disconnection
i'm falling for the fall. the cold crept in, sudden, forcing me to stay longer under the covers; a few minutes more, a few more hours; i kept dreaming about waking up and getting ready, but i emerged into the 65 degree frost at about 2pm, only because i should.
at dinner with a friend - well, ok, we've slept together, my bed crashing to the floor and throwing us against the bird cage, ending the escapade in a fit of giggles and a frightened flutter of feathers. but i can't kiss him with passion. he's a maintenance man, practical, kind, interesting even, and i tried to date him because i should. he moved to put my jacket on for me but i've been putting on my own jackets all my life, and would comfortably put his on too, feeling pride as people stared. i know i am more ambitious than he is, more idealistic, more cynical, and that i suffer more. i don't think i could ever love him.
i left my bed at 2pm today, after many struggles: at 8:30, then at 10, then 10:40, and then in ever smaller increments. at dinner with this friend, i told him i've been moodier than usual, that i'm empathic and can't tell how much of this depression is really mine. but my voice echoed across some gap and my friend repeated my words to me as if he understood only in a rudimentary sort of way. these little gaps add up and reinforce my empathic isolation.
i thought of my ex, and how he used to tell me that i have no empathy. every time he said that more steel grew in, sealing him out until i had empathy for everybody except for him.
i remembered something else today, something i haven't thought about in a long time. when i was about five and still living in southern arizona my mother started sleeping and living with a neighbor, a fat wealthy man who loved to call me names and tell me what an awful little girl i was. this tyrant's cousin came to visit: a tall, lithe man with dark hair. his name was roy. i remember his name because i loved him. he was kind, and had whole conversations with me. i have a memory of walking in the desert with him and bearing a tremendous sorrow that grew with his words. he was telling me about his battle with cancer. i asked him questions and he answered me very plainly. he spoke in a very factual way, like he was used to it. even then, i was sad that the tyrant lived easily, while this kind man suffered. but perhaps the suffering made him kind.
he left and i never heard from him again, but i never forgot him. i wish i could tell him that, and that it would matter to him.
at dinner with a friend - well, ok, we've slept together, my bed crashing to the floor and throwing us against the bird cage, ending the escapade in a fit of giggles and a frightened flutter of feathers. but i can't kiss him with passion. he's a maintenance man, practical, kind, interesting even, and i tried to date him because i should. he moved to put my jacket on for me but i've been putting on my own jackets all my life, and would comfortably put his on too, feeling pride as people stared. i know i am more ambitious than he is, more idealistic, more cynical, and that i suffer more. i don't think i could ever love him.
i left my bed at 2pm today, after many struggles: at 8:30, then at 10, then 10:40, and then in ever smaller increments. at dinner with this friend, i told him i've been moodier than usual, that i'm empathic and can't tell how much of this depression is really mine. but my voice echoed across some gap and my friend repeated my words to me as if he understood only in a rudimentary sort of way. these little gaps add up and reinforce my empathic isolation.
i thought of my ex, and how he used to tell me that i have no empathy. every time he said that more steel grew in, sealing him out until i had empathy for everybody except for him.
i remembered something else today, something i haven't thought about in a long time. when i was about five and still living in southern arizona my mother started sleeping and living with a neighbor, a fat wealthy man who loved to call me names and tell me what an awful little girl i was. this tyrant's cousin came to visit: a tall, lithe man with dark hair. his name was roy. i remember his name because i loved him. he was kind, and had whole conversations with me. i have a memory of walking in the desert with him and bearing a tremendous sorrow that grew with his words. he was telling me about his battle with cancer. i asked him questions and he answered me very plainly. he spoke in a very factual way, like he was used to it. even then, i was sad that the tyrant lived easily, while this kind man suffered. but perhaps the suffering made him kind.
he left and i never heard from him again, but i never forgot him. i wish i could tell him that, and that it would matter to him.