On unexpected fits of crying over the most unexpected things.
(Which btw, also translates to: wherein Noey attempts to dispense of the previous night's emo.)
I'm always so sheepish the day after. So I figure, if I post this now, maybe the rest of you won't have to see the entry I posted last night, wherein I see, that in my apparent lack of coherency, I managed to come off, well, more than just a little unhinged.
I spent over an hour crying on the phone to Kam slpwlkngdreamer. You'd think I was an emotional wreck the way I couldn't seem to string two words, much less a sentence together. Thinking back on it now, I feel a little silly, seeing as there is a very distinct image in my head of me with one soapy hand clinging to the edge of the sink, the other not-so-soapy hand clutching the phone, my weight on my heels as I pressed my forehead against the sink's tiles. No plates broken, thank God. No glasses either, but I think I can credit that to my fear of sharp objects and broken ends.
Still, it's a bit embarrassing, I guess, to have dissolved into someone who had no idea how to shut the waterworks off. I guess you could say that it only got better when I began to swing from sobbing outright to bursting into nervous, near-hysterical fits of laughter only to dissolve into sobs once more. And this, over a piece of fanfiction that I'm trying to gather the courage to read again.
At two years old, my Mom homesong told me that she and the rest of my family (my father's sisters being constant visitors at home) found it exceedingly fascinating that I would react so strongly to things -- TV shows, movies, books and stories. Once, they saw me watching The Return to Oz, and at that precise moment wherein the Gnome King threatened to eat Jack the Pumpkinhead, I burst out crying, calling out "No, no, no!"
I don't know if this is unique, I sincerely doubt it, but my family seemed to think so, considering I was usually such a well-behaved child, if a bit enthusiastic. Over the years though, I've had to learn that most, regular people find it exceedingly odd for a grown/young adult to cry at the drop of a hat when reading through a book, listening to music, or watching a film.
I don't know how or what it's supposed to reflect, really. I've been told before that perhaps it's because I have a predisposition for mild escapism, or that I simply don't get out enough. The former I think, we all experience in one way or form, the latter, I pretty much think I get out enough, after all, I'm not the type to suddenly just go malling with nothing in particular in mind.
So yes. I guess the point of this entry is for me to attempt to reclaim a little bit of dignity, especially since I freaked the hell out of my best friend by sending a text message reading "I feel like shit." right after finishing autobotvierge's Serengeti Vignettes and promptly dissolving into tears which I managed to hold back until my father had finished ironing my baby brother's school uniform (the pants).
I actually think I freaked Neal out. My youngest brother is a little bit like me after all, an emotional creature with a mind and heart that inquired on something of a philosophy of death and dying and being left behind at age nine. It's a fairly typical age, I suppose, given the generation now, but I put into consideration that of all the three Pico siblings (of whom I am the eldest), Neal is the quietest one, the one willing to fade into the backdrop and watch and observe.
So yes. I'm going to go home after work later, and I'm going to set out two glasses of iced tea and will wait for him to head home to reassure him that I am fine, because if the look in his eyes was any indication when he and I brushed shoulders in the kitchen (me on my way to the sink to see to dishes, and him on his way out to move the ones that had dried from the previous washing), I think I scared my baby brother. After all, his awareness of my presence only increased in the years that I decided that I would stop crying, because crying did me no good, and because crying, for some unfathomable reason (it still is, really), makes me feel like a complete weakling.
So yes.
I'd laugh at myself right now, really. But my heart still feels heavy, and the skin around my eyes feel tight, as if stretched. I need ice cream, I think. Just to appease whatever it is that is still pretty much unhinged. If not ice cream, then maybe... no. Definitely ice cream. Arce Dairy, cheese/quezo real. Methinks the 7/11 calls, but I'll get to that later.
I'm always so sheepish the day after. So I figure, if I post this now, maybe the rest of you won't have to see the entry I posted last night, wherein I see, that in my apparent lack of coherency, I managed to come off, well, more than just a little unhinged.
I spent over an hour crying on the phone to Kam slpwlkngdreamer. You'd think I was an emotional wreck the way I couldn't seem to string two words, much less a sentence together. Thinking back on it now, I feel a little silly, seeing as there is a very distinct image in my head of me with one soapy hand clinging to the edge of the sink, the other not-so-soapy hand clutching the phone, my weight on my heels as I pressed my forehead against the sink's tiles. No plates broken, thank God. No glasses either, but I think I can credit that to my fear of sharp objects and broken ends.
Still, it's a bit embarrassing, I guess, to have dissolved into someone who had no idea how to shut the waterworks off. I guess you could say that it only got better when I began to swing from sobbing outright to bursting into nervous, near-hysterical fits of laughter only to dissolve into sobs once more. And this, over a piece of fanfiction that I'm trying to gather the courage to read again.
At two years old, my Mom homesong told me that she and the rest of my family (my father's sisters being constant visitors at home) found it exceedingly fascinating that I would react so strongly to things -- TV shows, movies, books and stories. Once, they saw me watching The Return to Oz, and at that precise moment wherein the Gnome King threatened to eat Jack the Pumpkinhead, I burst out crying, calling out "No, no, no!"
I don't know if this is unique, I sincerely doubt it, but my family seemed to think so, considering I was usually such a well-behaved child, if a bit enthusiastic. Over the years though, I've had to learn that most, regular people find it exceedingly odd for a grown/young adult to cry at the drop of a hat when reading through a book, listening to music, or watching a film.
I don't know how or what it's supposed to reflect, really. I've been told before that perhaps it's because I have a predisposition for mild escapism, or that I simply don't get out enough. The former I think, we all experience in one way or form, the latter, I pretty much think I get out enough, after all, I'm not the type to suddenly just go malling with nothing in particular in mind.
So yes. I guess the point of this entry is for me to attempt to reclaim a little bit of dignity, especially since I freaked the hell out of my best friend by sending a text message reading "I feel like shit." right after finishing autobotvierge's Serengeti Vignettes and promptly dissolving into tears which I managed to hold back until my father had finished ironing my baby brother's school uniform (the pants).
I actually think I freaked Neal out. My youngest brother is a little bit like me after all, an emotional creature with a mind and heart that inquired on something of a philosophy of death and dying and being left behind at age nine. It's a fairly typical age, I suppose, given the generation now, but I put into consideration that of all the three Pico siblings (of whom I am the eldest), Neal is the quietest one, the one willing to fade into the backdrop and watch and observe.
So yes. I'm going to go home after work later, and I'm going to set out two glasses of iced tea and will wait for him to head home to reassure him that I am fine, because if the look in his eyes was any indication when he and I brushed shoulders in the kitchen (me on my way to the sink to see to dishes, and him on his way out to move the ones that had dried from the previous washing), I think I scared my baby brother. After all, his awareness of my presence only increased in the years that I decided that I would stop crying, because crying did me no good, and because crying, for some unfathomable reason (it still is, really), makes me feel like a complete weakling.
So yes.
I'd laugh at myself right now, really. But my heart still feels heavy, and the skin around my eyes feel tight, as if stretched. I need ice cream, I think. Just to appease whatever it is that is still pretty much unhinged. If not ice cream, then maybe... no. Definitely ice cream. Arce Dairy, cheese/quezo real. Methinks the 7/11 calls, but I'll get to that later.