strix-alba: I have a hard time putting names to some
via http://strix-alba.tumblr.com/post/152976424693:
strix-alba:
I have a hard time putting names to some emotions. I don’t always - or ever, really - process grief the way that it’s usually shown. I feel numb, unsettled, desperate to think about anything else and unable to stop fixating on this one thing. This is the first time that I’ve actually learned to label this feeling as grief while it’s happening, instead of only recognizing after the fact that yes, this is mourning, this is sadness.
That’s really all I’ve got for now. I usually let the processing happen in the background once the shock wears off, to be revisited piecemeal, but I don’t get that luxury this time because literally everyone in the world knows. It makes me feel - ludicrously, but go tell that to my brain - like I’ve been robbed of privacy, because I don’t get to choose who to share my feelings with. Everyone knows. Maybe there can be some comfort in that, but right now I just want to escape and have interactions that aren’t colored by recent confirmation of the sheer volume of hatred in this country, and there’s nowhere to go.
…actually, this - the feeling of being trapped and having nowhere to go to process - is startlingly relevant to the emotional arc of the main character of my novel. Huh. At the very least, I’m going to make terrific art out of this clusterfuck.
strix-alba:
I have a hard time putting names to some emotions. I don’t always - or ever, really - process grief the way that it’s usually shown. I feel numb, unsettled, desperate to think about anything else and unable to stop fixating on this one thing. This is the first time that I’ve actually learned to label this feeling as grief while it’s happening, instead of only recognizing after the fact that yes, this is mourning, this is sadness.
That’s really all I’ve got for now. I usually let the processing happen in the background once the shock wears off, to be revisited piecemeal, but I don’t get that luxury this time because literally everyone in the world knows. It makes me feel - ludicrously, but go tell that to my brain - like I’ve been robbed of privacy, because I don’t get to choose who to share my feelings with. Everyone knows. Maybe there can be some comfort in that, but right now I just want to escape and have interactions that aren’t colored by recent confirmation of the sheer volume of hatred in this country, and there’s nowhere to go.
…actually, this - the feeling of being trapped and having nowhere to go to process - is startlingly relevant to the emotional arc of the main character of my novel. Huh. At the very least, I’m going to make terrific art out of this clusterfuck.