 |
solstice: Valdosta Validation | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
›comments[0] ›all comments ›post #931 ›bio: kristen ›perma-link ›7/9/2026 ›13:13 ›archives ›first post ›that week
|
nature's miracle and frankincense did not go together. one second. I was tired of hating the cats, but it didn't matter. Dobby was sitting on top of the bear chair - having wrested it from Orangie. the worm medicine had been rather defeating, but I had tried. oh metaphor. oh you. I wrote before you. I'll write after you. It's what I fucking do to process, and I have this weird love of having it be on the inter webs - all chancy and brave-ish. but wow on a stick did you break me. I was impressed with your boundaries. I clocked that from the get go. it was something I admired. I admired so much about you. I get haunted the most by the possibility tasted, and I used to repeat that sentence you dropped "my sons are glad I finally found someone I liked" because you don't like me anymore. and it was true - that thing we talked about was kind of a deal-breaker: you liked getting off, and I liked making love. I should have stood by my drunken pronouncement that "sex is like god communication to me" Maybe I should have listened to what your body told me - what our bodies together told me. our first kiss was a perfecto metaphor. just perfect. I'm the one that reached for your hand, and it was just tender tentative lips leaning over into your driver's seat (thanks again for the ride but I didn't need it - I just wanted to be with you) and the kiss is everything to me - because it's the window. I've dumped a dude for kissing poorly when he had everything else fun. I beat myself up for not sticking the ole tongue in your word hole, but I didn't. you didn't. I wasn't actually impressed with any of your technique. I thought you showed a lot of potential, but you never fucking let go. never. I still love the thought of you on drugs, and I remember you once saying "I'd do cocaine one more time with you" and I was thrilled - anything to get us both past those pesky all-encompassing walls. oh well. just saying that you weren't a fucking god. it was going to be like having to accept someone in a wheelchair or with schizophrenia. it wasn't ideal, but it made no difference in my desire for you. As they say, you was worth it ya douche. but it would have always been kind of my mission to break you open and dance with me - even just once to taste it. so maybe it's correct that you ran. who was that freak I became. I definitely don't like looking at it - all that self-worth validation I gave you. It embarrasses me. I have no idea if I'll be better. I have no appetite for a 'next one' right now. it's weird. you are fading. I don't like it, but it's what's happening. I'm pretty fucking sure I put you on a pedestal - on the judge's bench - blah blah blah. and here I am. chastened. empty. I've had so much love and adoration. maybe that's all I get in this life. I caused a lot of pain and disappointment. I know exactly why I was so terrified. you were just like my dad - before he fucked up - away a lot, brilliant, charismatic, interesting, I don't know. I'll just say it is also something I'd be unable to write correctly: a certain je ne sais quoi if you will. recognition - an "ah you! how fun. let's play!". and I'm done beating myself up for being such a scared scared human. I could use your line and say "it's not my fault", but that doesn't work for me. I tried. I risked. I used all my old wiles. I learned "oh shit, fuck me - falling in love with someone means that I have a cascade of chain reactions I have to both be aware of and try to tamper". I learned I was still stuck in the boring ole kid alone in a basement - parents and siblings embroiled in their shit and needing and loving them all so much that I tried to figure it out. I can't even say what the real thing is, but I keep coming back to "be charming, and shut the fuck up". and this is my revenge isn't it. I love to fucking talk. I love to communicate. I love to splay my brain and make shit up. but I'm not going to do it for anyone but me - I'm not going to do it for "fame" or getting published. maybe sure. I enjoy knowing I have a talent. I enjoy knowing I help other people feel less alone. I remember someone writing me once that had the same dad wound. she was younger and just simply asked me, "does it ever go away?" I forgot what I answered her, but probably the truth that I knew at the time. I like telling the truth - my truth. it's like being a live - being seen. but no one ever looks of course, and that's why I think of the future alien inter web archeologists and Van Gogh... posthumous glory get me through the ...oh what am I babbling. I wanted you to love my brain. it was such a blow when you said, "I reminded myself to never read your journal". well hello, you're reading it now. why the fuck didn't you want to read my journal? I learned that my hugest defense mechanism the hugest is that I try so very very hard to anticipate the other person - the response - and then I anticipate their response to my response. can you imagine the exhaustion I have. my dad was a great man. I'm not joking. there were such beautiful things about him, and my mother once revealed he once was vulnerable and said to her, "you have no idea how much I hate myself." and he had amazingly real reasons to hate himself. I mean, we all know. but it could have all been forgiven. all of it. if he had just said, "my god, what the fuck have I done. I'm so sorry." I'm pretty sure I inherited brain - we're too similar. I didn't even know he liked to write until I was in my late 30s and my mom just said "oh you're like you're dad." for the millionth time. I fo shur have his Augen (German for eyes - I like languages). he sucked at languages. the reason I bring him up all the time is that you've got to get a weed by the root right? or it keeps growing. I mean I can keep trimming and shit, but I'd love to yank this puppy out my psyche. it looks like that might not happen, but the best I can maybe do today is tell myself I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I always put you down. I'm sorry I call you crazy all the time. I'm sorry I don't let you ever believe that people can love you. I'm sorry I tell you to shut up all the time. like that rules of the game that made me think - oh another coincidental thing our brains connect with - and I paraphrase with my artistic license "everyone has their reasons" and it doesn't excuse it all. maybe we can have compassion for each other. I was just trying to protect you. I feel embarrassed that I'm kind of childish and can't see that I'm trapping you - that I have you in a jail. I have no idea how to let you out - well I have millions of ideas if you want, but I'm tired. I can't think of anything. what I want to do now - most importantly is to have you know - I'm not going to fucking call you narcissi - that name I made up to anticipate the criticism of me. I'm going to call you by your name. but I can't think of the right one. instead, I'm going to try to tell you again and again as many times as we want to hear it - to feel it - I'm so sorry. I meant well. can you ever forgive me? I'd rather all of us go to a beach, build a bonfire in the evening, smoke some doobie, and tell stories and make love. instead, I guess I have been putting everyone one trial - even you. you have been given a childhood not many people have had. you actually really do have that trauma that few talk about - witnessing destruction of people you love - vicarious trauma - as well as your own. you made many many incorrect assumptions - but you did it so very intelligently and so very kindly. you apologize to the furniture when you bump into it. you apologize to the cats all the time. you apologize to the grass. you apologize to the plants. you apologize to bugs. and I want to tell you that you matter. please believe me. there's something in you that could be - wait let me rephrase that - you are fucking interesting. stop getting upset about the Lin you've invented to torture yourself with. she's interesting and impressive too, but you you you you you've gotten into the mindset that no one can really love you and the minute you let go, you'll be abandoned so best not to show it. baby girl. we all see it. it's ok. fifty-four year old baby, we all see you. it's ok. so, he didn't want you. whatever. I know. I laughed too at that. I meant more. think of that orpheus myth. you know the one I mean. god you're interesting. I know I say this all the time to other people and sometimes I slap it on as a feel-good panacea to you, but it was his loss. he would have loved you. he couldn't even cuddle you - this grown man - this mammal, was afraid to touch you and trust you and try. and dude, don't laugh when I say this, but he doesn't like just anyone like he liked you. I know it's not much but you're kind of fascinating. and no stop saying that you are up to a point. you know what the weirdest part is? you won't believe me but someone who really loves you - who can really love you - will think you're magnificent BECAUSE of the stuff you think is so dirty. girl, I know you think carrie fisher kind of had a tragic life and might have been on drugs to cope at the end, but think of her. you're kind of like her. and to my mind, you're even cooler. laugh it up. you're funny too. now get out there and go sit on your ass and think about yourself and your flaws and your hopes and your laziness and all the things you fuck up on. I don't care. it's all part of you. and girl, it's going to rain again. I promise. (and this is not an empty pep talk. this is really me trying to say I'm sorry. you need to hear that every day as long as you want. I'm sorry. you DESERVE to hear that. I'm sorry...
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||