I hate these nights...
...they start out just fine; cooking for friends, drinking wine, reading, talking, laughing. Then at one point, they devolve into maudlin reflection, self-castigation, misery and tears (when everyone has left.) To put it quite plainly, it sucks. Like an Electrolux. And I can't talk to anyone, as everyone's sick to death of the subject...just how much I'm hurting, and why. They're sick of what looks like histrionics to them, and who can blame them, really? And it turns into me cutting myself off from the rest of the world, internalizing everything until I'm sick in body and mind; horrific nightmares, throwing up anything I try to eat, gutting my way through midday panic attacks, trying not to slash my tender skin with razorblades, seeking oblivion in alcohol. It frightens me endlessly. It makes me furious. With myself, but not only myself.
And now this song...good god.
I wish I had the capacity for forgiveness, for grace. I don't. Sometimes I can pretend that I do, but it's never true. I am hurt and furious and angry and miserable and I just want to be utterly destructive, to inflict as much pain and suffering as I've endured. Something holds me back, I'm not sure what.
And one phrase keeps echoing through my thoughts, and it won't go away; tu me manque.
And now this song...good god.
I wish I had the capacity for forgiveness, for grace. I don't. Sometimes I can pretend that I do, but it's never true. I am hurt and furious and angry and miserable and I just want to be utterly destructive, to inflict as much pain and suffering as I've endured. Something holds me back, I'm not sure what.
And one phrase keeps echoing through my thoughts, and it won't go away; tu me manque.