I lied when I said I couldn't lie. This is both true and not true. I'm actually pretty excellent at deceiving myself, at avoiding true statements that I don't like hearing the sound of, out loud. And if someone asks me a question to which the answer is one of these, I get pretty dodgey.
In this way, I do lie--I say other words. Not that these words aren't true, but there is an inherent hierarchy of trueness to every thing I say, and some are heavier than others.
And at the same time, I need to be better at keeping things to myself. To stow them, keep them, use them, churn them, hold them.
I'm very low right now, so I'm trying to keep busy so I don't go somewhere even worse. So I'm making short-term and long-term plans. It's only mildly comforting, and mostly devastating when I have to select just 1 ticket from the drop down, or make plans to just do something on my own. Redundant, I said the same thing twice because I can't really get over it. But I'm going to. I'm resolved and determined to be okay. I've done this before--when E wanted his own time after work, on his days off (= all the time). At least I learned how to bake and started many cooking adventures.
Perhaps I'll hone some other skill other than pining and loneliness. I refuse to be made a further a fool of.
This hurts me very very much, and I should have known it would be like this.
I'm going to try to stop sobbing uncontrollably on the bathroom floor in the dark. At least I can contain it until I reach the bathroom. And I've been able to keep it quiet, I think. But then I just wish the bathroom floor were made of knives and that I'd forget this fact, so that when I collapse to the ground, I impale myself unwittingly. At least that way, this feeling would end.
Instead, I have to talk to myself (quietly) to tell myself to get up, to be quiet, to stop crying, to stow it in another place, to keep my face, to keep going. To work hard for the plans I'm trying to make. To sharpen.
How do I say this in a different way? I wish I were in prison, in some jail. To know for a fact that I'm being punished. And that all my time would be spent trying to remember how to be myself, how to find myself. How to be a person. To work towards liberation. Instead of this life, this one, this this this.
It's not a condor, it's a crow.
The good thing about feeling abandoned when you fear abandonment most is that at least you no longer have to fear it happening (since it's already happened). That things couldn't get worst, and should only be better, right?
I want a hug, so badly. I need to train myself to no longer want to be loved. To not want to be adored, desired. To just exist wholly in myself, and to never come back. Maybe I can learn how to be the iron child, grown up.
Perhaps when Joan (last year's fall semester workshop instructor) and Darice (my friend/co-worker at Apple Corporate) both separately told me that I looked "older," this was what they meant. My hard resolve, the long months of battling myself, these feelings, of trying to staunch feeling. Maybe that's what being grown means. To let loose that small thing. To let go the mother, the child.
God, I am so fearful.
