In which I can't breathe for an hour
I went to sleep with a stone face, but with my mind screaming at me and my chest tight.
I expected this to happen, really... one of the benefits of being pessimistic. I expected to be forced to make a clean break, even though I didn't want to. Everyone needs something to believe in, and I needed to believe that things would go back to the way I wanted them to be.
The signs were piling up slowly but surely, but what happened last night was the equivalent of someone actually plugging in the neon lights. Why didn't I move on and move forward for so long... why wait and see and try to alter things? I equated moving on with failure, and I'm trying to improve my attempt/failure ratio. I'm used to things not going the way I would like, and I wanted to think that this would have been a different situation. I've played on football teams that were pretty eh for all but one year in the 4 years I'm around at each level, and I've gotten used to losing. I was used to being picked on and disliked simply because I was me. I was used to getting talked about and beat up because I had no confidence in elementary school.
That's not to say I enjoyed the experiences at all. I didn't enjoy not giving anyone a reason to care that I played football, and riding back on the bus quietly because there's no pride in losing, only losing gracefully. I didn't enjoy sitting in a group of what I thought were my friends, getting told by the cousin of one of them to push me, and then getting beaten in the head with a broom handle for defending myself. I didn't enjoy having the same person or group of people talk about me and ignore me in group sessions, unless it was to call me names.
So, things changed. I couldn't do too much about the entire team losing, but I did all I could to learn the plays and get better at my job, and I continued to play not for a crowd, but for myself. I started pro-actively defending myself, picking up the sharpest nearby object I could find and daring people to hit me again. When someone talked about me, I started choking them or punching them in their mouth.
I was used to failure. I got tired of failure. I did something about failure.
I tried to do something about failure by not acknowledging its existence, and still it came back to haunt me. The reunion left me breathless and unable to think coherently. Unable to sleep, I started counting from 1000 backwards; it took me two minutes to get to 992. Part of me still holds a glimmer of hope-- after all, I didn't actually ask again like I wanted to, and perhaps I should. However, the rest of me knows nothing good would come of it, and the last thing I need is another reason to be depressed.
I knew nothing good would come of drawing Tower. However, I wasn't aware that its waves would reach 1.5 years into the future.
Or maybe Tower's waves crashed on that day, and I was in denial about the fact that I was soaking wet.
-signed.
I expected this to happen, really... one of the benefits of being pessimistic. I expected to be forced to make a clean break, even though I didn't want to. Everyone needs something to believe in, and I needed to believe that things would go back to the way I wanted them to be.
The signs were piling up slowly but surely, but what happened last night was the equivalent of someone actually plugging in the neon lights. Why didn't I move on and move forward for so long... why wait and see and try to alter things? I equated moving on with failure, and I'm trying to improve my attempt/failure ratio. I'm used to things not going the way I would like, and I wanted to think that this would have been a different situation. I've played on football teams that were pretty eh for all but one year in the 4 years I'm around at each level, and I've gotten used to losing. I was used to being picked on and disliked simply because I was me. I was used to getting talked about and beat up because I had no confidence in elementary school.
That's not to say I enjoyed the experiences at all. I didn't enjoy not giving anyone a reason to care that I played football, and riding back on the bus quietly because there's no pride in losing, only losing gracefully. I didn't enjoy sitting in a group of what I thought were my friends, getting told by the cousin of one of them to push me, and then getting beaten in the head with a broom handle for defending myself. I didn't enjoy having the same person or group of people talk about me and ignore me in group sessions, unless it was to call me names.
So, things changed. I couldn't do too much about the entire team losing, but I did all I could to learn the plays and get better at my job, and I continued to play not for a crowd, but for myself. I started pro-actively defending myself, picking up the sharpest nearby object I could find and daring people to hit me again. When someone talked about me, I started choking them or punching them in their mouth.
I was used to failure. I got tired of failure. I did something about failure.
I tried to do something about failure by not acknowledging its existence, and still it came back to haunt me. The reunion left me breathless and unable to think coherently. Unable to sleep, I started counting from 1000 backwards; it took me two minutes to get to 992. Part of me still holds a glimmer of hope-- after all, I didn't actually ask again like I wanted to, and perhaps I should. However, the rest of me knows nothing good would come of it, and the last thing I need is another reason to be depressed.
I knew nothing good would come of drawing Tower. However, I wasn't aware that its waves would reach 1.5 years into the future.
Or maybe Tower's waves crashed on that day, and I was in denial about the fact that I was soaking wet.
-signed.