Dark reality
It bothers me, looking back over old posts, how rarely I write about the dark reality when it's happening.
I do write about it, but only after. After I'm happy again, after I've got my feet back under me, after I've re-found my strength and am able to pretend again that the darkness that just swept me under and rolled me over a gritty shore doesn't really exist inside me.
When I have my reason back, it's ok to write about things that are so unreasonable. Even now, after thinking about this for weeks, today is the first day I'm able to write about it. Because today coffee tastes good again, and sunshine feels life giving again, and I can think happy thoughts without them being immediately obsfucated by that dark reality again.
Not writing about it when it happens is, I think, a way of pretending it doesn't happen. I'm very, very good at forgetting things. I forget endings to books that I love, no matter how many times I read them, so that every re-reading is a happy surprise. And I forget that I'm capable of descending to a dark place, and then cutting the rope that let me get down there. I forget that I'm able to be so unhappy that the only way to live is to be kind of happy with that unhappiness. And when even that starts to get too difficult to do, the idea of living starts to sound less appealing. And those thoughts seem perfectly reasonable, because it's just reality. Dark reality, but still just reality. It becomes how things are, and how they will always be. And I forget that things always change, always get better.
I forget all these things because I don't write about them when they're happening. I acknowledge they're happening inside myself, but I hide them. I'm so very good at that. I think about this part of myself all the time. I analyze it, I follow these heavy threads back, inch by slow inch, and I find a memory, or an emotion, or just a vague unease. I stare at it, I acknowledge it, and then I promptly forget about it. I don't give it tangible form by writing or talking about it. I don't act like anything is wrong. I withdraw inside myself, of course. I become very introverted, conserving my strength for the effort required to not let myself drive off the bridge. But nothing of the darkness seeps out when I around people. Heh. Maybe it does. Maybe I'm fooling myself into thinking that I have such a perfect veneer that nobody would ever guess when I'm in trouble.
But I'm not the kind of person people feel comfortable asking if something is wrong. That has quite literally never happened to me. If it has, I've forgotten. Because I have no memory of anyone ever asking me "What's the matter?" when the darkness is close to the surface. I wish, sometimes, that I were the kind of person people felt comfortable confronting. Because it would mean I let people see my vulnerabilities. That I not only had some cracks to that shiny veneer, but I wasn't so proud as to make people think it would do more harm to ask me if I needed help.
It would mean I didn't choose to be alone in my weakness. I don't want to be that person. I know that person. I know PLENTY of those people. A German grandmother, hiding a rich, intense, dark inner life behind a proud, competent, completely contained outside. New Englanders, people I grew up with, who I knew nothing real about that I couldn't glean for myself. People who got so uncomfortable with my intensity, with my honesty. I remember being a kid and sharing WAY TOO much. I didn't have any boundaries or barriers. Life was fascinating, every experience was fascinating, and I couldn't imagine people not wanting to hear about it all.
And I remember learning to be ashamed of what I wanted to share. Ashamed of the weaknesses that I wanted to talk about. I learned to see those weaknesses in others, who weren't so good at hiding, and being both drawn to and repelled by them. People confessed things to me, talked to me about things I knew they would never share with the rest of the world. Adults and children, I acted the priest, heard their confessions, and processed them. I think I got a much needed feeling of power and control, knowing their pain and weakness, never sharing my own. I empathized with them, so deeply. I cried over their pain when I wouldn't cry over my own. And I hid my own weaknesses in a pile of other peoples emotions. I didn't have to see them, not when I had so many other peoples feelings to focus on. And I didn't have to acknowledge them, not when I had so many examples of others peoples pain which was so much worse than my own. I never grew out of that type of interaction. I still act the priest, still hear others pain, and process it. I give back advice, and I think about them, and I try to imagine how to make them happy. And I ignore my own, till I can't ignore it anymore. At which point I let myself fall into an undignified spiral of fear and disgust and every negative emotion I pretend I don't have. But I do it alone.
I do not want to be that person. I do not want to hide my own bullshit behind a flimsy facade that everyone pretends is a real storefront for the sake of my pride. I grew up with those people, and I pitied and despised them. I was always fascinated by the people who weren't afraid to share who they really were. Italian grandmas who cried at the drop of a hat, my New Jersey friends who screamed at each other one minute and hugged and cried the next, the misfits in my circle of friends who truly seemed to not give a fuck what people thought of their tendency to wear black and listen to weird music. I wanted to be them. I LONGED for an Italian grandma to pinch my cheeks and keep me humble and open.
I still want one. Man. And to bake me cookies. Never had that.
I do write about it, but only after. After I'm happy again, after I've got my feet back under me, after I've re-found my strength and am able to pretend again that the darkness that just swept me under and rolled me over a gritty shore doesn't really exist inside me.
When I have my reason back, it's ok to write about things that are so unreasonable. Even now, after thinking about this for weeks, today is the first day I'm able to write about it. Because today coffee tastes good again, and sunshine feels life giving again, and I can think happy thoughts without them being immediately obsfucated by that dark reality again.
Not writing about it when it happens is, I think, a way of pretending it doesn't happen. I'm very, very good at forgetting things. I forget endings to books that I love, no matter how many times I read them, so that every re-reading is a happy surprise. And I forget that I'm capable of descending to a dark place, and then cutting the rope that let me get down there. I forget that I'm able to be so unhappy that the only way to live is to be kind of happy with that unhappiness. And when even that starts to get too difficult to do, the idea of living starts to sound less appealing. And those thoughts seem perfectly reasonable, because it's just reality. Dark reality, but still just reality. It becomes how things are, and how they will always be. And I forget that things always change, always get better.
I forget all these things because I don't write about them when they're happening. I acknowledge they're happening inside myself, but I hide them. I'm so very good at that. I think about this part of myself all the time. I analyze it, I follow these heavy threads back, inch by slow inch, and I find a memory, or an emotion, or just a vague unease. I stare at it, I acknowledge it, and then I promptly forget about it. I don't give it tangible form by writing or talking about it. I don't act like anything is wrong. I withdraw inside myself, of course. I become very introverted, conserving my strength for the effort required to not let myself drive off the bridge. But nothing of the darkness seeps out when I around people. Heh. Maybe it does. Maybe I'm fooling myself into thinking that I have such a perfect veneer that nobody would ever guess when I'm in trouble.
But I'm not the kind of person people feel comfortable asking if something is wrong. That has quite literally never happened to me. If it has, I've forgotten. Because I have no memory of anyone ever asking me "What's the matter?" when the darkness is close to the surface. I wish, sometimes, that I were the kind of person people felt comfortable confronting. Because it would mean I let people see my vulnerabilities. That I not only had some cracks to that shiny veneer, but I wasn't so proud as to make people think it would do more harm to ask me if I needed help.
It would mean I didn't choose to be alone in my weakness. I don't want to be that person. I know that person. I know PLENTY of those people. A German grandmother, hiding a rich, intense, dark inner life behind a proud, competent, completely contained outside. New Englanders, people I grew up with, who I knew nothing real about that I couldn't glean for myself. People who got so uncomfortable with my intensity, with my honesty. I remember being a kid and sharing WAY TOO much. I didn't have any boundaries or barriers. Life was fascinating, every experience was fascinating, and I couldn't imagine people not wanting to hear about it all.
And I remember learning to be ashamed of what I wanted to share. Ashamed of the weaknesses that I wanted to talk about. I learned to see those weaknesses in others, who weren't so good at hiding, and being both drawn to and repelled by them. People confessed things to me, talked to me about things I knew they would never share with the rest of the world. Adults and children, I acted the priest, heard their confessions, and processed them. I think I got a much needed feeling of power and control, knowing their pain and weakness, never sharing my own. I empathized with them, so deeply. I cried over their pain when I wouldn't cry over my own. And I hid my own weaknesses in a pile of other peoples emotions. I didn't have to see them, not when I had so many other peoples feelings to focus on. And I didn't have to acknowledge them, not when I had so many examples of others peoples pain which was so much worse than my own. I never grew out of that type of interaction. I still act the priest, still hear others pain, and process it. I give back advice, and I think about them, and I try to imagine how to make them happy. And I ignore my own, till I can't ignore it anymore. At which point I let myself fall into an undignified spiral of fear and disgust and every negative emotion I pretend I don't have. But I do it alone.
I do not want to be that person. I do not want to hide my own bullshit behind a flimsy facade that everyone pretends is a real storefront for the sake of my pride. I grew up with those people, and I pitied and despised them. I was always fascinated by the people who weren't afraid to share who they really were. Italian grandmas who cried at the drop of a hat, my New Jersey friends who screamed at each other one minute and hugged and cried the next, the misfits in my circle of friends who truly seemed to not give a fuck what people thought of their tendency to wear black and listen to weird music. I wanted to be them. I LONGED for an Italian grandma to pinch my cheeks and keep me humble and open.
I still want one. Man. And to bake me cookies. Never had that.
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