Endings Are Always Sad
So it's no surprise I've been mostly in a funk for the last few days. That and sickness always gets me down, but the two are so intertwined that I can't tell where one stops and the other begins.
Intertwined. Like vines? Like limbs? *sigh*
Too soon to know, yet, if this is a Beltane ending (an end so that a stronger something can begin) or a more permenant one. Our friends-in-common think I'm overreacting. My friends think he's ridiculously unreasonable. And this Greek Chorus I've come to expect, those who comment on my LJ, have fallen silent. Not sure what to say, are you? I understand, I do the same when my friends are venting pain and anger I don't know how to ease.
I'd like to take a break. Pain, frustration, anger, hurt, sadness, despair, nostalgia, melancholy, longing, here and there a trickle of fear or hope . . . nonstop for days and days . . . I'm tired, though. This is Spring, I ought to be laughing or singing or at least having a good fistfight with someone (I never have, really, but I always feel edgy enough to, in Spring). Instead I feel half-real. I sort of drift around the city, heart brimming with sad songs but my lips are caked together. Some sticky substance dried, cemented them together. I've barely said three sentences to anyone who isn't Julius since Wednesday night.
I want a break from feeling like this. I'm even longing for some sake, (trade you sad for mellow!) but alcohol doesn't mix well with antibiotics, I'm told. No escapes, no easy way outs . . . no voice, except to Julius or to this screen. It's not even easy to write, now. Music helps, as it always does. Lisa Loeb's most recent isn't just perfect for Spring, at least half the songs contain lyrics I'd like to scream to a Certain Someone right about now.
(you say) "You're crazy,
Why do you keep doing this?
Everything is fine"
Then I think I'm crazy,
I do this all the time
Until I start to think that nothing's even wrong
Maybe I am hiding in my own confusion
Maybe we're just a picture in my head.
Maybe what if it could be the way I wish it really was
Maybe I don't want to see it the way it really is.
Sometimes your intentions are totally impossible to read.
(What does that mean?)
Sometimes even I have no idea what I need.
(I wish I did.)
* * *
You were wrong
And I was right
And I wanted you to bring me up
(Mmm, you know me well,
This is something I shouldn't have to tell you.)
* * *
Goodbye, my love
You don't get me.
You don't let me inside.
You once held me close when you wanted to hide.
You pulled me in close just to push me aside.
Goodbye.
Goodbye, my love
I'm going away.
I know you won't follow me far.
* * *
I'm sick and I'm sucked in.
'Cause I had something so dear
Slip away and leave me here.
And it drops me, drops me down.
And I'm not feeling so good again.
* * *
Trying so hard to dig ourselves out
'Cause we're stuck and we're scared and we're thinking
Things have to change- it's the thoughts that don't count
Can't something be done?
Don't let this decision drag on.
There's more, but . . . that's my weekly allotment of lyrics, since I'm over the age of twenty.
One insult (well, a few, if I had an ego to bruise regarding my argumentative style) and I go off the deep end? Seems unfair, doesn't it?
I wish that were all. But look at the negative spaces here. Look at his reaction to my several journal entries where I make it clear I am upset at him. Any emails? Nope. Any phone calls? Hell no! Any random visits to the sick grrl who's sick in the head as well? Absolutely not! One LJ entry- in a highly-praised metaphor about burning bridges and weight limits, I am told everything that you know, just about. My interpretation of this metaphor: "Stop overreacting! You misinterpreted. Call/email me, and we'll talk about this."
Oh, my! Let me find my fury switch- ah, there it is! Yes, I just need to turn it off and initiate contact with the source of my anger, because . . . because . . . . because . . . . . . . .
Wait, why is it I'm expected to calmly approach him?! ? Oh yeah- I'm the girl.
I am sick to death of males who haven't taken Emotional States 101 or Communication 101 yet. Maybe there is something to this gender bias thing: maybe I really do need to replace him with a womyn lover, because maybe she'll have a 10% chance of having a clue in the areas so many men never bothered learning!
What the hell is going on with me? Why am I so jumpy, so snarly?
Space. That's the concept that's from outer space.
When I say "I need space to collect my thoughts, to be me more", I mean that I need a week or two to myself. After that, I happily and zestily stick by my lovers.
I gave him that week or two. It wasn't enough space. Well, I'm not used to giving more. I once used to know how to love someone across the fucking planet and now I want them in the same room as me. So this snarling, this scratchy and growly me that you're seeing is the wolf in briars. To get free, to enable myself to let you go, I have to shove you far away, and I have to fight with myself, to reclaim the parts of me that have been stuck to you for so long I've almost forgotten them.
Am I tearing into you? Am I stinging? This process isn't half so painful for you as it is for me.
As Sarah sings, I don't know how to let you go.
And I really don't . . . but it's become clear to me that I can't pussyfoot this, that I have to let you go completely, make lots of space so that I won't be hurt by your distance anymore.
The hard part will be over soon. And you'll have all the damn space that you need from my psychotic, codepedant, immature, illogical self. Enjoy it.
Intertwined. Like vines? Like limbs? *sigh*
Too soon to know, yet, if this is a Beltane ending (an end so that a stronger something can begin) or a more permenant one. Our friends-in-common think I'm overreacting. My friends think he's ridiculously unreasonable. And this Greek Chorus I've come to expect, those who comment on my LJ, have fallen silent. Not sure what to say, are you? I understand, I do the same when my friends are venting pain and anger I don't know how to ease.
I'd like to take a break. Pain, frustration, anger, hurt, sadness, despair, nostalgia, melancholy, longing, here and there a trickle of fear or hope . . . nonstop for days and days . . . I'm tired, though. This is Spring, I ought to be laughing or singing or at least having a good fistfight with someone (I never have, really, but I always feel edgy enough to, in Spring). Instead I feel half-real. I sort of drift around the city, heart brimming with sad songs but my lips are caked together. Some sticky substance dried, cemented them together. I've barely said three sentences to anyone who isn't Julius since Wednesday night.
I want a break from feeling like this. I'm even longing for some sake, (trade you sad for mellow!) but alcohol doesn't mix well with antibiotics, I'm told. No escapes, no easy way outs . . . no voice, except to Julius or to this screen. It's not even easy to write, now. Music helps, as it always does. Lisa Loeb's most recent isn't just perfect for Spring, at least half the songs contain lyrics I'd like to scream to a Certain Someone right about now.
(you say) "You're crazy,
Why do you keep doing this?
Everything is fine"
Then I think I'm crazy,
I do this all the time
Until I start to think that nothing's even wrong
Maybe I am hiding in my own confusion
Maybe we're just a picture in my head.
Maybe what if it could be the way I wish it really was
Maybe I don't want to see it the way it really is.
Sometimes your intentions are totally impossible to read.
(What does that mean?)
Sometimes even I have no idea what I need.
(I wish I did.)
* * *
You were wrong
And I was right
And I wanted you to bring me up
(Mmm, you know me well,
This is something I shouldn't have to tell you.)
* * *
Goodbye, my love
You don't get me.
You don't let me inside.
You once held me close when you wanted to hide.
You pulled me in close just to push me aside.
Goodbye.
Goodbye, my love
I'm going away.
I know you won't follow me far.
* * *
I'm sick and I'm sucked in.
'Cause I had something so dear
Slip away and leave me here.
And it drops me, drops me down.
And I'm not feeling so good again.
* * *
Trying so hard to dig ourselves out
'Cause we're stuck and we're scared and we're thinking
Things have to change- it's the thoughts that don't count
Can't something be done?
Don't let this decision drag on.
There's more, but . . . that's my weekly allotment of lyrics, since I'm over the age of twenty.
One insult (well, a few, if I had an ego to bruise regarding my argumentative style) and I go off the deep end? Seems unfair, doesn't it?
I wish that were all. But look at the negative spaces here. Look at his reaction to my several journal entries where I make it clear I am upset at him. Any emails? Nope. Any phone calls? Hell no! Any random visits to the sick grrl who's sick in the head as well? Absolutely not! One LJ entry- in a highly-praised metaphor about burning bridges and weight limits, I am told everything that you know, just about. My interpretation of this metaphor: "Stop overreacting! You misinterpreted. Call/email me, and we'll talk about this."
Oh, my! Let me find my fury switch- ah, there it is! Yes, I just need to turn it off and initiate contact with the source of my anger, because . . . because . . . . because . . . . . . . .
Wait, why is it I'm expected to calmly approach him?! ? Oh yeah- I'm the girl.
I am sick to death of males who haven't taken Emotional States 101 or Communication 101 yet. Maybe there is something to this gender bias thing: maybe I really do need to replace him with a womyn lover, because maybe she'll have a 10% chance of having a clue in the areas so many men never bothered learning!
What the hell is going on with me? Why am I so jumpy, so snarly?
Space. That's the concept that's from outer space.
When I say "I need space to collect my thoughts, to be me more", I mean that I need a week or two to myself. After that, I happily and zestily stick by my lovers.
I gave him that week or two. It wasn't enough space. Well, I'm not used to giving more. I once used to know how to love someone across the fucking planet and now I want them in the same room as me. So this snarling, this scratchy and growly me that you're seeing is the wolf in briars. To get free, to enable myself to let you go, I have to shove you far away, and I have to fight with myself, to reclaim the parts of me that have been stuck to you for so long I've almost forgotten them.
Am I tearing into you? Am I stinging? This process isn't half so painful for you as it is for me.
As Sarah sings, I don't know how to let you go.
And I really don't . . . but it's become clear to me that I can't pussyfoot this, that I have to let you go completely, make lots of space so that I won't be hurt by your distance anymore.
The hard part will be over soon. And you'll have all the damn space that you need from my psychotic, codepedant, immature, illogical self. Enjoy it.