(no subject)
Sometimes it just hurts to know what used to be there. Really bad.
I know it's my fault that it's gone. I can't blame anyone else but myself. If he's given up on me, it's for a good reason. I'm a passionate person sometimes, and that comes out most when I'm upset. I think the phrase would be "passionately angry." Right? I get that way, sometimes. I think it's because I've spent much of my life being something other than angry. When I am angry, it's usually pretty bad, and turns mostly on myself. Then again, he seemed to be hurt more by the way I would treat myself.
Our biggest (and only real) fight happened because of something like that. I was upset. I was passively suicidal. I don't remember what about, but I remember that my hands ached and the threat of surgery was there with every sharp twinge. I don't know if my hands had anything to do with it. I do remember that doctors used to ask me if I'd been in a car accident.
I don't remember a lot, except that he got angry at me for saying something that hurt him a lot, even though it was only supposed to be hurtful to myself. We were walking in the neighborhood. He turned and started to walk the other way. I told him to stop and started to follow him, but decided against it and we walked separate ways.
How long was it? Probably only fifteen minutes, or half an hour at most. It felt like hours. People called my phone, wondering where I was. I didn't answer. I kept walking. Then, he called. I answered. He asked where I was, and I told him...I have a feeling it was around 32nd and W or X. Funny. He said he was coming to me, and to stay put. I sat with my back against a telephone pole and cried.
Finally, I saw him walking out of the dark. I felt awkward, emberassed, ashamed...I don't know if that feeling went away when he hugged me. It seems so goddamn long ago. But we started walking together again. We ended up in the park, inside the play structure. Sitting with our knees together, under the canopy that may or may not have existed at the time. There was a lot of silence, and a lot of talking.
I said terrible things. He forgave me. I was all he had. He was all I had. Maybe that wasn't entirely true, but that's how it felt sometimes.
It doesn't really mean anything now.
He was smoking outside of the station. I went outside. I wasn't smoking back then. I talked to him, but he didn't seem interested in anything I had to say. His eyes were big and naked and sad back then. I don't think they've physically changed...they're just different under the glasses. His hair's lighter. He smiles more, and laughs more, and talks more. He didn't talk then. I felt silly for trying to befriend him when he obviously wanted nothing to do with me. Or did I? Maybe I knew.
Jason made sure we spent time together. Jason got us drunk. Jason left us sleeping on the couch together, after a few intoxicated kisses. It was our job, though, to tell each other the bad stories. He told me about her, and I told him about him. I had a boyfriend. ...technically. He had a girlfriend, though his situation was a little more real than mine.
I would put the papasan mat on the floor and we would lay there together. I asked him questions I'm sure he didn't know how to answer. In my nightmares, we were there, on the floor, and Aidan looked at him with this hurt look in his eyes. I hadn't dealt with Aidan at the time. I would very soon. It was a long process. But my best friend was there, so it was okay. We both had our problems, and we had them together.
It was something incredible. Watching Teen Titans on the couch. All night station parties. Cuddling, braiding his hair...that braid was always in his hair. I wish he still had it, but I know it's silly. He gave me that braid when he cut his hair. It's probably creepy, but it smelled like him--blood, and pennies, and his shampoo. That smell could make me cry when I lived in the backhouse and John wasn't around, and I wanted my best friend back, so badly it filled my chest with that empty pain I shouldn't have had. You're only supposed to feel that for lovers, right? I had a boyfriend. Maybe not. I don't know.
I guess he was a lover, but we both knew that we weren't...like that. We were close. Like brother and sister. ...slightly incestual brother and sister. But we kissed and then talked about our relationship problems.
I got that bed as a christmas present for him. Post-christmas, really. I slept in the papasan chair, and he was always upset about not having a place to sleep. So, the bed was for him.
None of the things we did mattered. Getting attacked by an invisible cotton monster was incidental. Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel was just a soundtrack to greater things going on. I screamed, and my knees hit the blacktop, and I was sobbing and he handed me a cigarette. That's all he needed to do. He came to my window and said my name. I heard him and woke up. I met him around the corner and we held each other. That's all that mattered.
I got sick and he knew. I didn't want anyone else to know, but he knew. He knew why my lip was torn up and bleeding. He knew who I'd called the night before when I said I'd been sleeping. He knew everything I thought and felt...or at least, he sure as hell acted like it.
There's more. More than I can possibly write about here.
The shitty thing is that it doesn't really matter.
Charlie was talking about us the other night. Charlie remembers. I'm sure Jessie does too, and Stephanie to some extent. John never really understood. I think Chrissy did. Sometimes I'm fucking grateful for everything we went through together. Sometimes I'm just sad that no proof of that time exists.
Sometimes I'm just fucking angry...and I know that's what got me here in the first place.
I know it's my fault that it's gone. I can't blame anyone else but myself. If he's given up on me, it's for a good reason. I'm a passionate person sometimes, and that comes out most when I'm upset. I think the phrase would be "passionately angry." Right? I get that way, sometimes. I think it's because I've spent much of my life being something other than angry. When I am angry, it's usually pretty bad, and turns mostly on myself. Then again, he seemed to be hurt more by the way I would treat myself.
Our biggest (and only real) fight happened because of something like that. I was upset. I was passively suicidal. I don't remember what about, but I remember that my hands ached and the threat of surgery was there with every sharp twinge. I don't know if my hands had anything to do with it. I do remember that doctors used to ask me if I'd been in a car accident.
I don't remember a lot, except that he got angry at me for saying something that hurt him a lot, even though it was only supposed to be hurtful to myself. We were walking in the neighborhood. He turned and started to walk the other way. I told him to stop and started to follow him, but decided against it and we walked separate ways.
How long was it? Probably only fifteen minutes, or half an hour at most. It felt like hours. People called my phone, wondering where I was. I didn't answer. I kept walking. Then, he called. I answered. He asked where I was, and I told him...I have a feeling it was around 32nd and W or X. Funny. He said he was coming to me, and to stay put. I sat with my back against a telephone pole and cried.
Finally, I saw him walking out of the dark. I felt awkward, emberassed, ashamed...I don't know if that feeling went away when he hugged me. It seems so goddamn long ago. But we started walking together again. We ended up in the park, inside the play structure. Sitting with our knees together, under the canopy that may or may not have existed at the time. There was a lot of silence, and a lot of talking.
I said terrible things. He forgave me. I was all he had. He was all I had. Maybe that wasn't entirely true, but that's how it felt sometimes.
It doesn't really mean anything now.
He was smoking outside of the station. I went outside. I wasn't smoking back then. I talked to him, but he didn't seem interested in anything I had to say. His eyes were big and naked and sad back then. I don't think they've physically changed...they're just different under the glasses. His hair's lighter. He smiles more, and laughs more, and talks more. He didn't talk then. I felt silly for trying to befriend him when he obviously wanted nothing to do with me. Or did I? Maybe I knew.
Jason made sure we spent time together. Jason got us drunk. Jason left us sleeping on the couch together, after a few intoxicated kisses. It was our job, though, to tell each other the bad stories. He told me about her, and I told him about him. I had a boyfriend. ...technically. He had a girlfriend, though his situation was a little more real than mine.
I would put the papasan mat on the floor and we would lay there together. I asked him questions I'm sure he didn't know how to answer. In my nightmares, we were there, on the floor, and Aidan looked at him with this hurt look in his eyes. I hadn't dealt with Aidan at the time. I would very soon. It was a long process. But my best friend was there, so it was okay. We both had our problems, and we had them together.
It was something incredible. Watching Teen Titans on the couch. All night station parties. Cuddling, braiding his hair...that braid was always in his hair. I wish he still had it, but I know it's silly. He gave me that braid when he cut his hair. It's probably creepy, but it smelled like him--blood, and pennies, and his shampoo. That smell could make me cry when I lived in the backhouse and John wasn't around, and I wanted my best friend back, so badly it filled my chest with that empty pain I shouldn't have had. You're only supposed to feel that for lovers, right? I had a boyfriend. Maybe not. I don't know.
I guess he was a lover, but we both knew that we weren't...like that. We were close. Like brother and sister. ...slightly incestual brother and sister. But we kissed and then talked about our relationship problems.
I got that bed as a christmas present for him. Post-christmas, really. I slept in the papasan chair, and he was always upset about not having a place to sleep. So, the bed was for him.
None of the things we did mattered. Getting attacked by an invisible cotton monster was incidental. Listening to Neutral Milk Hotel was just a soundtrack to greater things going on. I screamed, and my knees hit the blacktop, and I was sobbing and he handed me a cigarette. That's all he needed to do. He came to my window and said my name. I heard him and woke up. I met him around the corner and we held each other. That's all that mattered.
I got sick and he knew. I didn't want anyone else to know, but he knew. He knew why my lip was torn up and bleeding. He knew who I'd called the night before when I said I'd been sleeping. He knew everything I thought and felt...or at least, he sure as hell acted like it.
There's more. More than I can possibly write about here.
The shitty thing is that it doesn't really matter.
Charlie was talking about us the other night. Charlie remembers. I'm sure Jessie does too, and Stephanie to some extent. John never really understood. I think Chrissy did. Sometimes I'm fucking grateful for everything we went through together. Sometimes I'm just sad that no proof of that time exists.
Sometimes I'm just fucking angry...and I know that's what got me here in the first place.