). Always in motion, ever-flowing (whether at steam rate or glacier speed), rhythmic, dynamic, ubiquitous, changing, and working its changes, a mathematics turned wrong side out, a philosophy in reverse, the ongoing odyssey of water is virtually irresistible. And wherever water goes, amoebae go along for the ride." pg 2
So there's the things I felt I needed to read at least twice & really think about. And furthermore, post somewhere so others could read them and think about them too.
Now that I've wasted as much time as I have, I guess I'll go try to be productive so that I can be a semblance of pleasantness at work.
Post Thirty-Three: Ok. Maybe I lied
Or maybe I need people to know what I'm feeling more than I thought I did. Because lately, I've been feeling so so so lonely. Pretty much. All the time.
But. Before I begin again. I ask you, readers, whomever you are, if you're even there, to refrain at all costs from talking to me about this blog in real life. Comments can be shared, like my Mama does, over the internet, but do not bring this up with me in person. Because if you do, I'll surely retreat again. (As in, I never want to hear the word "blog" uttered to me in person referencing this blog.)
Additionally, keep in mind that I am not writing this for the readers. I am writing this for myself so that I may at least imagine that someone out there knows what I'm feeling so I don't constantly just want to shout at random people the raucous in my head. So also, refrain from asking me to post again or more often or more frequently. Because that's not the point. I post when I want to because I need to. Plain & simple.
Okay, now that I'm done chastising.
Everyday for the past week when I get into my car, I cry. Everyday. It's not pretty. And it hurts a lot. Because I cannot share that time of day with anyone. That "me" with anyone. But I'm dying to. I'm dying to hurl myself at my peers, to dump every crappy feeling obtained throughout the day and added to the already crappy feelings I've been carrying around right on them. So they can freaking take me seriously for one god donut second. and so they can help me help myself.
It's not fair to want to do that, I know. So. Back to the blogging.
The week before this one, I was feeling very differently about myself. I was feeling super empowered. Like nothing could bring me down or defeat me, ruin me, break my confidence. But, I don't know. I've lost it and that's probably as temporary as every other phase of my emotions, but it feels long and it's dragging me around.
And because of whatever phase of whatever time of emotion I'm in, I'm losing my ability to just take delight in small stuff. And that sucks. Because that's the only thing that was saving me. Even things that make me happy make me cry now, and then i just cry more because I'm crying because happy things make me cry because they are so few because i am sad.
phew.
I'm feeling very lonely and very full. Lonely because i can't share what's going on with me honestly to anyone. No one can understand, and that's alright, I'm not upset with anyone for that because it's just not really possible, but I sure would appreciate if someone I respected or felt like good friends with would take the time to sit me down and really ask me how I'm doing and really listen to my answer so that I can really answer them for real for once for real for once for. real. for. once.
And it's funny, because there are SO many friends around. A lot of them have this neat knack for forgetting common courtesy. And that hurts. That adds to the hurt. And yeah. makes me feel pretty unwanted a lot of the time. so hip hip hooray! I mean. Is it impossible to hang out with me UNLESS I ask you to? Must I always do the inviting? It makes me feel annoying and rejected. I don't need that now. So i think to myself, okay, i'll stop asking and wait to be asked.
But so far, if i stop asking people, they never ask me. so. conundrum.
And a lot of them don't have the time, and that's not on purpose and can't be helped. i'm not saying that to point fingers or blame, but it just sucks.
and some of them aren't here or anywhere near here. which also cannot be helped, but also sucks.
And I KNOW that everyone has their own way of dealing with things. And everyone has their own life. And their own problems. But please be assured that I am just as happy to take the brunt of your venting or take on your problems if it means that you will take on mine.
And i'm happy to do what you want to do. if you're happy to sometimes do what i want to do.
I'm happy to be your friend. for real. not for sympathy. not for niceties. not because i want to be polite. but for real.
Anyhow. So "lonely", part one of the downness.
And full, let's tackle that. I am full of a lot of things. I am full of this welling scream. It grows bigger and bigger and pushes at my skin and makes me feel like a bicycle tire with too much air pumped into it and still more being pumped. And that is mostly frustration, I suppose. And i feel it most when I'm alone. Because that's when I most start to think about Zach and shock myself with the reality of my life and his death and our freak of nature swing from complete happiness and simplicity and love to complete shit. god donut.
And i'm full of anger or.. animosity for some people around me for being so careless. so thoughtless. with such a fragile thing. And so..not honest. Be honest. I want your honestly, even if it's mean, because then i won't torture myself trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Not being honest is being thoughtless and careless, too, you know.
And i'm full of defeat because I just can't help it right now. Because, well.. look around me, how couldn't I help it? Everything I've put my effort in for quite some time has known defeat. failure. crumbliness.
I'm full of restraint. because if i wasn't a number of things would have happened by now. Like. I'm pretty sure I'd yell at some people, a lot. and hurt feelings because.. whoa are there some dense people out there. I'm pretty sure I'd have packed up all my favorite things and just run away. Or i'd sleep for a million years because dreams have proved to be so much better than real life.
Don't be scared. I'm just venting. But be aware that sometimes, i feel like these things. sometimes all at once. or sometimes one at a time. or sometimes not, which i guess is indicated by the word "sometimes".
I'm really really really really missing zach and missing my old life, my happy life. I'm missing how easy it was. i always knew what to expect. I always knew zach would be home waiting for me when I'd returned from work, or whatever errand or friend hangout i was on. I always knew we'd fall asleep together and in the morning, he'd be the first thing/person i'd see, smell, feel. That he'd be there to grab my towel for me if i forgot it. or to cook my dinner. or to do some masterful grocery shopping. to help me pay bills. or take care of me when i was sick. if nothing else, i knew that my safe haven was going to be there when i needed it, our apartment together, god no one can ever know how much we loved it. how much i loved it. it's something we talked about all the time. and how happy i was to be there and spend all my hours whiling away there. I knew that even if i was home alone at the time, i wasn't really alone and soon zach would be back. It was the only real home i've known since moving from home.
but now. i know none of that. i don't know if anyone will be awake or available when i need someone or return back to the house. i don't know if anyone will be willing to help me unwind at the end of the day. I don't know if anyone even wants to go do fun stuff with me. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know where I belong. I don't know how to interact with people normally. I don't know who really wants to be a friend or who's just being a friend out of obligation. I don't know who i can trust. Or who cares. Or who wants to know what new clothes I found. Or who wants to know what one table said to me. Or who wants to know about some random thought I had during the day that i feel like sharing. or what even will make me happy.
it's pretty startling, when i really think about it, where I am now and where i'd prefer to be and where I'd thought i'd be. I guess almost everyone feels that way though. It's not just me. but still. what a freakin change.
twice in two years my life radically changed. You'd think i'd be pretty practiced at it, but it's still a tough case to crack.
man. i've really let you have it, eh? I hardly even know what i've just blasted about. or if it makes any sense. or flows in any sort of way. or if i'll feel embarrassed about it later. But i'd rather have it here, than have it in my head. because that just plain will make me insane. if i'm not already. sometimes, i really wonder.
so there you have it. a lot of whaaa and boo hoo. i'm sure it's what you've been missing.
i'm just overwhelmed. and not well, because i can't help it, even if i try to.
i need any one of my PEERS, male, female, homosexual, heterosexual, working or jobless, single or not, familiar with this state of mind or untouched by tragedy, silly, serious, patient, restless, to look at me and really see what's going on. because i can't be trusted (no, not even me) to tell you or show it. But i'll bet you a million and a half dollars, that if you gave me a hug, it would change the flow of my entire day. it would make me feel at least a little bit accepted for what i am even if what i am sucks right now.
okay thanks for enduring those who endured.
But. Before I begin again. I ask you, readers, whomever you are, if you're even there, to refrain at all costs from talking to me about this blog in real life. Comments can be shared, like my Mama does, over the internet, but do not bring this up with me in person. Because if you do, I'll surely retreat again. (As in, I never want to hear the word "blog" uttered to me in person referencing this blog.)
Additionally, keep in mind that I am not writing this for the readers. I am writing this for myself so that I may at least imagine that someone out there knows what I'm feeling so I don't constantly just want to shout at random people the raucous in my head. So also, refrain from asking me to post again or more often or more frequently. Because that's not the point. I post when I want to because I need to. Plain & simple.
Okay, now that I'm done chastising.
Everyday for the past week when I get into my car, I cry. Everyday. It's not pretty. And it hurts a lot. Because I cannot share that time of day with anyone. That "me" with anyone. But I'm dying to. I'm dying to hurl myself at my peers, to dump every crappy feeling obtained throughout the day and added to the already crappy feelings I've been carrying around right on them. So they can freaking take me seriously for one god donut second. and so they can help me help myself.
It's not fair to want to do that, I know. So. Back to the blogging.
The week before this one, I was feeling very differently about myself. I was feeling super empowered. Like nothing could bring me down or defeat me, ruin me, break my confidence. But, I don't know. I've lost it and that's probably as temporary as every other phase of my emotions, but it feels long and it's dragging me around.
And because of whatever phase of whatever time of emotion I'm in, I'm losing my ability to just take delight in small stuff. And that sucks. Because that's the only thing that was saving me. Even things that make me happy make me cry now, and then i just cry more because I'm crying because happy things make me cry because they are so few because i am sad.
phew.
I'm feeling very lonely and very full. Lonely because i can't share what's going on with me honestly to anyone. No one can understand, and that's alright, I'm not upset with anyone for that because it's just not really possible, but I sure would appreciate if someone I respected or felt like good friends with would take the time to sit me down and really ask me how I'm doing and really listen to my answer so that I can really answer them for real for once for real for once for. real. for. once.
And it's funny, because there are SO many friends around. A lot of them have this neat knack for forgetting common courtesy. And that hurts. That adds to the hurt. And yeah. makes me feel pretty unwanted a lot of the time. so hip hip hooray! I mean. Is it impossible to hang out with me UNLESS I ask you to? Must I always do the inviting? It makes me feel annoying and rejected. I don't need that now. So i think to myself, okay, i'll stop asking and wait to be asked.
But so far, if i stop asking people, they never ask me. so. conundrum.
And a lot of them don't have the time, and that's not on purpose and can't be helped. i'm not saying that to point fingers or blame, but it just sucks.
and some of them aren't here or anywhere near here. which also cannot be helped, but also sucks.
And I KNOW that everyone has their own way of dealing with things. And everyone has their own life. And their own problems. But please be assured that I am just as happy to take the brunt of your venting or take on your problems if it means that you will take on mine.
And i'm happy to do what you want to do. if you're happy to sometimes do what i want to do.
I'm happy to be your friend. for real. not for sympathy. not for niceties. not because i want to be polite. but for real.
Anyhow. So "lonely", part one of the downness.
And full, let's tackle that. I am full of a lot of things. I am full of this welling scream. It grows bigger and bigger and pushes at my skin and makes me feel like a bicycle tire with too much air pumped into it and still more being pumped. And that is mostly frustration, I suppose. And i feel it most when I'm alone. Because that's when I most start to think about Zach and shock myself with the reality of my life and his death and our freak of nature swing from complete happiness and simplicity and love to complete shit. god donut.
And i'm full of anger or.. animosity for some people around me for being so careless. so thoughtless. with such a fragile thing. And so..not honest. Be honest. I want your honestly, even if it's mean, because then i won't torture myself trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Not being honest is being thoughtless and careless, too, you know.
And i'm full of defeat because I just can't help it right now. Because, well.. look around me, how couldn't I help it? Everything I've put my effort in for quite some time has known defeat. failure. crumbliness.
I'm full of restraint. because if i wasn't a number of things would have happened by now. Like. I'm pretty sure I'd yell at some people, a lot. and hurt feelings because.. whoa are there some dense people out there. I'm pretty sure I'd have packed up all my favorite things and just run away. Or i'd sleep for a million years because dreams have proved to be so much better than real life.
Don't be scared. I'm just venting. But be aware that sometimes, i feel like these things. sometimes all at once. or sometimes one at a time. or sometimes not, which i guess is indicated by the word "sometimes".
I'm really really really really missing zach and missing my old life, my happy life. I'm missing how easy it was. i always knew what to expect. I always knew zach would be home waiting for me when I'd returned from work, or whatever errand or friend hangout i was on. I always knew we'd fall asleep together and in the morning, he'd be the first thing/person i'd see, smell, feel. That he'd be there to grab my towel for me if i forgot it. or to cook my dinner. or to do some masterful grocery shopping. to help me pay bills. or take care of me when i was sick. if nothing else, i knew that my safe haven was going to be there when i needed it, our apartment together, god no one can ever know how much we loved it. how much i loved it. it's something we talked about all the time. and how happy i was to be there and spend all my hours whiling away there. I knew that even if i was home alone at the time, i wasn't really alone and soon zach would be back. It was the only real home i've known since moving from home.
but now. i know none of that. i don't know if anyone will be awake or available when i need someone or return back to the house. i don't know if anyone will be willing to help me unwind at the end of the day. I don't know if anyone even wants to go do fun stuff with me. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I don't know where I belong. I don't know how to interact with people normally. I don't know who really wants to be a friend or who's just being a friend out of obligation. I don't know who i can trust. Or who cares. Or who wants to know what new clothes I found. Or who wants to know what one table said to me. Or who wants to know about some random thought I had during the day that i feel like sharing. or what even will make me happy.
it's pretty startling, when i really think about it, where I am now and where i'd prefer to be and where I'd thought i'd be. I guess almost everyone feels that way though. It's not just me. but still. what a freakin change.
twice in two years my life radically changed. You'd think i'd be pretty practiced at it, but it's still a tough case to crack.
man. i've really let you have it, eh? I hardly even know what i've just blasted about. or if it makes any sense. or flows in any sort of way. or if i'll feel embarrassed about it later. But i'd rather have it here, than have it in my head. because that just plain will make me insane. if i'm not already. sometimes, i really wonder.
so there you have it. a lot of whaaa and boo hoo. i'm sure it's what you've been missing.
i'm just overwhelmed. and not well, because i can't help it, even if i try to.
i need any one of my PEERS, male, female, homosexual, heterosexual, working or jobless, single or not, familiar with this state of mind or untouched by tragedy, silly, serious, patient, restless, to look at me and really see what's going on. because i can't be trusted (no, not even me) to tell you or show it. But i'll bet you a million and a half dollars, that if you gave me a hug, it would change the flow of my entire day. it would make me feel at least a little bit accepted for what i am even if what i am sucks right now.
okay thanks for enduring those who endured.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Post Thirty-Two: The Pursuit of Happiness
Writing this is a little bit like pulling my finger nails out, as i've been avoiding as much as possible this blog. The things i've been pondering are no longer fit, really, for me to share with everyone. And on top of that, I find myself embarrassed for my previous public cogitations. I'm retreating back, but not necessarily in a negative aspect. In order to know myself, I need to be able to be myself. And knowing there are some eyes reading this, well..makes me alter what i say in almost a superficial, sensationalized way. And i don't like it. And i don't like me when i do it.
SO
with that, i shall part from this blog to begin figuring out on my own, once again, who i am in this mighty world. But i'll leave a couple gifts behind, both quotes from the book I just finished reading. Villa Incognito by Tom Robbins provided for me these little slices of thought. Tasty.
"" 'How then does soul differ from spirit?' you're probably asking yourself,' although he must have been reasonable sure nobody was. "Well, soul is darker of color, denser of volume, saltier of flavor, rougher of texture, and tends to be more maternalistic than paternalistic: soul is connected to Mother Earth just as spirit is connected to Father Sky. Of course, mothers and fathers are prone to copulation, and in their commingled state, soul and spirit often can be difficult to distinguish the one from the other. Generally, if spirit is the fresh air vent and ambient lighting in the house of consciousness, if spirit is the electrical system that illuminates that house, then soul is the smoky fireplace, the fragrant oven, the dusty wine cellar, the strange creaks we hear in the floorboards late at night.
"It's a bit of a cliche to say it, but when you think of soul, you should think of things that are authentic and things that are deep. Anything superficial is not soulful. Anything artificial, imitative, or overly refined is not soulful. Wood has a stronger connection to soul than does plastic, although, paradoxically, thanks to human interface, a funky wooden table or chair can sometimes exceed in soulfulness the soul that may be invoked by a living tree." ...
"In the end, perhaps we should simply imagine a joke; a long joke that's being continually retold in an accent too thick and too strange to ever be completely understood. Life is that joke, my friends. The soul is its punch line."
and this tidbit on the paradox of our, specifically our, lives:
"Your country seems to have everything and yet has almost nothing. It's unbelievable. In that vast, beautiful, powerful land of unprecedented abundance live some of the most unhappy people on earth. Oh, generally speaking, they complement all that affluence by being generous and energetic and, except for their ruling class---which is wormy with evil like ruling classes everywhere---rather decent. But they're chronically depressed and dissatisfied. Chronically. Have you heard of Prozac?" ...
"In our Declaration of Independence," he said, "we consecrate ourselves as a nation to the pursuit of happiness. That in itself is an admission of habitual discontent. One needn't pursue what one already possesses."
I could speak volumes of tomes on these quotes. On happiness. On soul searching. Why?
These are elements I actively seek to know and understand myself. I'll figure it out, don't fret on my behalf, but I prefer to do it on my own. Or in person. Or in hiding. Or.. wherever/however it must be done.
With that, Au revoir, mon chaus. And thank you for your attentiveness.
SO
with that, i shall part from this blog to begin figuring out on my own, once again, who i am in this mighty world. But i'll leave a couple gifts behind, both quotes from the book I just finished reading. Villa Incognito by Tom Robbins provided for me these little slices of thought. Tasty.
"" 'How then does soul differ from spirit?' you're probably asking yourself,' although he must have been reasonable sure nobody was. "Well, soul is darker of color, denser of volume, saltier of flavor, rougher of texture, and tends to be more maternalistic than paternalistic: soul is connected to Mother Earth just as spirit is connected to Father Sky. Of course, mothers and fathers are prone to copulation, and in their commingled state, soul and spirit often can be difficult to distinguish the one from the other. Generally, if spirit is the fresh air vent and ambient lighting in the house of consciousness, if spirit is the electrical system that illuminates that house, then soul is the smoky fireplace, the fragrant oven, the dusty wine cellar, the strange creaks we hear in the floorboards late at night.
"It's a bit of a cliche to say it, but when you think of soul, you should think of things that are authentic and things that are deep. Anything superficial is not soulful. Anything artificial, imitative, or overly refined is not soulful. Wood has a stronger connection to soul than does plastic, although, paradoxically, thanks to human interface, a funky wooden table or chair can sometimes exceed in soulfulness the soul that may be invoked by a living tree." ...
"In the end, perhaps we should simply imagine a joke; a long joke that's being continually retold in an accent too thick and too strange to ever be completely understood. Life is that joke, my friends. The soul is its punch line."
and this tidbit on the paradox of our, specifically our, lives:
"Your country seems to have everything and yet has almost nothing. It's unbelievable. In that vast, beautiful, powerful land of unprecedented abundance live some of the most unhappy people on earth. Oh, generally speaking, they complement all that affluence by being generous and energetic and, except for their ruling class---which is wormy with evil like ruling classes everywhere---rather decent. But they're chronically depressed and dissatisfied. Chronically. Have you heard of Prozac?" ...
"In our Declaration of Independence," he said, "we consecrate ourselves as a nation to the pursuit of happiness. That in itself is an admission of habitual discontent. One needn't pursue what one already possesses."
I could speak volumes of tomes on these quotes. On happiness. On soul searching. Why?
These are elements I actively seek to know and understand myself. I'll figure it out, don't fret on my behalf, but I prefer to do it on my own. Or in person. Or in hiding. Or.. wherever/however it must be done.
With that, Au revoir, mon chaus. And thank you for your attentiveness.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Post Thirty-One: Bukowski, lay it on me.
Lindsey has been sending me poetry. I sincerely enjoy it. I don't really know how to express how much I enjoy it to her. Receiving poetry, from anyone, or receiving songs, or receiving book suggestions, or receiving fun facts, or receiving new words, all of those things are like receiving the most beautiful, invaluable gifts that can ever be given. Better than birthdays or Christmas morning. Because there's something a little deeper about wanting to share intangible things you love with someone than there is about wanting to buy them gifts. (Not that I don't like gifts too!)
Anyhow, I wanted to repost some of them that I truly reacted to. Whether the reactions were sadness, quiet laughter, smiling, doesn't matter, they elicited reactions. The following poems evoked in me some empathy in one way or another. And maybe they say for me things I'm not good at putting into words as well.
"Barfly" by Charles Bukowski
Jane, who has been dead for 31 years,
never could have
imagined that I would write a screenplay of our drinking
days together
and
that it would be made into a movie
and
that a beautiful movie star would play her
part.
I can hear Jane now: “A beautiful movie star? oh,
for Christ’s sake!”
Jane, that’s show biz, so go back to sleep, dear, because
no matter how hard they tried they
just couldn’t find anybody exactly like
you.
and neither can
I.
"Damages" by Ruby Rahman
There are some sorrows, some damages, for which
there is no compensation;
you are that irreparable loss of mine.
Where you cast your glance
light of the conjoining stars dances
along the great longitude;
the courage to dream blooms in the blood
and the difficult habit of staying alive,
nurtured from the moment of birth,
crumbles like a conch-shell dust.
You are that inconsolable sorrow of mine
that tears apart this neat and tidy day-to-day existence.
Someday this present time
will slip out of my grasp
like a fisherman missing on the high seas.
The still lighthouse's flickering beam of light
will tremble only on the vast deep,
dark waters of the sea-- a wounded wind;
and there will go on lying my boundless time--
my destiny!
There are some sorrows, some calamities--
that can never, from any quarter, be compensated for.
"Dust" by Dorianne Laux
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor--
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes--
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.
"The Miracle is the Shortest Time" by Charles Bukowski
you know
it was very good
it was
better than
anything
it was like
something
we could
pick up
hold
look at
and then laugh
about.
we were on the
moon
we were in the
god damned moon,
we had it
we were in the garden
we were in the
endless pit
never such a place
as that
it was deep
and
it was light
and
it was high
it got so near
to insanity
we laughed so
hard
your laughter
and
mine
I remember when
your eyes
said love
loudly
now
as these walls
so quietly
shift
"The Embrace" By Mark Doty
You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.
I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out-- at work maybe? --
having a good day, almost energetic.
We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative
by your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?
So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of you-- warm brown tea-- we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.
Bless you. You came back, so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.
And to head off this poetry, may I introduce WhiteSnake. I never believed I could relate to a man who calls himself "WhiteSnake" but here I am, totally manifesting this song.
Here I Go Again - WhiteSnake
Anyhow, I wanted to repost some of them that I truly reacted to. Whether the reactions were sadness, quiet laughter, smiling, doesn't matter, they elicited reactions. The following poems evoked in me some empathy in one way or another. And maybe they say for me things I'm not good at putting into words as well.
"Barfly" by Charles Bukowski
Jane, who has been dead for 31 years,
never could have
imagined that I would write a screenplay of our drinking
days together
and
that it would be made into a movie
and
that a beautiful movie star would play her
part.
I can hear Jane now: “A beautiful movie star? oh,
for Christ’s sake!”
Jane, that’s show biz, so go back to sleep, dear, because
no matter how hard they tried they
just couldn’t find anybody exactly like
you.
and neither can
I.
"Damages" by Ruby Rahman
There are some sorrows, some damages, for which
there is no compensation;
you are that irreparable loss of mine.
Where you cast your glance
light of the conjoining stars dances
along the great longitude;
the courage to dream blooms in the blood
and the difficult habit of staying alive,
nurtured from the moment of birth,
crumbles like a conch-shell dust.
You are that inconsolable sorrow of mine
that tears apart this neat and tidy day-to-day existence.
Someday this present time
will slip out of my grasp
like a fisherman missing on the high seas.
The still lighthouse's flickering beam of light
will tremble only on the vast deep,
dark waters of the sea-- a wounded wind;
and there will go on lying my boundless time--
my destiny!
There are some sorrows, some calamities--
that can never, from any quarter, be compensated for.
"Dust" by Dorianne Laux
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor--
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes--
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.
"The Miracle is the Shortest Time" by Charles Bukowski
you know
it was very good
it was
better than
anything
it was like
something
we could
pick up
hold
look at
and then laugh
about.
we were on the
moon
we were in the
god damned moon,
we had it
we were in the garden
we were in the
endless pit
never such a place
as that
it was deep
and
it was light
and
it was high
it got so near
to insanity
we laughed so
hard
your laughter
and
mine
I remember when
your eyes
said love
loudly
now
as these walls
so quietly
shift
"The Embrace" By Mark Doty
You weren't well or really ill yet either;
just a little tired, your handsomeness
tinged by grief or anticipation, which brought
to your face a thoughtful, deepening grace.
I didn't for a moment doubt you were dead.
I knew that to be true still, even in the dream.
You'd been out-- at work maybe? --
having a good day, almost energetic.
We seemed to be moving from some old house
where we'd lived, boxes everywhere, things
in disarray: that was the story of my dream,
but even asleep I was shocked out of the narrative
by your face, the physical fact of your face:
inches from mine, smooth-shaven, loving, alert.
Why so difficult, remembering the actual look
of you? Without a photograph, without strain?
So when I saw your unguarded, reliable face,
your unmistakable gaze opening all the warmth
and clarity of you-- warm brown tea-- we held
each other for the time the dream allowed.
Bless you. You came back, so I could see you
once more, plainly, so I could rest against you
without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
without thinking you were alive again.
And to head off this poetry, may I introduce WhiteSnake. I never believed I could relate to a man who calls himself "WhiteSnake" but here I am, totally manifesting this song.
Here I Go Again - WhiteSnake
Friday, October 14, 2011
Post Thirty: Doldrums Denizen
I'm not sure what I want to say, but I know I want to write. I sat down last night and wrote a draft that I never posted. And I never will. Within one night, it has become outdated.
And so we begin post thirty.
I finished two books today, Dideon's Magical Thinking and the short novels book. Finishing books is always somewhat heart-wrenching. It's like saying goodbye to an old friend. Like watching the final episode of a favorite TV show. It leaves one feeling forlorn and lost.
And given that I am already these things, finishing these books weren't as emotional as usual. Though I did cry after finishing Dideon's book. It's been such a crutch, such a relative account to my life. It's helped explain to me things I am continually experiencing but couldn't figure out without explanation. Even before I finished the book, maybe within the last three chapters, I thought to myself that I would re-read it. So with the end of Dideon's story, I feel a little less guided in my grief and mourning.
But also, once I finished it, I laid down to take a nap and instead imagined every part of Zach. His legs. His shoulders. The curve of his back when he was lying down on his stomach. The hair on the back of his palm. I used to call them werewolf hands. All of those intimate details I was intimate with. I was surprised at how precisely I could imagine them, because I've had such a hard time remembering him in general. And unexpectedly, at first, I didn't cry. Instead, I was comforted. I felt like I was home. But when I began to imagine his face and neck, I lost my composure. I find it's much more difficult to imagine his face, his nose, his eyebrows, his lips, his smile.
I honestly am so indescribably sad. Simply sad. I often find moments, more often than not, that bring me happiness throughout each day I encounter, but the truth is, under all of those moments of happiness I am concealing an incredible sadness. How has this happened? "This" being my life as I know it. I haven't given myself much time to ponder that, because thinking about it changes nothing.
And I think I want to talk about this sadness and all the things associated with Zach's fall, all the feelings, all the debilitating thoughts, all the confusion, all the impatience, all the simple tasks that have become so difficult, all the desperate feelings I have that require I be in the presence of someone, anyone at all times. I want to talk about them with so many people. But I feel that I no longer have the right. Here's something from Dideon that says exactly that:
"People in grief think a great deal about self-pity. We worry it, dread it, scourge our thinking for signs of it. We fear that our actions will reveal the condition tellingly described as 'dwelling on it.' We understand the aversion most of us have to 'dwelling on it.' Visible mourning reminds us of death, which is construed as unnatural, a failure to manage the situation. 'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty,' Philippe Aries wrote to the point of this aversion in Western Attitudes toward Death. 'But one no longer has the right to say so aloud.'"
And that's exactly how I feel. I have lost a single person and the whole world feels empty.
The other night was one of my closest friend's birthday. On this specific night, I imbued more than my fair share of drinks and in doing so, found myself later in the evening utterly indulging in my grief. Self-pity cannot be concealed all the time, I suppose. But even thinking about that night, the way I remember it, dark, silky water beneath me, dark, open sky above, dark, enormous feelings inside, I can't help but start to cry again. So much darkness happened in those moments alone, and yet, I felt so so so one with myself. I was letting myself be myself. And myself is, in the daylight, trying so hard to be happy, but at night, with the accompaniment of intoxication & sometimes without, I am the epitome of my misery.
I often used to say, or at least believe, that intoxicated words were sober thoughts. This is true, partly, I'm sure, because we cease to limit ourselves in a way we would normally. Remembering myself that night and relating to her so heavily while NOT being intoxicated leads me to believe that that is how I am at the simplest, most honest level.
But during the day, in the company of others, I am afraid...or unwilling to admit it to myself. Let's settle and say that I'm both afraid and unwilling. So many people reported to me that I was "strong" the weeks after his fall. And I can even be quoted agreeing with them, but my "strength" they saw and commented on was really passive living. Floating through because what else is there? Wailing will change nothing. Anger will change nothing. Longing, wishing, thinking, hoping, will change nothing. There is no price that can be paid that will bring back my previous life. None.
Self-pity. The question of self-pity. I don't even understand that sentence, but Dideon repeated it throughout her book. What is the question of self-pity?
"We remind ourselves repeatedly that our own loss is nothing compared to the loss experienced (or, the even worse thought, not experienced) by he or she who died; this attempt at corrective thinking serves only to plunge us deeper into the self-regarding deep. (Why didn't I see that, why am I so selfish.) The very language we use when we think about self-pity betrays the deep abhorrence in which we hold it: self-pity is feeling sorry for yourself, self-pity is thumb-sucking, self-pity is boo hoo poor me, self-pity is the condition in which those feeling sorry for themselves indulge, or even wallow. Self-pity remains both the most common and the most universally reviled of our character defects, its pestilential destructiveness accepted as given. 'Our worst enemy,' Helen Keller called it."
Is that Dideon's answer to that question?
Either way, it's this very way of thinking about self-pity that almost forces us to be "strong" in the face of death. Forces us to handle ourselves, uphold our honor, in a time when we should be allowed to explore every feeling we're faced with. Isn't that a part of healing? Paying attention to our mourning? Working our way through it? Facing it?
It's this very same thinking that makes me withdraw from others. Self-pity is shameful. Suddenly, I have gone from living a life without shame, to feeling ashamed almost all the time. Ashamed to answer questions like, "So, what are you doing now?" or "How do you know each other?". Ashamed to admit the truth about myself to others. I am, currently, bereaved. I am currently working through the death of my ..what? What word can possibly describe fully, honestly, what Zachary was to me and me to him? I used to and still do struggle with the word "boyfriend." It's so trivial. It does not touch on our relationship in the slightest except to label us as having been in a relationship. When we first began dating, Zach was asking me "Juliana, what are we?" The beginning of our relationship was really ambiguous because I was trying to figure out if I really even wanted to be in one. (In fact, almost a year later, when we had to determine a date for our anniversary, we just guessed the 14th of January. We weren't sure it was right, but it was as right as we needed it to be.) And to Zach's question I said, "We are lovers." He laughed at me. Lovers seems.. outdated, I suppose. And maybe fickle. ("Fickle" was a word Zach loved to use.) But we were lovers and we remained so.
To continue on the thought of feeling ashamed, I feel ashamed in the most normal situations. In communicating with people sociably I fail. This is shameful. In expressing myself honestly, I fail. This too, brings me shame, because I feel I'm often misunderstood.
I'm curious about the way the world sees me now and how it compares to the way I view myself. I often wonder if Zach, if he can be, is proud of me. Or if he's wondering, if he can, "WTF, Juliana. Where are your tears? Did you even love me at all?" I faced a lot of those thoughts early on in this process, because I was for the most part unfeeling.
I can't tell, but I THINK (I've been saying that so much lately, "I think," not "I know," even when I DO know I still choose to say that I only think), maybe, my unfeeling is being undone.
How scattered is this post? I often reread what I've written and realize I left out so many important things because I just write without any structure.
To me, being able to feel what's happening emotionally means that my outward appearance to others will change quite soon. Soon they will notice my languishing vitality. My quiet, wide-eyed hours. A lack of smiling at the appropriate moment. Silence following jokes. I wonder if it's been noticed by others already? Because I've noticed it.
I'm seemingly less hospitable. I'm seemingly less friendly. I'm more aloof. More off putting. More inclined to do my own thing in the midst of others because it's what keeps me from having emotional outbursts all over them. I have a penchant for fleeing a group of joviality so that I can take refuge in isolation. That seems undesirable.
I do not want isolation. I just do not want to face judgement in addition to grief. Is that an unwarranted fear? I don't know, because I haven't tried being sad once in the presence of company. Except for my mom, but she HAS to accept me (right, mama?). Even when others put their sadness on me, cry in my presence, I cannot bring myself to do the same. I fight with all my heart the impending tears. Even when I'm told plainly, without room for misinterpretation, that I may feel free to express my thoughts and feelings to a particular person (whomsoever has told me to feel free), I keep all words tightly stowed away. Why can I not admit it? Why can I not speak freely? Why do I feel so mortified at the thought of being honest in person?
Oh dear. What now?
A list of pacifiers: Stones. NPR. The dock. Company. Trees. Stars. The Moon. Bike riding with a purpose. Climbing. Exploring. Writing. Reading, anything. Learning words. Cloud bursting. Sunshine. Bare feet and wet grass. Water, both potable & picturesque.
End Scene.
And so we begin post thirty.
I finished two books today, Dideon's Magical Thinking and the short novels book. Finishing books is always somewhat heart-wrenching. It's like saying goodbye to an old friend. Like watching the final episode of a favorite TV show. It leaves one feeling forlorn and lost.
And given that I am already these things, finishing these books weren't as emotional as usual. Though I did cry after finishing Dideon's book. It's been such a crutch, such a relative account to my life. It's helped explain to me things I am continually experiencing but couldn't figure out without explanation. Even before I finished the book, maybe within the last three chapters, I thought to myself that I would re-read it. So with the end of Dideon's story, I feel a little less guided in my grief and mourning.
But also, once I finished it, I laid down to take a nap and instead imagined every part of Zach. His legs. His shoulders. The curve of his back when he was lying down on his stomach. The hair on the back of his palm. I used to call them werewolf hands. All of those intimate details I was intimate with. I was surprised at how precisely I could imagine them, because I've had such a hard time remembering him in general. And unexpectedly, at first, I didn't cry. Instead, I was comforted. I felt like I was home. But when I began to imagine his face and neck, I lost my composure. I find it's much more difficult to imagine his face, his nose, his eyebrows, his lips, his smile.
I honestly am so indescribably sad. Simply sad. I often find moments, more often than not, that bring me happiness throughout each day I encounter, but the truth is, under all of those moments of happiness I am concealing an incredible sadness. How has this happened? "This" being my life as I know it. I haven't given myself much time to ponder that, because thinking about it changes nothing.
And I think I want to talk about this sadness and all the things associated with Zach's fall, all the feelings, all the debilitating thoughts, all the confusion, all the impatience, all the simple tasks that have become so difficult, all the desperate feelings I have that require I be in the presence of someone, anyone at all times. I want to talk about them with so many people. But I feel that I no longer have the right. Here's something from Dideon that says exactly that:
"People in grief think a great deal about self-pity. We worry it, dread it, scourge our thinking for signs of it. We fear that our actions will reveal the condition tellingly described as 'dwelling on it.' We understand the aversion most of us have to 'dwelling on it.' Visible mourning reminds us of death, which is construed as unnatural, a failure to manage the situation. 'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty,' Philippe Aries wrote to the point of this aversion in Western Attitudes toward Death. 'But one no longer has the right to say so aloud.'"
And that's exactly how I feel. I have lost a single person and the whole world feels empty.
The other night was one of my closest friend's birthday. On this specific night, I imbued more than my fair share of drinks and in doing so, found myself later in the evening utterly indulging in my grief. Self-pity cannot be concealed all the time, I suppose. But even thinking about that night, the way I remember it, dark, silky water beneath me, dark, open sky above, dark, enormous feelings inside, I can't help but start to cry again. So much darkness happened in those moments alone, and yet, I felt so so so one with myself. I was letting myself be myself. And myself is, in the daylight, trying so hard to be happy, but at night, with the accompaniment of intoxication & sometimes without, I am the epitome of my misery.
I often used to say, or at least believe, that intoxicated words were sober thoughts. This is true, partly, I'm sure, because we cease to limit ourselves in a way we would normally. Remembering myself that night and relating to her so heavily while NOT being intoxicated leads me to believe that that is how I am at the simplest, most honest level.
But during the day, in the company of others, I am afraid...or unwilling to admit it to myself. Let's settle and say that I'm both afraid and unwilling. So many people reported to me that I was "strong" the weeks after his fall. And I can even be quoted agreeing with them, but my "strength" they saw and commented on was really passive living. Floating through because what else is there? Wailing will change nothing. Anger will change nothing. Longing, wishing, thinking, hoping, will change nothing. There is no price that can be paid that will bring back my previous life. None.
Self-pity. The question of self-pity. I don't even understand that sentence, but Dideon repeated it throughout her book. What is the question of self-pity?
"We remind ourselves repeatedly that our own loss is nothing compared to the loss experienced (or, the even worse thought, not experienced) by he or she who died; this attempt at corrective thinking serves only to plunge us deeper into the self-regarding deep. (Why didn't I see that, why am I so selfish.) The very language we use when we think about self-pity betrays the deep abhorrence in which we hold it: self-pity is feeling sorry for yourself, self-pity is thumb-sucking, self-pity is boo hoo poor me, self-pity is the condition in which those feeling sorry for themselves indulge, or even wallow. Self-pity remains both the most common and the most universally reviled of our character defects, its pestilential destructiveness accepted as given. 'Our worst enemy,' Helen Keller called it."
Is that Dideon's answer to that question?
Either way, it's this very way of thinking about self-pity that almost forces us to be "strong" in the face of death. Forces us to handle ourselves, uphold our honor, in a time when we should be allowed to explore every feeling we're faced with. Isn't that a part of healing? Paying attention to our mourning? Working our way through it? Facing it?
It's this very same thinking that makes me withdraw from others. Self-pity is shameful. Suddenly, I have gone from living a life without shame, to feeling ashamed almost all the time. Ashamed to answer questions like, "So, what are you doing now?" or "How do you know each other?". Ashamed to admit the truth about myself to others. I am, currently, bereaved. I am currently working through the death of my ..what? What word can possibly describe fully, honestly, what Zachary was to me and me to him? I used to and still do struggle with the word "boyfriend." It's so trivial. It does not touch on our relationship in the slightest except to label us as having been in a relationship. When we first began dating, Zach was asking me "Juliana, what are we?" The beginning of our relationship was really ambiguous because I was trying to figure out if I really even wanted to be in one. (In fact, almost a year later, when we had to determine a date for our anniversary, we just guessed the 14th of January. We weren't sure it was right, but it was as right as we needed it to be.) And to Zach's question I said, "We are lovers." He laughed at me. Lovers seems.. outdated, I suppose. And maybe fickle. ("Fickle" was a word Zach loved to use.) But we were lovers and we remained so.
To continue on the thought of feeling ashamed, I feel ashamed in the most normal situations. In communicating with people sociably I fail. This is shameful. In expressing myself honestly, I fail. This too, brings me shame, because I feel I'm often misunderstood.
I'm curious about the way the world sees me now and how it compares to the way I view myself. I often wonder if Zach, if he can be, is proud of me. Or if he's wondering, if he can, "WTF, Juliana. Where are your tears? Did you even love me at all?" I faced a lot of those thoughts early on in this process, because I was for the most part unfeeling.
I can't tell, but I THINK (I've been saying that so much lately, "I think," not "I know," even when I DO know I still choose to say that I only think), maybe, my unfeeling is being undone.
How scattered is this post? I often reread what I've written and realize I left out so many important things because I just write without any structure.
To me, being able to feel what's happening emotionally means that my outward appearance to others will change quite soon. Soon they will notice my languishing vitality. My quiet, wide-eyed hours. A lack of smiling at the appropriate moment. Silence following jokes. I wonder if it's been noticed by others already? Because I've noticed it.
I'm seemingly less hospitable. I'm seemingly less friendly. I'm more aloof. More off putting. More inclined to do my own thing in the midst of others because it's what keeps me from having emotional outbursts all over them. I have a penchant for fleeing a group of joviality so that I can take refuge in isolation. That seems undesirable.
I do not want isolation. I just do not want to face judgement in addition to grief. Is that an unwarranted fear? I don't know, because I haven't tried being sad once in the presence of company. Except for my mom, but she HAS to accept me (right, mama?). Even when others put their sadness on me, cry in my presence, I cannot bring myself to do the same. I fight with all my heart the impending tears. Even when I'm told plainly, without room for misinterpretation, that I may feel free to express my thoughts and feelings to a particular person (whomsoever has told me to feel free), I keep all words tightly stowed away. Why can I not admit it? Why can I not speak freely? Why do I feel so mortified at the thought of being honest in person?
Oh dear. What now?
A list of pacifiers: Stones. NPR. The dock. Company. Trees. Stars. The Moon. Bike riding with a purpose. Climbing. Exploring. Writing. Reading, anything. Learning words. Cloud bursting. Sunshine. Bare feet and wet grass. Water, both potable & picturesque.
End Scene.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Post Twenty-Nine: Kudu
I've found a refuge away from "inside" and away from the rain. I discovered it yesterday, thanks to Milena. It's a place I've always known about and a place that I've made several tentative plans to go to, but a place I hadn't actually been to yet. It is Kudu, a coffee house. I went there yesterday to sit with Milena while she did homework so I could read. I read "The Flower of Spain," the first short novel of that one book I got (it was published in the 1920s and smells SO old. The scent is constantly wafting up my nose when I'm reading that book.) that contains four out of fifty of the greatest short novels of all time.
Anyways, while there, Milena called my attention to this journal Kudu keeps for their customers to write in. It's a journal of thoughts and anyone can write anything they'd like in it. She called my attention to this journal for one particular entry. It was the first entry, I believe. Anyways, I wrote it down really quickly on a notepad file in my computer and posted it later that day as my status on Facebook, but I want to record it here also, just for good measure. (it'll also be added to my feel good notebook. It's the notebook i record in all lovely things said to or shared with me that just make me feel better.) Here you are:
Additionally, before I sign off, I want to say this. Zach will never be replaced in my life. Sure, I expect to find someone I can love again, but they will not replace Zach. Zach will be on my mind until the day I die. I know that I will live my life having "What If" thoughts that will never go away, no matter how wonderful my life might end up being. Please don't confuse my musings about the future as impatience to replace Zach. It simply cannot be done. He was, as I've said before, unlike anyone I've ever known and I don't expect to know another like him. He was, also, while he was here, my future. My life. My what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted more than anything you can imagine to have his children. To be his wife. To share my first home with him. To share everyday I had left with him. I often wished on shooting stars, on eyelashes, on 11:11s, to die with him, so that I would never have to know life without him. But as life has taken these dreams from us, because they were shared dreams, the optimist in me can't help but focus on what I have left to look forward to.
I loved Zach with everything I had. I am still loving him, though it makes me feel so hopeless. I gave him all of me. I did not hide from him. I was more honest with him than I often am with myself. I trusted him fully with my heart and my future. Long before we moved in together, I even wrote my mother an e-mail telling her that Zach was the one. That I fully intended to marry him.
This life I have now, as you may well be aware, is not what I wanted. But what can I do? I can't bring him back. I can only grieve. I can only mourn. I read something in Dideon's Magical Thinking last night that disturbed me, because I think it's what's happening to me. Here, I'll find it and record it for you, but first, some background. Dideon's daughter, Quintana, was in the hospital at UCLA unconscious with some crazy brain bleeding that happened. When Dideon talks about her recovering, she's talking about Quintana's recovering from this injury:
"She (Quintana) was reaching a point at which she would need once again to be, if she was to recover, on her own.
I determined to spend the summer reaching the same point.
I did not yet have the concentration to work but I could straighten my house, I could get on top of things, I could deal with my unopened mail.
That I was only now beginning the process of mourning did not occur to me.
Until now I had been able to only grieve, not mourn. Grief was passive. Grief happened. Mourning, the act of dealing with grief, required attention. Until now there had been every urgent reason to obliterate any attention that might otherwise have been paid, banish the thought, bring fresh adrenaline to bear on the crisis of the day. I had passed an entire season during which the only words I allowed myself to truly hear were recorded: Wel-come to U-C-L-A.
I began."
When I read that last night, I thought to myself, "She's right. I have only been grieving. I have not yet begun to mourn. Not truly." And that's scary to realize, because it means that I have so much more to go through, to face. We all do. Sigh. Le sigh to the highest heavens for a million years and you may begin to touch on what I'm feeling.
There's other topics I'd like to explore. Like, for example, how clamped up I'm becoming around the boys. How similar I'm becoming to the Juliana who was mourning Samantha, but I'd like to think about it a little more before discussing it with you all.
Good news to be had, though. The sun is shining outside. Granted, cloud coverage is pretty heavy still and it's not pure sunlight, but it's still sunlight. And it still helps to banish weary, woeful feelings. Today, if I do not ride my bike, I will at least read another story. I look forward to it greatly.
Anyways, while there, Milena called my attention to this journal Kudu keeps for their customers to write in. It's a journal of thoughts and anyone can write anything they'd like in it. She called my attention to this journal for one particular entry. It was the first entry, I believe. Anyways, I wrote it down really quickly on a notepad file in my computer and posted it later that day as my status on Facebook, but I want to record it here also, just for good measure. (it'll also be added to my feel good notebook. It's the notebook i record in all lovely things said to or shared with me that just make me feel better.) Here you are:
Washa Matumaini
That is Swahilli for "to ignite hope."
Every single person on this earth needs hope and every single person on this earth can ignite it.
When I went to Tanzania the summer after I graduated from high school, the people there who had nothing, but had everything, ignited hope in my life. I found hope in their smiles. In the sunrise over Mt kilmanjaro in the fact that we were able to love each other despite the language barriers.
Don't lose your chance. we're not guaranteed tomorrow.
Love is the answer.
Additionally, before I sign off, I want to say this. Zach will never be replaced in my life. Sure, I expect to find someone I can love again, but they will not replace Zach. Zach will be on my mind until the day I die. I know that I will live my life having "What If" thoughts that will never go away, no matter how wonderful my life might end up being. Please don't confuse my musings about the future as impatience to replace Zach. It simply cannot be done. He was, as I've said before, unlike anyone I've ever known and I don't expect to know another like him. He was, also, while he was here, my future. My life. My what I wanted to be when I grew up. I wanted more than anything you can imagine to have his children. To be his wife. To share my first home with him. To share everyday I had left with him. I often wished on shooting stars, on eyelashes, on 11:11s, to die with him, so that I would never have to know life without him. But as life has taken these dreams from us, because they were shared dreams, the optimist in me can't help but focus on what I have left to look forward to.
I loved Zach with everything I had. I am still loving him, though it makes me feel so hopeless. I gave him all of me. I did not hide from him. I was more honest with him than I often am with myself. I trusted him fully with my heart and my future. Long before we moved in together, I even wrote my mother an e-mail telling her that Zach was the one. That I fully intended to marry him.
This life I have now, as you may well be aware, is not what I wanted. But what can I do? I can't bring him back. I can only grieve. I can only mourn. I read something in Dideon's Magical Thinking last night that disturbed me, because I think it's what's happening to me. Here, I'll find it and record it for you, but first, some background. Dideon's daughter, Quintana, was in the hospital at UCLA unconscious with some crazy brain bleeding that happened. When Dideon talks about her recovering, she's talking about Quintana's recovering from this injury:
"She (Quintana) was reaching a point at which she would need once again to be, if she was to recover, on her own.
I determined to spend the summer reaching the same point.
I did not yet have the concentration to work but I could straighten my house, I could get on top of things, I could deal with my unopened mail.
That I was only now beginning the process of mourning did not occur to me.
Until now I had been able to only grieve, not mourn. Grief was passive. Grief happened. Mourning, the act of dealing with grief, required attention. Until now there had been every urgent reason to obliterate any attention that might otherwise have been paid, banish the thought, bring fresh adrenaline to bear on the crisis of the day. I had passed an entire season during which the only words I allowed myself to truly hear were recorded: Wel-come to U-C-L-A.
I began."
When I read that last night, I thought to myself, "She's right. I have only been grieving. I have not yet begun to mourn. Not truly." And that's scary to realize, because it means that I have so much more to go through, to face. We all do. Sigh. Le sigh to the highest heavens for a million years and you may begin to touch on what I'm feeling.
There's other topics I'd like to explore. Like, for example, how clamped up I'm becoming around the boys. How similar I'm becoming to the Juliana who was mourning Samantha, but I'd like to think about it a little more before discussing it with you all.
Good news to be had, though. The sun is shining outside. Granted, cloud coverage is pretty heavy still and it's not pure sunlight, but it's still sunlight. And it still helps to banish weary, woeful feelings. Today, if I do not ride my bike, I will at least read another story. I look forward to it greatly.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Post Twenty-Eight: Patience is a Virtue
So hello. I've been avoiding writing down my feelings because I have been chastised for writing things in a blog that anyone can read. It has been hinted to me that it is insensitive to others and causes worry. So now I feel somewhat ashamed for feeling like I'm feeling and that's causing me to hide. Which, I'd like to remind you, is not what we want in this situation.
I've been having a down couple of days. Since Saturday, actually. Especially yesterday. I found myself crying for seemingly no reason at all or..for a reason, but the crying was prompted for what seemed like no reason. And the worst part was that I wasn't able to control when my crying stopped very well. Normally, I can have a short bout of tears and turn it off when I need to, but yesterday, I was not in control of that waterspout, it would flow with or without my permission.
I've mulled over and over the reasons for why I'm no longer able to keep my emotional aegis stolidly in it's place and I believe there are a few factors at play. The weather, for one. We've officially entered a period of gray skies, wind, and always immenent rain. Yesterday, I went over to a friend's house and stuck around despite no one being there. It was nice to pretend I was in my "own" place, you know? But it was also really sad for me because when I went outside to read alone, the wind was too strong and a storm was clearly on the way. And so I burst into tears. I kept telling myself I was crying because I do not want it to rain and that is partly true, but also just a disguise. But the fact of the matter is that outside is my refuge. If it rains, I'll be confined to inside. Inside is too heavy, too dark, brings about memories too easily, too restrictive, etc. I cannot stand the thought of being unable to flee to outside whenever I feel like I'm going to crumble.
For two, i blame the time of the month. my hormone levels are fluctuating and that can make for a very unstable, volatile, emotional lady.
And for three, I'm finding myself pulling away from people like I did before. I'm finding myself speaking about Zach less. I'm finding myself hiding from everyone when I'm down, instead of alerting them to the problem so they can help me out. That's not good. That's what I did after Samantha. I'm beginning to reject everyone because they aren't who I want. But who I want are not available. At the same time, I'm beginning to reject everyone because I fear that they no longer have the time to commit to me whenever sadness strikes. Like I have gone from being understood to being a burden. Does that make sense?
I'm sure that last part isn't true to the people I suspect of feeling this way, but I can't shake that thought. So instead of turning to others, I wallow quietly in my own misery.
Anyways, last night I spent myself some more alone time outside by the dock. The dock. What a therapeutic place to be. I'm drawn there. It was late at night and I was alone, which is no big deal, I don't mind being alone (unless I'm crying. I always want to be caught crying, but somehow never am.) and sometimes it's very liberating. I was singing songs to myself, melancholy songs, songs that were made up and designed to explain how I'm feeling to myself and Zach. And it dawned on me that the number one reason I'm getting down (other than the fact that Zach is gone and I'm beginning to become acutely aware of that with every movement of my body, every flutter of my thoughts) is impatience.
I'm impatient. Impatient to be happy again. Impatient to have the sunshine again. Impatient to know love again. Impatient to be confident again, not so much in myself, but in life going the way I plan. Impatient to find out who I am again. That was something else I also realized last night. I have to find out who I am again, because with the death of someone you've given yourself to, you lose some of yourself and gain something from them and, in addition, from their death. I'm not sure what it is I've gained from Zach's death yet, but I think it's a bit of a mean streak. I'm amused by this, but mostly because I can laugh when other people flat out hurt themselves now and have developed an acumen for making bitter jokes. And I never thought i'd say this, but watching people wipe out is hilarious. (America's Funniest Home Videos now holds opportunity for me to laugh in a way I never have before!)
Here's a thought I also had. I'm worried that since I was loved so much, so fully, for quite some time, that I've grown confident I will be loved like that again. But maybe I'm blinded by Zach's love into thinking that there will be someone else who loves me the same way. And Zach was also incredibly unique, so I fear I'm being delusional thinking that that type of love will exist for me in the future.
At the same time, I fear that I will reject any love that comes my way if it does not equal or surpass the momentousness Zach's love was. Which I don't necessarily deem bad..but if that's the case, I may require more patience than I previously anticipated.
I wish I could tell you, describe to you, clearly and concisely so that you could fully understand what we shared. I can't explain it to you in a way that you can understand, though, unless you've been there before. Words are futile devices. But everyone deserves to know that kind of love. (For I believe there are different kinds of love and that it's possible to go your whole life being in love, but not knowing a love like what we had. An all encompassing, accepting, trusting, shameless, considerate, respectful, adoring love. I was truly myself with Zach in a way that I have never been with anyone else my whole life. All fear of embarrassment was gone when I was with him. I hope he felt, and i do believe he did feel, the same way.)
But I'm on a wild tangent here. The fact of the matter is that I must be patient. Impatience is driving me wildly into despair. So, to get to the other side, I must hold my horses. I must be content to wait and just live my life in the meantime. I must not make any rash decisions. I must not jump at my first chance of a relationship. I must wait until the time is right. I know this.
Anyhow. I've been having a hard time taking delight in the small things these past few days. I think last night was the beginning of my upward climb back to being positive and as happy as this time permits, though. Robin, Meghan, Olivia, and I went to see "What's your number?" last night and I cried the whole way there as silently as I could. It was one of those uncontrollable cries. Plus it doesn't help that the movie theater is smack dab in the area where Zach and I lived our happy life together, so everything is a reminder. I eventually just closed my eyes, hoping that would help, but it really made no difference. Self pity has taken over, so even if i'm cut off from stimuli, I can still find a reason to cry.
But that movie, wow, did it cheer me up. We came out of it and I felt like me again. It was funny and cute and, you know, girl trying to find love finds love without realizing it's there. That kind of thing. I don't expect anything like that to happen for me again for some time, and thus the reasoning behind my "patience" idea, but it gave me hope for myself at least. So even if i'm alone for a little while, a long while, whatever, I will be alright. (It's like they say, "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.)
Circular reasoning prevails!
So, here are the few things that did brighten my day. This one is incredibly odd, but yesterday after biking back from the empty friend's house, I was feeling extremely down, i mean.. crying just intermittently without control. I decided that despite the baleful weather, I'd take a longer bike ride home so I could gain control of myself. I turned onto a street in Zach's parent's subdivision that I'd never turned onto before and was pedaling my way around when I notice ahead of me the most amusing sight (and surprising, too) I've seen in a long while. I believe my vocal reaction was, "No way. Am i really seeing this? Thank you powers that be." What was it that I saw? I saw a penny-farthing. What is a penny-farthing, you may ask? It's this:
I've been having a down couple of days. Since Saturday, actually. Especially yesterday. I found myself crying for seemingly no reason at all or..for a reason, but the crying was prompted for what seemed like no reason. And the worst part was that I wasn't able to control when my crying stopped very well. Normally, I can have a short bout of tears and turn it off when I need to, but yesterday, I was not in control of that waterspout, it would flow with or without my permission.
I've mulled over and over the reasons for why I'm no longer able to keep my emotional aegis stolidly in it's place and I believe there are a few factors at play. The weather, for one. We've officially entered a period of gray skies, wind, and always immenent rain. Yesterday, I went over to a friend's house and stuck around despite no one being there. It was nice to pretend I was in my "own" place, you know? But it was also really sad for me because when I went outside to read alone, the wind was too strong and a storm was clearly on the way. And so I burst into tears. I kept telling myself I was crying because I do not want it to rain and that is partly true, but also just a disguise. But the fact of the matter is that outside is my refuge. If it rains, I'll be confined to inside. Inside is too heavy, too dark, brings about memories too easily, too restrictive, etc. I cannot stand the thought of being unable to flee to outside whenever I feel like I'm going to crumble.
For two, i blame the time of the month. my hormone levels are fluctuating and that can make for a very unstable, volatile, emotional lady.
And for three, I'm finding myself pulling away from people like I did before. I'm finding myself speaking about Zach less. I'm finding myself hiding from everyone when I'm down, instead of alerting them to the problem so they can help me out. That's not good. That's what I did after Samantha. I'm beginning to reject everyone because they aren't who I want. But who I want are not available. At the same time, I'm beginning to reject everyone because I fear that they no longer have the time to commit to me whenever sadness strikes. Like I have gone from being understood to being a burden. Does that make sense?
I'm sure that last part isn't true to the people I suspect of feeling this way, but I can't shake that thought. So instead of turning to others, I wallow quietly in my own misery.
Anyways, last night I spent myself some more alone time outside by the dock. The dock. What a therapeutic place to be. I'm drawn there. It was late at night and I was alone, which is no big deal, I don't mind being alone (unless I'm crying. I always want to be caught crying, but somehow never am.) and sometimes it's very liberating. I was singing songs to myself, melancholy songs, songs that were made up and designed to explain how I'm feeling to myself and Zach. And it dawned on me that the number one reason I'm getting down (other than the fact that Zach is gone and I'm beginning to become acutely aware of that with every movement of my body, every flutter of my thoughts) is impatience.
I'm impatient. Impatient to be happy again. Impatient to have the sunshine again. Impatient to know love again. Impatient to be confident again, not so much in myself, but in life going the way I plan. Impatient to find out who I am again. That was something else I also realized last night. I have to find out who I am again, because with the death of someone you've given yourself to, you lose some of yourself and gain something from them and, in addition, from their death. I'm not sure what it is I've gained from Zach's death yet, but I think it's a bit of a mean streak. I'm amused by this, but mostly because I can laugh when other people flat out hurt themselves now and have developed an acumen for making bitter jokes. And I never thought i'd say this, but watching people wipe out is hilarious. (America's Funniest Home Videos now holds opportunity for me to laugh in a way I never have before!)
Here's a thought I also had. I'm worried that since I was loved so much, so fully, for quite some time, that I've grown confident I will be loved like that again. But maybe I'm blinded by Zach's love into thinking that there will be someone else who loves me the same way. And Zach was also incredibly unique, so I fear I'm being delusional thinking that that type of love will exist for me in the future.
At the same time, I fear that I will reject any love that comes my way if it does not equal or surpass the momentousness Zach's love was. Which I don't necessarily deem bad..but if that's the case, I may require more patience than I previously anticipated.
I wish I could tell you, describe to you, clearly and concisely so that you could fully understand what we shared. I can't explain it to you in a way that you can understand, though, unless you've been there before. Words are futile devices. But everyone deserves to know that kind of love. (For I believe there are different kinds of love and that it's possible to go your whole life being in love, but not knowing a love like what we had. An all encompassing, accepting, trusting, shameless, considerate, respectful, adoring love. I was truly myself with Zach in a way that I have never been with anyone else my whole life. All fear of embarrassment was gone when I was with him. I hope he felt, and i do believe he did feel, the same way.)
But I'm on a wild tangent here. The fact of the matter is that I must be patient. Impatience is driving me wildly into despair. So, to get to the other side, I must hold my horses. I must be content to wait and just live my life in the meantime. I must not make any rash decisions. I must not jump at my first chance of a relationship. I must wait until the time is right. I know this.
Anyhow. I've been having a hard time taking delight in the small things these past few days. I think last night was the beginning of my upward climb back to being positive and as happy as this time permits, though. Robin, Meghan, Olivia, and I went to see "What's your number?" last night and I cried the whole way there as silently as I could. It was one of those uncontrollable cries. Plus it doesn't help that the movie theater is smack dab in the area where Zach and I lived our happy life together, so everything is a reminder. I eventually just closed my eyes, hoping that would help, but it really made no difference. Self pity has taken over, so even if i'm cut off from stimuli, I can still find a reason to cry.
But that movie, wow, did it cheer me up. We came out of it and I felt like me again. It was funny and cute and, you know, girl trying to find love finds love without realizing it's there. That kind of thing. I don't expect anything like that to happen for me again for some time, and thus the reasoning behind my "patience" idea, but it gave me hope for myself at least. So even if i'm alone for a little while, a long while, whatever, I will be alright. (It's like they say, "Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end.)
Circular reasoning prevails!
So, here are the few things that did brighten my day. This one is incredibly odd, but yesterday after biking back from the empty friend's house, I was feeling extremely down, i mean.. crying just intermittently without control. I decided that despite the baleful weather, I'd take a longer bike ride home so I could gain control of myself. I turned onto a street in Zach's parent's subdivision that I'd never turned onto before and was pedaling my way around when I notice ahead of me the most amusing sight (and surprising, too) I've seen in a long while. I believe my vocal reaction was, "No way. Am i really seeing this? Thank you powers that be." What was it that I saw? I saw a penny-farthing. What is a penny-farthing, you may ask? It's this:
I followed that penny-farthing rider all over the neighborhood, very creepily I might add, and smiled the whole time. It turned out that this rider was in fact a woman, I originally assumed it was a man. She was wearing this beige, almost safari-ish hat that just.. oh it totally made the scene. And she lives at the same intersection the Jones' reside.
What a find! She did eventually catch me following her and I never said anything to her because I was embarrassed to be caught, but I hope I see her again so I can let her know how much her hobby did for me yesterday when I thought nothing could cheer me up.
I also purchased 15 books for $10.50 yesterday at a big book sale downtown. Want to know what they are (i'm excited about all of them!)?:
- The Worlds Fifty Best Short Novels [In Ten Volumes] Vol. 8.
It was published in 1928, is pocket sized, and contains the following four stories:
1. "The Flower of Spain" by Joseph Hergesheimer
2. "Twenty-Three and a Half Hours' Leave" by Mary Roberts Rinchart
3. "Smith and the Pharoahs" by H. Rider Haggard
4. "How Gavin Birse Put It to Mag Lownie" by Sir J. M. Barrie (haha, that one sounds amusing)
- The House of the Seven Gables
- The House of Dies Drear
- The Word Lover's Dictonary: Unusual, obscure, and preposterous words. (I picked this one out because of the word "dendrophilous")
- Art AFTERPieces (This contains pictures of famous pieces of art that have been painted over so that something modern has been added in. Imagine "Portrait of my Mother" by Whistler with a television set painted in so that his mother is comfortably watching TV.)
- A book of Emily Dickinson's poetry. (Inspired by a good friend I met because of Samantha)
- Get Thee to a Punnery (A book of puns!)
- Simple Life, Simple Poems by Michael Czarnecki. Poems about living the simple life in the great outdoors.
- The Subway Chronicles. A book of essays about the "tales, dramas, and comedies that unfold during the daily commute" on the subway.
- There's a Word for It!: A Grandiloquent Guide to Life. I got this book because I constantly find myself thinking "oh...what's the worrrrrdd!?".
- Houseplants. An amateur's guide to growing plants indoors.
- The Big Book of the '70s: True Tales from ten years of tackiness and tumult! (It's a comic book containing over 50 of the world's top comics artists).
- Behind a Mask: The Unknown Thrillers of Louisa May Alcott. The reason I purchased this book is because it says that it is "by far the better way to become acquainted with Alcott's racier side." Oooh la la!
- Generations by Pattian Rogers. It's a book of poetry containing "densely detailed, thickly textured poems describing the natural world and one's place in it."
and finally!
- Webster's Pocket Thesaurus. Which i promptly put into my handbag.
Whew! I forgot about some of those books! I've got quite a bit of reading to do.
I want to find a reading companion. Someone who will sit contentedly by and read while I read. Samantha was one of my very few.. in fact only friend who would do this with me.
I'm off to face this dreary day with a book by my side. My weapon from the ever knocking doldrums.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)