On Belief and the falacies therein
I am used to being angry. I am angry quite often. Rarely for an extended period of time. But I get angry. And I know how to deal with it. Up to a certain point I even find it comforting.
I am not angry now.
Instead there is a disappointment that saturates every part of me. This sadness that I am not entirely accustomed to. And I feel like a woman who has been married and comes to a realization some time in this marriage that her husband is not who she thinks he is.
I have counted him among my friends (perhaps not as a good friend, but a fiend nonetheless) for four years now. Which is, in me time, a very long time indeed (most of you have been counted among friends longer. I am apparently getting too lazy to make new friends in my advanced age). But, I no longer feel I even recognize him.
And it disappoints me.
He is... a flake, I suppose would be the best way to describe him. He is good and charming, and despite being an absolutely terrible human being, he will continue to have more friends than I do. Because he is charming and funny and outgoing. But he is also rather shallow, I am forced to believe.
And it was fine when he would make plans with me and then suddenly cancel. Profusely apologize, I would forgive him. Because I no longer expect him to keep his plans with me. There will always be someone more fun. Someone willing to do more things, someone who makes more jokes, someone who doesn't watch everything she does and go to bed by one. I am not, it pains me to realize, a fun person. But he stops by (when, the voice in my head whispers, the fun people are no longer available. When, the voice in my head whispers, he needs help with homework. When, the voice in my head whispers, he wants food), and so things are fine.
But she has been my friend for as long as time has mattered. And she is bright and good, and rather like a small child in that she was so excited. She believed so much that he was going to come see her.
I believed too. That he would come see her. That it would mean something to him and so he would show up. So he would come. He promised, and some part of me. Perhaps the last part of me that still was capable of belief and trust in another person, in him in particular, that part of me believed him.
But he didn't show up. We cleaned and tidied so he and his friend would have somewhere to sit. There were extra drinks in the fridge if they got thirsty. Boy movies were picked out in case they had time. I realized he was not coming at nine or so. She did not. She smiled and excused him (and to be fair I am sure he is busy. I am sure he has important things to do. I am just not entirely sure that what he judges as important is actually more important to me than she is), and realized about a minute ago that he Was Not Coming. And it hurt her, as you can imagine it hurts to know that you have been blown off.
It would not bother me so much, I think, except that he promised. And so I told her. And I reminded him, because I believed him. I should have known better. I should have lied and told her that he had left for the weekend. That I had forgot to tell him in time. She would not have been angry with me, perhaps disappointed, but she would not have been angry with me, and she certainly would not be more disappointed than she is now. I should have lied. But I believed him.
And I don't know if I can again
I am not angry now.
Instead there is a disappointment that saturates every part of me. This sadness that I am not entirely accustomed to. And I feel like a woman who has been married and comes to a realization some time in this marriage that her husband is not who she thinks he is.
I have counted him among my friends (perhaps not as a good friend, but a fiend nonetheless) for four years now. Which is, in me time, a very long time indeed (most of you have been counted among friends longer. I am apparently getting too lazy to make new friends in my advanced age). But, I no longer feel I even recognize him.
And it disappoints me.
He is... a flake, I suppose would be the best way to describe him. He is good and charming, and despite being an absolutely terrible human being, he will continue to have more friends than I do. Because he is charming and funny and outgoing. But he is also rather shallow, I am forced to believe.
And it was fine when he would make plans with me and then suddenly cancel. Profusely apologize, I would forgive him. Because I no longer expect him to keep his plans with me. There will always be someone more fun. Someone willing to do more things, someone who makes more jokes, someone who doesn't watch everything she does and go to bed by one. I am not, it pains me to realize, a fun person. But he stops by (when, the voice in my head whispers, the fun people are no longer available. When, the voice in my head whispers, he needs help with homework. When, the voice in my head whispers, he wants food), and so things are fine.
But she has been my friend for as long as time has mattered. And she is bright and good, and rather like a small child in that she was so excited. She believed so much that he was going to come see her.
I believed too. That he would come see her. That it would mean something to him and so he would show up. So he would come. He promised, and some part of me. Perhaps the last part of me that still was capable of belief and trust in another person, in him in particular, that part of me believed him.
But he didn't show up. We cleaned and tidied so he and his friend would have somewhere to sit. There were extra drinks in the fridge if they got thirsty. Boy movies were picked out in case they had time. I realized he was not coming at nine or so. She did not. She smiled and excused him (and to be fair I am sure he is busy. I am sure he has important things to do. I am just not entirely sure that what he judges as important is actually more important to me than she is), and realized about a minute ago that he Was Not Coming. And it hurt her, as you can imagine it hurts to know that you have been blown off.
It would not bother me so much, I think, except that he promised. And so I told her. And I reminded him, because I believed him. I should have known better. I should have lied and told her that he had left for the weekend. That I had forgot to tell him in time. She would not have been angry with me, perhaps disappointed, but she would not have been angry with me, and she certainly would not be more disappointed than she is now. I should have lied. But I believed him.
And I don't know if I can again