greenstorm: (Default)
First, put this on.

She said I don't know if I've ever been good enough
I'm a little bit rusty, and I think my head is caving in
And I don't know if I've ever really been loved
By a hand that's touched me, well I feel like something's gonna give
And I'm a little bit angry...




....when words explode everywhere and I practically run home. They trickle away as I come through the door, touch Angus, log in to livejournal, but there's still something there.

I start writing and ask Angus to wait. He'd be happy to engage me every moment that I'm home. And that's the thing.

I thought today, waiting for the bus after a really gruelling day, that my classmates mention how impressed they are by the pace I keep up: I get good marks, though not as good as I'm used to; I work; I keep up a network of friends and social ties. None of my friends are impressed by it, I think, nor has anyone said they're proud of me. I'd expect that to be a bitter realisation, but it isn't.

This is because, though friends are important to me, other people are not the driving force between my life. There's no one whose regard I value enough to change the major flow of my life. There are people whose views I take into consideration, but to be honest no one invests enough time in understanding exactly what I do or how much of it I do that I can trust much of that; so many things are contextual, and no one does have the context.

In a fairly recent post I mentioned how this was a terrible thought to me ten or fifteen years ago, having no one to know the whole picture of my life. Now?

Now I have a powerful regard for my own company. It may just be that everything else has been severed one time too often. It may be that the older I get, the more time I spend with people who cannot speak frankly and openly on all topics, including on their responses to all topics. It may be the weight of my life path and my priorities and choices accumulating; it really is so divergent from anyone who could possibly be reading this.

There's certainly no way to explain my life to anyone. So much is packed into a day, nowadays. There is so much drive and pull, and so much resistance, in every day. I think I'm slipping towards more solitude lately, more time spent in my own company, which in itself comes with it's own push and pull, its own logistical and emotional difficulties in the form of Angus. We've talked about living apart, and I think it would be wise while I finish school, but then there's a money push-and-pull, and the dual threat of being too busy to ever come home and of spiralling inwards and not coming up for air.

Balance, I suppose, is only ever achieved when tensions are equal on all sides. Otherwise it's either a counterbalance or a slump.

I'm getting really good at this, though. I need to get much, much better, but I use the inviolate downtimes I give myself to motivate working like hell the rest of the time. I account for time down to the two-minute chunk most of the time-- "is this use worthwhile? what about this one?" --in order to splurge when I need to.

And, every once in awhile, I walk in the door and say "not right now" and write for twenty minutes. It's the closest thing I get to downtime with only myself nowadays. And-- thank you, Greenie. It's good.
greenstorm: (Default)
Everything you know about the world is a lie. Everything you know about yourself is a lie. You tell yourself these lies (you call them stories) to make the world seem explicable.

The world is not explicable. It can be packaged, wrapped, sent, received, and exclaimed over but we are only pretending that the world at the end of the process has a connection to the world at the beginning.

You won't get at the truth of things. You know that. You don't even really try most of the time. You won't get a valid explanation. But you also won't get meaning if you don't make meaning here.

Greenie, your life is stories. You tell others stories and that's how you communicate. You tell yourself stories and that's how you think. Right now your story is that, seven days ago nearly to the hour he told you that you were too much time and energy for him to deal with, that he was quickly losing interest, and that he spit you out of his life like squeezing the soap in the shower and you went careening off and bouncing against the walls. Now you lie over the drain, eroding.

Right now your story is that he's still too goddamn walled off to deal with real help so when he asked you to go over and snuggle -- after telling you he would not do the same for you -- he was taking advantage of you and he's a bit of a jerk for that.

You've got a simultaneous story running. That story is about connection. That's the story where you are a strand in a web, and everyone else is also a strand in that web. That story is where when one person goes down the other strands take the pressure for that person, the net flexes and eventually rebounds. That story is where you are a strand that does not break.

In your third story you're hanging from fraying ropes and he's just handed you an anvil.

You've had so many stories where in the end the hero rides off into the sunset and is never sen again unless you steal a horse and frantically chase after, leaving your own life behind. You've had so many stories where distance is the last sentence. In your stories of yourself you're not interesting enough to keep people nourishing you. In your stories of yourself you demand too much and people go away and they are never close to you again. You don't trust yourself to live a story where you maintain connection without sacrifice.

You don't believe life happens without sacrifice. You believe some sacrifices are much more pleasant than others.

Your lie to yourself is that, because you like someone or find them valuable in your life, that it means something. That's where you find your meaning. Your experience, though, is that how you feel towards people maybe isn't based on anything reciprocal at all. It's not based on their innate goodness for you or their ability to compliment your strengths or teach you things from the way they move through their lives. Your experience is that people come and go and you have no control over that regardless of how much or how little of yourself you give.

You would find it morally repugnant to be emotionally closed to a friend for more than a month or two. You open around people and there's no help for that. God knows you've tried. But also, in a world where you manufacture your own meanings, there is nothing wrong with that. You think that if you call this one way or the other instead of rolling with it you'll lose it, but the liklihood is that you'll lose it anyhow. That's always been the story. You might as well lose it so that you can write meaning into the story.

I understand, though, that then we'd just be writing the same story we've written before: the story where in order to get someone to engage on some level you threaten to go away otherwise. That's the story where you're demanding, the other person is acceding because they don't want to lose you in their lives completely, where you're leveraging any power you have. That's a terrible story and it makes you feel bad. It makes us feel bad.

These are strange seas. I see you're drowning. I guess I'm not much help. I'm not much of a liar. I sat down to write you a brightly-coloured lifesaver to throw you and we've ended up with this swirl of ashy confusion. You can taste the grit between your teeth and it gets in your throat and chokes each gulp of air.

People say it gets better, and it will get better, but you so badly want to live each moment of your life. You don't want to passively wait through it. I understand that. I also understand that sometimes pain and loss is too much, it's just... too much. You've been fantasizing about cauterization lately, about just going in with focus and burning each memory our as painfully as possible until it's all gone. You want it gone. You won't want to have lost it, though.

I'm no help. I have no answers. I'm just the other side on your mental debate on this and it's clear that writing me down doesn't make anything more obvious except that we are, in fact, confused and in pain.

I guess I should stop answering you now. I don't want to, though. It's lonely with no one to talk to.
greenstorm: (Default)
We had poems. I remember reading poems to him, making him read me some. There was one that destroyed me, and the sound of his voice reading that poem was one of my most cherished memories. I can't remember that anymore, it's only my own voice reading the poem in my head. Self-protection, I guess.

His body was a sacred space for me, even if he didn't come to the intimacy space with the full weight of his being. ALong with everything else I'm kicked out of temple.

Today is terrible. I didn't want to go to sleep tonight because, you know, then you have to wake up in a day that contains no hope. That moment when you're lying in bed and realise that there won't be another anything? And then you have to take a breath. Then another breath. Then another. Eventually you have to stop crying and snuggling your stuffed animal and get out of bed. Then there's work, a final exam, homework, maybe a friend to hold you a bit. Then the whole thing goes all over again.

And you have to not throw up all over everything. And you have to eat sometime. And there's no possible way to get out of this alive-- everything will be ashes, and when you see him next you'll be another person that he'll never know, and the past will be locked in that box of things you revisit when you're sad.

There are other ways it can go. I can ask for things-- hugs on the weekend, he doesn't want to give them, but perhaps if pressed he will --and the conflageration can be instead a slow and more controllable smoulder. Things can be preserved. This year is Hades' year. He tells me there's more to it than burning buildings and getting out quickly. He tells me there can be some kind of peace.

Okay. That's what I'll do, then. Self-advocacy, here I come.

Today.

Jul. 29th, 2008 10:02 am
greenstorm: (Default)
Today, Rain, Honeypie, and Hector will likely be put down. Rain for sure; it's been too long, and his hind feet are not just paralysed but beginning to abcess a tiny bit. Hector is nothing but skin and bone, and he's slow and not energetic anymore. And Honeypie is puffy and slow and quiet and breathing rough, and the prospect of introducing him to someone after Rain goes so he can hang out another two weeks before he dies isn't pleasant for either of us.

On the other hand, maybe only Rain will go today, and Honey and Hector can hang out for another week-- that would be as long as I could humanely leave this, and maybe a little longer besides. But I'm sure Honey and Rain would rather be together...

This is something I will do at home. I will not subject them to a last awful trip to the vet, as I have before, nor to a vet's possible mis-handling of the situation, as has also happened (oh, Silver!). They've had a good, long run-- Rain and Honey are both approaching 2 1/2 now, and even Hector's second birthday would have been November-- not so far away.

I've never done this myself before. Of course Angus will be there to help.

I know some of you liked these rats-- Eva and Bob and Ryan, for instance. Anyone into a wake?

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