The wretched desert takes its form, the jackal proud and tight
In search of you, I feel my way, though the slowest heaving night
Whatever fear invents, I swear it make no sense
I reach through the border fence
Come down, come talk to me
...
Ah please talk to me
Won't you please talk to me
We can unlock this misery
Come on, come talk to me
Peter Gabriel, "Come Talk to Me" Us
— `phfina commentary:
Okay, what are you doing? Why are you reading this post? Go! Go out and buy Peter Gabriel's CD Us (and while you're at it, get Lana Del Rey's Born to Die ... she wrote that album for us, girls; she really did).
I mean, okay: is that guy even human, or is he his name: an angel? There was not one false note on that entire album, so sad, so serious, so super-silly with his "Kiss that Frog" ...
Wait. Is 'kiss that frog' the same as kissing a 'python' because if it is ... okay: eww!
So: "Come Talk to Me." I mean, it starts beautifully, and stays that way: the (bag) pipes strike a mournful chord, and they never, ever stop, the continuous drone in the background of that entire song reminding us all of the hurt that is happening throughout the world, all the time.
And Peter offers a really stupidly simple solution to it all: "Come, take to me."
No, not: "Hear me while I tell you all the solutions to your problems, you idiot."
He didn't say "Listen to me." He said: "Come, talk to me."
And where are we coming from? We're coming from our wretched desert, where Jesus went off to be alone.
We're all alone, all of us so filled with our own pride, our own self-worth, just like that tight jackal, that we can't even hear what another person from the well of their loneliness is saying to us. We'd rather rip their throats out than sit down, look into their being, and listen to them.
But Peter, he reaches through that border-fence that we erect around ourselves, and begs us: "Ah, please, talk to me. Come on, come talk to me."
Sweetheart. You are hurting.
But talking to yourself, locking yourself up into your wretched desert and erecting that border-fence only feeds that hurt.
Please, talk to me. Come on, come talk to me.
I don't have answers ... I mean, I have tons of answers, all the time, and I'm damn sure I'm right, too, 'cause I'm a weak human being, too, so please forgive me my frailty ...
I don't have answers; I don't have help or relief from your pain. But I can reach out through that border-fence, and listen, and cry, hurting with your pain, and love you.
You are alone in this world. I know this feeling very well. Please, talk to me.
I love you.
Showing posts with label angels. Show all posts
Showing posts with label angels. Show all posts
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
On Beauty: Sita Sings the Blues
What is beauty.
That's not a question. That's a statement.
Because, okay, check this:
Isn't she alluring? Don't you, like me, just want to savage her, because you can't control the lust that she calls forth from you? From what? Her 'allure' to be sure, but that's because she's beautiful, isn't she?
I mean, anyone would be a fool to turn down such offered promises of bliss, right? Who could resist that? Only an idiot or a cad, right?
Obviously.
Like I said: obviously.
But, okay, the guy was ... hm, how do I say this politely, without appearing chauvinistic?
Hm, words fail me.
So, okay, the guy was being a guy. But what did the girl, she of the alluring black lace thong take away from this?
What is she saying to herself right now?
What do you say to yourself right now?
What do I say to myself right now?
'God, I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/dumb/useless ...' ... and on, and on, and on.
And why? Why do we say this to ourselves? Because some guy or girl in class gave us a condescending look?
No.
No. That's not it. That's not it at all.
Look at the first picture again. Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the world? Bar nothing? Doesn't she maybe even know it? Damn, she is hot! And she might be saying that to herself at that moment, too. She is fine! and sexy and sweet and smart and beautiful and with it and together and ...
... and everything.
But that's a very, very fragile layer.
We. Us. Me. We are very, very fragile creatures, because underlying that moment of exultation is this.
The voice. That little voice, that is telling us, all the time: you're trash. You're a faker, and you know it. You're nothing. You're shit. You're ugly. You're — oh, God — a disappointment to your parents. They don't love you. You don't deserve love.
It's not other people telling us this: is us. It's me, doing it to myself.
And all I need is this. I just, in my crowing and preening, one person with one glance to confirm what I'm telling myself as I try to use my bravado to bluster my way through this report, or presentation, or triste, or introduction.
I just need that one thing to make my foot moving forward to miss its step for me to fall onto my face. And then I'm that girl who fell down some steps or who flubbed her presentation or who turned in a shit paper or who farted when he was hooking his fingers into my panties or who threw up in the back of your car or tried to look sexy and oh, so failed.
It wasn't you telling me this.
It was me telling me this, and I just happened to use you to prove to me what I know that I actually am.
But, wait a sec. Really.
Look at the girl in the third picture, and look at the girl in the first picture. What is the difference in the two pictures?
No, duh, `phfina, like, huge!
Yes, like: huge!
But is she in the same body? The same skin? The same black lace thong?
Yes. Yes. and Yes. (as I scream out during certain occasions).
So what is the difference?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Except.
Except what she tells herself. She's the exact same beautiful woman, alluring, sweet, smart, sexy, all of that, except for the one crucial difference in what she tells herself she is.
You see where I'm going with this, of course. It's obvious to us, the dispassionate observers.
That guy, that jerk, has nothing to say who she is, and she could just as easily gotten up from the bed, smiled and go out for a drive with the top down and take a dive into the ocean for a cleansing refreshing swim, and then come tell that John that he's taking up space and is no longer welcome.
She could so easily do that.
And it's so easy for us to tell her that: "You rock, gf! You don't need no man to tell you who you are!"
But, that's not the real test.
It's easy — too easy — to see the faults in others and help them with free advice. 'Free' as in it cost you nothing to give it because you have no buy in that other person's well being after you dispense your wisdom and stick your nose in other people's businesses, 'helping' them by pointing out all their failings to them.
No, the real test is where the rubber meets the road.
It's what you tell yourself when you flub that word or trip or puke or laugh at the wrong time (oh, God, the worst! and everybody's looking at you like you know the idiot you are).
That's the hardest.
And the other hardest is this.
'Psst. Psst. Psst!'
Or: "Who does she think she is, wearing that dress like a slut?" "Did you see her make eyes at the VP? Is she going for a promotion ... on her back?"
Or, when somebody says: "I'm going to start my own business in cupcake making!" or: "I got called for a talent call, should I go?"
Do you say: "Oh, you know you're not suited for that Jane, you're just a secretary. Don't reach too high!" or: "Be careful, because my cousin lost his shirt in that" or any and every cautionary way to keep her down, to your level, because if she succeeds, what does that say about you, who are too scared to even think about trying?
Can you be strong enough to encourage somebody else to do something you won't even dare, even though it's risky?
And the other-other hardest is this:
"I'm scum. I'm ugly. I'm panicking. I can't do this!"
What do you do?
"Not my problem. L8R, bitch."
Or: "You're right, you can't, let me hold you and comfort you in the safety of my arms where nothing gets essayed or done."
Or ... what?
Or do you stay with them, all night long, suicide watch, even though you have to drag your sad, tired ass up to work tomorrow morning and explain to the boss why you didn't get that report handed in on time.
Really: on balance, what's more important? Somebody's life and self-worth, or your continued employment and comfort and safety at work?
Really. I'm serious. Which one?
For most of us, it's a sad statement that we'd trade a life for our jobs.
Starting with our own. We sacrifice everything so we can continue to live under the thumb, in fear of, what somebody might think at work when we come into work with circles under our eyes. So we say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I can't take this call now, I'm preparing for a meeting."
And how long to we have our moms? How long do we have another person? Once they're gone, they are gone. But your job? Didn't you get that last summer? Or ten years ago, or whatever? Can't you get a new one? Or, fuck it, jobs are a new thing, folks. People used to just make their way into the wilderness and carve out their existence. Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? The built their house, they traded for food from wood they cut and furs they collected, they did everything from scratch, and didn't have the bossman fucking them up the ass and paying them a subsistence salary.
There is NO difference from what they did then and what you can do now, today, except you have a lot more going for you. You can bring a gas-operated saw and a water purification system, and you know a lot more about insulation than they did. And if you don't you have google and wikipedia.
The only reason why you are going to school or are going to a job is because, NOT everybody else is doing it and your parents are telling you to, no: it's because you're telling yourself that's what you have to do.
You're telling yourself, all the time, who and what you are.
Right now, you are telling yourself what you are.
And, generally, what you are telling yourself is too sad for me to write or to contemplate, because I'm right there with you.
Now, there are Angels. There are. Really. And they are fighting for you. And they tell you you are a child of God, and you are limitless, and beautiful and they love you.
You have, oh, maybe one or two Angels in your life, ... if you're lucky.
Don't bet on luck. The odds suck.
You have to become an Angel. Perfect yourself. How? By fucking being you.
I don't hate people because they are being themselves. I hate people when they are being less than who they are.
Yes, I hate everybody. With a passion.
I hate you. You talk yourself down, and into a corner, and trap yourself into being ... nothing. You listen to the other angels, the ones that ask you who do you think you are? And you have no answer for that because you listen to yourself all to well when you talk to yourself, when right there, right in front of you, all you have to do is step out, in faith, and there are hosts people, heavenly hosts, supporting you, and loving you, and encouraging you, and all you have to do is shut the fuck up and take that very first, small baby step...
... and the world opens up to you.
And you do try that baby step.
Well, guess what happens when a toddler takes her first step.
She falls, flat on her face. And then she cries.
But the difference between her and you? She gets up, and tries again, because mommy and daddy are right there, and are so excited that she's going to try her first step, again (some of you will get that, later), and when she does, and she wobbles, they are screaming with joy and on the phone and taking pictures and picking her up and twirling her around because she took one little step.
Sweetheart.
It's the same with you. You are a baby. A child of God. And you can either sit there and do nothing and God will love you, and what can God do with that?
EVERYTHING.
Example: Helen Keller.
But what do you do with that is the more pertinent question. Because you go right there and dig yourself deeper into your cesspool.
But when you take that first little step, and Jacob's ladder comes down and the Heavenly Hosts sing hosannas and you realize it's because of you, what can God do with that?
Everything, again.
But what do you do with that?
You take that next step, because that first one wasn't all that bad. And you take that next step, and, hey, I'm getting the hang of this.
And you take that next one.
It's all you, Sweetheart. That's the good news and the bad news. It's all you who determine who and what you are. The past is the past, and, yes, there were terrible things that happened in it for you ... and for others who picked themselves up.
You can pick yourself up. And dare to face the world.
And dare to face, face-to-face, vis-à-vis, to Love. Love is always coming your way. You can dare, now, to accept it, and look at yourself through Love's eyes, and see you as you are.
Beautiful.
I love you.
-----
The images are from the movie Sita Sings the Blues. the best movie of the year. Which year? Doesn't matter.
Or put another way. Twilight is this:
(thanks shiniez, and I may or may not have permission to post that, but I hope the number of hits to his site skyrocket (from the astronomical number of times I've view his site))
And Sita Sings the Blues is what Twilight could've been if it had the guts to dare to face the real world with a real relationship.
Oh, okay: `phfina's plot synopsis: Love, Loss, Redemption, Now, and Forever. Do yourself a favor: watch it.
That's not a question. That's a statement.
Because, okay, check this:
Isn't she alluring? Don't you, like me, just want to savage her, because you can't control the lust that she calls forth from you? From what? Her 'allure' to be sure, but that's because she's beautiful, isn't she?
I mean, anyone would be a fool to turn down such offered promises of bliss, right? Who could resist that? Only an idiot or a cad, right?
Obviously.
Like I said: obviously.
But, okay, the guy was ... hm, how do I say this politely, without appearing chauvinistic?
Hm, words fail me.
So, okay, the guy was being a guy. But what did the girl, she of the alluring black lace thong take away from this?
What is she saying to herself right now?
What do you say to yourself right now?
What do I say to myself right now?
'God, I'm so ugly/fat/stupid/dumb/useless ...' ... and on, and on, and on.
And why? Why do we say this to ourselves? Because some guy or girl in class gave us a condescending look?
No.
No. That's not it. That's not it at all.
Look at the first picture again. Isn't she the most beautiful thing in the world? Bar nothing? Doesn't she maybe even know it? Damn, she is hot! And she might be saying that to herself at that moment, too. She is fine! and sexy and sweet and smart and beautiful and with it and together and ...
... and everything.
But that's a very, very fragile layer.
We. Us. Me. We are very, very fragile creatures, because underlying that moment of exultation is this.
The voice. That little voice, that is telling us, all the time: you're trash. You're a faker, and you know it. You're nothing. You're shit. You're ugly. You're — oh, God — a disappointment to your parents. They don't love you. You don't deserve love.
It's not other people telling us this: is us. It's me, doing it to myself.
And all I need is this. I just, in my crowing and preening, one person with one glance to confirm what I'm telling myself as I try to use my bravado to bluster my way through this report, or presentation, or triste, or introduction.
I just need that one thing to make my foot moving forward to miss its step for me to fall onto my face. And then I'm that girl who fell down some steps or who flubbed her presentation or who turned in a shit paper or who farted when he was hooking his fingers into my panties or who threw up in the back of your car or tried to look sexy and oh, so failed.
It wasn't you telling me this.
It was me telling me this, and I just happened to use you to prove to me what I know that I actually am.
But, wait a sec. Really.
Look at the girl in the third picture, and look at the girl in the first picture. What is the difference in the two pictures?
No, duh, `phfina, like, huge!
Yes, like: huge!
But is she in the same body? The same skin? The same black lace thong?
Yes. Yes. and Yes. (as I scream out during certain occasions).
So what is the difference?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
Except.
Except what she tells herself. She's the exact same beautiful woman, alluring, sweet, smart, sexy, all of that, except for the one crucial difference in what she tells herself she is.
You see where I'm going with this, of course. It's obvious to us, the dispassionate observers.
That guy, that jerk, has nothing to say who she is, and she could just as easily gotten up from the bed, smiled and go out for a drive with the top down and take a dive into the ocean for a cleansing refreshing swim, and then come tell that John that he's taking up space and is no longer welcome.
She could so easily do that.
And it's so easy for us to tell her that: "You rock, gf! You don't need no man to tell you who you are!"
But, that's not the real test.
It's easy — too easy — to see the faults in others and help them with free advice. 'Free' as in it cost you nothing to give it because you have no buy in that other person's well being after you dispense your wisdom and stick your nose in other people's businesses, 'helping' them by pointing out all their failings to them.
No, the real test is where the rubber meets the road.
It's what you tell yourself when you flub that word or trip or puke or laugh at the wrong time (oh, God, the worst! and everybody's looking at you like you know the idiot you are).
That's the hardest.
And the other hardest is this.
'Psst. Psst. Psst!'
Or: "Who does she think she is, wearing that dress like a slut?" "Did you see her make eyes at the VP? Is she going for a promotion ... on her back?"
Or, when somebody says: "I'm going to start my own business in cupcake making!" or: "I got called for a talent call, should I go?"
Do you say: "Oh, you know you're not suited for that Jane, you're just a secretary. Don't reach too high!" or: "Be careful, because my cousin lost his shirt in that" or any and every cautionary way to keep her down, to your level, because if she succeeds, what does that say about you, who are too scared to even think about trying?
Can you be strong enough to encourage somebody else to do something you won't even dare, even though it's risky?
And the other-other hardest is this:
"I'm scum. I'm ugly. I'm panicking. I can't do this!"
What do you do?
"Not my problem. L8R, bitch."
Or: "You're right, you can't, let me hold you and comfort you in the safety of my arms where nothing gets essayed or done."
Or ... what?
Or do you stay with them, all night long, suicide watch, even though you have to drag your sad, tired ass up to work tomorrow morning and explain to the boss why you didn't get that report handed in on time.
Really: on balance, what's more important? Somebody's life and self-worth, or your continued employment and comfort and safety at work?
Really. I'm serious. Which one?
For most of us, it's a sad statement that we'd trade a life for our jobs.
Starting with our own. We sacrifice everything so we can continue to live under the thumb, in fear of, what somebody might think at work when we come into work with circles under our eyes. So we say, "Mom, I'm sorry, I can't take this call now, I'm preparing for a meeting."
And how long to we have our moms? How long do we have another person? Once they're gone, they are gone. But your job? Didn't you get that last summer? Or ten years ago, or whatever? Can't you get a new one? Or, fuck it, jobs are a new thing, folks. People used to just make their way into the wilderness and carve out their existence. Did you ever read Little House on the Prairie? The built their house, they traded for food from wood they cut and furs they collected, they did everything from scratch, and didn't have the bossman fucking them up the ass and paying them a subsistence salary.
There is NO difference from what they did then and what you can do now, today, except you have a lot more going for you. You can bring a gas-operated saw and a water purification system, and you know a lot more about insulation than they did. And if you don't you have google and wikipedia.
The only reason why you are going to school or are going to a job is because, NOT everybody else is doing it and your parents are telling you to, no: it's because you're telling yourself that's what you have to do.
You're telling yourself, all the time, who and what you are.
Right now, you are telling yourself what you are.
And, generally, what you are telling yourself is too sad for me to write or to contemplate, because I'm right there with you.
Now, there are Angels. There are. Really. And they are fighting for you. And they tell you you are a child of God, and you are limitless, and beautiful and they love you.
You have, oh, maybe one or two Angels in your life, ... if you're lucky.
Don't bet on luck. The odds suck.
You have to become an Angel. Perfect yourself. How? By fucking being you.
I don't hate people because they are being themselves. I hate people when they are being less than who they are.
Yes, I hate everybody. With a passion.
I hate you. You talk yourself down, and into a corner, and trap yourself into being ... nothing. You listen to the other angels, the ones that ask you who do you think you are? And you have no answer for that because you listen to yourself all to well when you talk to yourself, when right there, right in front of you, all you have to do is step out, in faith, and there are hosts people, heavenly hosts, supporting you, and loving you, and encouraging you, and all you have to do is shut the fuck up and take that very first, small baby step...
... and the world opens up to you.
And you do try that baby step.
Well, guess what happens when a toddler takes her first step.
She falls, flat on her face. And then she cries.
But the difference between her and you? She gets up, and tries again, because mommy and daddy are right there, and are so excited that she's going to try her first step, again (some of you will get that, later), and when she does, and she wobbles, they are screaming with joy and on the phone and taking pictures and picking her up and twirling her around because she took one little step.
Sweetheart.
It's the same with you. You are a baby. A child of God. And you can either sit there and do nothing and God will love you, and what can God do with that?
EVERYTHING.
Example: Helen Keller.
But what do you do with that is the more pertinent question. Because you go right there and dig yourself deeper into your cesspool.
But when you take that first little step, and Jacob's ladder comes down and the Heavenly Hosts sing hosannas and you realize it's because of you, what can God do with that?
Everything, again.
But what do you do with that?
You take that next step, because that first one wasn't all that bad. And you take that next step, and, hey, I'm getting the hang of this.
And you take that next one.
It's all you, Sweetheart. That's the good news and the bad news. It's all you who determine who and what you are. The past is the past, and, yes, there were terrible things that happened in it for you ... and for others who picked themselves up.
You can pick yourself up. And dare to face the world.
And dare to face, face-to-face, vis-à-vis, to Love. Love is always coming your way. You can dare, now, to accept it, and look at yourself through Love's eyes, and see you as you are.
Beautiful.
I love you.
-----
The images are from the movie Sita Sings the Blues. the best movie of the year. Which year? Doesn't matter.
Or put another way. Twilight is this:
(thanks shiniez, and I may or may not have permission to post that, but I hope the number of hits to his site skyrocket (from the astronomical number of times I've view his site))
And Sita Sings the Blues is what Twilight could've been if it had the guts to dare to face the real world with a real relationship.
Oh, okay: `phfina's plot synopsis: Love, Loss, Redemption, Now, and Forever. Do yourself a favor: watch it.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The L-word
No, not that word. This word: Lent.
'What should I give up for Lent?' I wonder.
Went to Ash Wednesday Mass today: "Remember thou are dust and to dust thou shalt return" the priest intoned as he brushed my hair aside and smudged ashes on my forehead.
I felt them there, all day. Like they were burned into me.
So what should I give up? Liquor, Liqueur or ... lick her?
The thing is, you're supposed to give up something you desire (yes: check), but it's not supposed to be something sinful you are giving up. You see: you're just not supposed to be doing sinful things, ever.
And when I say 'you,' of course I mean 'I.'
So, giving up the booze? Well, that's fait accompli, anyway: I finished off the vodka ... after I finished off the St. Germaine, after I finished off the Scotch after I ...
Well, you get the picture.
... just before Lent.
No temptation, no sin.
You all must think I'm a lush, but really, I only drink a very little. This body of mine can only take a very little before I can't feel my cheeks and then everything goes all sepia-toned.
Um ... did that last statement convince you?
I don't get drunk-drunk (as I continue to dig my own grave here, why not go on?), I just get 'slightly'-drunk, so that's okay, right?
Anyway, I won't be getting drunk during Lent. No alcohol left, and I don't have this month's rent, due tomorrow (well, today), so no money to buy more. Nor food. Nor gas, but I can walk to work, anyway.
It's okay: Dad sent a check, and it should clear RSN.
And how many months has Dad bailed me out? And how many more will he have to?
One option to ease that burden.
So I could give up another L-word for Lent, instead of Liquor and Liqueur, and that is: Life.
But the thing here is, boy, `phfina, haven't you given up on life already. You can't give up on something you already gave up on.
The prayer goes: "God, don't let me die until I'm dead."
That prayer has 'me' written all over it. "God, ..."
I can't even finish it without crying. Trying again: "God, please, tonight."
Every night I pray that, and every morning I wake, disappointed. Once again, God said 'no.' And I can't even ask 'why?' I mean, seriously: "God, in your infinite wisdom, why me?" That's a non sequitur and a half.
Giving up on life. Ha.
You know I read the newspapers sometimes. Those book reviews. One was by a Balkans girl born in 1985 that is now an international best seller, writing about the 'Tiger's Wife' ... writing about herself, that she remembers from being 12 years old. And she put that into a book and is now the toast of the town. And there was another one, that now I can't even remember, I just know that they all, all those book reviews, point at me and say: 'Aha, aha! Look at them, doing something with their lives. Really reaching people. And look at you in your pity party.'
I don't envy them their success. No, I'm glad for them. It's just another nail in my coffin though, seeing people do things with their lives, and me ...
I look at college 'kids' (oh, `phfina, you're so old!) and feel ...
... I feel betrayed, ... by their youth. I'm young, but I'm old, old, old, because I have no future, except continuing to be a burden on society, ... and on my family. But the college kids, they are young, but when they look out of their eyes, they look forward, with hope, and optimism and determination, and ...
And life.
I'm afraid to go back to college to teach, ... not that I'm going to, but do you remember that movie with Anton Yelchin? Where he shows up, first day of public school, and one of his classmates tells him where the teacher's lounge is? I would have the opposite problem. I show up at the teacher's lounge, and they would say, 'oh, are you lost, little freshman? You'll be late for your class, where's your schedule?'
I look like a little girl, and that's what I'm taken as sometimes, so everything I say is 'aw, that's so cute, isn't she precious?'
Empty. Meaningless. Worthless, because who listens to a 12-year-old.
Not that I look 12, all that much, anymore. But my id ... it's like the look on their face is 'this is obviously a fake.'
Fuck.
Maybe you should give up the L-word 'language,' `phfina, eh?
I mean, I could blend right back into college, except for the fact that they have hope and a future, and I don't.
The other, obvious, thing I should give up is that L-word: l.e.s.b.i.a.n.
I should just give that up, you know. I mean, I was thinking of the convent, you know. Really. When I was younger.
Much younger.
And then it all went to shit.
Mary shows up. My dad leaves. I turn out to be ... same-gender directed.
And then ...
And then it gets weird, 'cause like, okay. There must be something wrong with me.
(Heh. That's a 'no dur' one)
'Cause like, okay, I mean, why is it that the wind blows and I'm like ...
I mean ...
I mean I see a girl, and all I want to do is fvck her. I mean, if she is beautiful, and what woman isn't, in her own way, as she hopes, and struggles, and preens and tries and ... hopes. And physical intimacy?
I seriously thought something was wrong with me, 'cause just a touch, just a touch of tenderness, and I'm like: ready. As in the switch is thrown and I'm going and you can come, too, and I will be more than happy to help you, for as long and as often as it takes.
'Frigid'? What's that? My whole body is an erogenous zone, and, and for the girl, ... if she thinks she was frigid, well ...
Well, I have the, erhm, patience and, um, perseverance, and the pent-up passion to ... help a girl who thought she couldn't ... well, you know.
So, me, going to a convent?
And nuns scare me. I mean, really. Look at them. I look at them a few times a week when I go to Mass. They are ...
... they are God's soldiers, and short and plump or long and lean, they have that iron-will determination to get you to Heaven, even despite yourself. If I went to a convent, they would straighten the hell out of me in two shakes.
So I could give up being 'a lesbian' I suppose, for all of, oh, two seconds, given the ... heightened, um, responsiveness and sensitivity of my body and my ever (over-)active imagination. I could give up my appointments with that 'young man' 'Master Bates.' I could.
40 days and 40 nights.
Hm.
BOOM! (sound effect of `phfina exploding)
Again, there's these codes, and my activities and preferences aren't exactly cricket ... or (hahaha) kosher.
So giving that up, not to get me to the nunnery, so married off to a strong stalwart of a man? Having babies and being a productive and contributing member of society, instead of a burden.
Could I be happy, being that? A good little wifey and mom?
I've seen that happen, and I've seen ... well, the girl very happy in her new role, her new life.
But she was already a happy person to begin with: kind, caring, loving. Just joyful.
But me ...
I suppose you have to be happy already to become happy.
Or something.
Wah-wah-wah, poor `phfina.
You know (and yes: I do know), the L-word I should really give up?
Laziness.
I should get off of my sad little wallowing ass and pick up my pen again, and write from my heart. And dare. And breathe. And live. And hope.
Brave words. Brave words, so determinedly said, brave girl. So, go ahead. The doors right there. Open it, and step through. I dare you. And so, so many are hoping and praying that you do. Stop lying. Stop lying in that bed, wallowing. Stop lying to yourself, shutting out the world, telling yourself it'll be okay if it all just goes away.
Yes, that's what I should do, huh?
Yeah.
40 days. Today was the first day.
You know, Mary dared. She did. She said 'yes,' in the face of entire loss: shame to her family and Joseph, and, if he were a righteous man by the standards of the time (that time being: today), she would be stoned to death.
I ... in Mass today I didn't see Mary, but I imagined the final battle. Do you know Michael was just a lowly archangel? And, I think, anyway, the reason God picked him to cast out Lucifer, the Light Bearer, an angel so great he was right next to God?
The reason?
Because all the other angels were like, 'I'm not worthy to the task God asks of me.' So they all stood around, looking toward God, and Michael raised his hand and said, ' ...' well, what could he say? I don't know, but maybe just stepping forward like that, a lowly archangel in the face of the Cherubim and Seraphim singled him out to do that task.
So I thought, for the final call, when Satan is finally defeated, the same quandary will arise. But this time, Mary's there, and she see this and roll her eyes and stamp her foot, and say, 'Oh, please!' and scold everybody with her thirty years of being a mother gives her and tell Satan, 'Okay, enough's enough, out you go,' and throw him out the door by his ear, and that will be that.
No huge pomp and ceremony. Just a mom, cleaning house, all of 14 years old when she held Jesus in her arms, or 44 years old when she let him go.
No big deal. But to God, nothing can be a big deal, because He's the biggest deal around.
No big deal, `phfina, just pick yourself up and go. By the ear and throw yourself and your scared little lazy ass out that door into the world. And live.
No big deal.
Well, we'll see.
'What should I give up for Lent?' I wonder.
Went to Ash Wednesday Mass today: "Remember thou are dust and to dust thou shalt return" the priest intoned as he brushed my hair aside and smudged ashes on my forehead.
I felt them there, all day. Like they were burned into me.
So what should I give up? Liquor, Liqueur or ... lick her?
The thing is, you're supposed to give up something you desire (yes: check), but it's not supposed to be something sinful you are giving up. You see: you're just not supposed to be doing sinful things, ever.
And when I say 'you,' of course I mean 'I.'
So, giving up the booze? Well, that's fait accompli, anyway: I finished off the vodka ... after I finished off the St. Germaine, after I finished off the Scotch after I ...
Well, you get the picture.
... just before Lent.
No temptation, no sin.
You all must think I'm a lush, but really, I only drink a very little. This body of mine can only take a very little before I can't feel my cheeks and then everything goes all sepia-toned.
Um ... did that last statement convince you?
I don't get drunk-drunk (as I continue to dig my own grave here, why not go on?), I just get 'slightly'-drunk, so that's okay, right?
Anyway, I won't be getting drunk during Lent. No alcohol left, and I don't have this month's rent, due tomorrow (well, today), so no money to buy more. Nor food. Nor gas, but I can walk to work, anyway.
It's okay: Dad sent a check, and it should clear RSN.
And how many months has Dad bailed me out? And how many more will he have to?
One option to ease that burden.
So I could give up another L-word for Lent, instead of Liquor and Liqueur, and that is: Life.
But the thing here is, boy, `phfina, haven't you given up on life already. You can't give up on something you already gave up on.
The prayer goes: "God, don't let me die until I'm dead."
That prayer has 'me' written all over it. "God, ..."
I can't even finish it without crying. Trying again: "God, please, tonight."
Every night I pray that, and every morning I wake, disappointed. Once again, God said 'no.' And I can't even ask 'why?' I mean, seriously: "God, in your infinite wisdom, why me?" That's a non sequitur and a half.
Giving up on life. Ha.
You know I read the newspapers sometimes. Those book reviews. One was by a Balkans girl born in 1985 that is now an international best seller, writing about the 'Tiger's Wife' ... writing about herself, that she remembers from being 12 years old. And she put that into a book and is now the toast of the town. And there was another one, that now I can't even remember, I just know that they all, all those book reviews, point at me and say: 'Aha, aha! Look at them, doing something with their lives. Really reaching people. And look at you in your pity party.'
I don't envy them their success. No, I'm glad for them. It's just another nail in my coffin though, seeing people do things with their lives, and me ...
I look at college 'kids' (oh, `phfina, you're so old!) and feel ...
... I feel betrayed, ... by their youth. I'm young, but I'm old, old, old, because I have no future, except continuing to be a burden on society, ... and on my family. But the college kids, they are young, but when they look out of their eyes, they look forward, with hope, and optimism and determination, and ...
And life.
I'm afraid to go back to college to teach, ... not that I'm going to, but do you remember that movie with Anton Yelchin? Where he shows up, first day of public school, and one of his classmates tells him where the teacher's lounge is? I would have the opposite problem. I show up at the teacher's lounge, and they would say, 'oh, are you lost, little freshman? You'll be late for your class, where's your schedule?'
I look like a little girl, and that's what I'm taken as sometimes, so everything I say is 'aw, that's so cute, isn't she precious?'
Empty. Meaningless. Worthless, because who listens to a 12-year-old.
Not that I look 12, all that much, anymore. But my id ... it's like the look on their face is 'this is obviously a fake.'
Fuck.
Maybe you should give up the L-word 'language,' `phfina, eh?
I mean, I could blend right back into college, except for the fact that they have hope and a future, and I don't.
The other, obvious, thing I should give up is that L-word: l.e.s.b.i.a.n.
I should just give that up, you know. I mean, I was thinking of the convent, you know. Really. When I was younger.
Much younger.
And then it all went to shit.
Mary shows up. My dad leaves. I turn out to be ... same-gender directed.
And then ...
And then it gets weird, 'cause like, okay. There must be something wrong with me.
(Heh. That's a 'no dur' one)
'Cause like, okay, I mean, why is it that the wind blows and I'm like ...
I mean ...
I mean I see a girl, and all I want to do is fvck her. I mean, if she is beautiful, and what woman isn't, in her own way, as she hopes, and struggles, and preens and tries and ... hopes. And physical intimacy?
I seriously thought something was wrong with me, 'cause just a touch, just a touch of tenderness, and I'm like: ready. As in the switch is thrown and I'm going and you can come, too, and I will be more than happy to help you, for as long and as often as it takes.
'Frigid'? What's that? My whole body is an erogenous zone, and, and for the girl, ... if she thinks she was frigid, well ...
Well, I have the, erhm, patience and, um, perseverance, and the pent-up passion to ... help a girl who thought she couldn't ... well, you know.
So, me, going to a convent?
And nuns scare me. I mean, really. Look at them. I look at them a few times a week when I go to Mass. They are ...
... they are God's soldiers, and short and plump or long and lean, they have that iron-will determination to get you to Heaven, even despite yourself. If I went to a convent, they would straighten the hell out of me in two shakes.
So I could give up being 'a lesbian' I suppose, for all of, oh, two seconds, given the ... heightened, um, responsiveness and sensitivity of my body and my ever (over-)active imagination. I could give up my appointments with that 'young man' 'Master Bates.' I could.
40 days and 40 nights.
Hm.
BOOM! (sound effect of `phfina exploding)
Again, there's these codes, and my activities and preferences aren't exactly cricket ... or (hahaha) kosher.
So giving that up, not to get me to the nunnery, so married off to a strong stalwart of a man? Having babies and being a productive and contributing member of society, instead of a burden.
Could I be happy, being that? A good little wifey and mom?
I've seen that happen, and I've seen ... well, the girl very happy in her new role, her new life.
But she was already a happy person to begin with: kind, caring, loving. Just joyful.
But me ...
I suppose you have to be happy already to become happy.
Or something.
Wah-wah-wah, poor `phfina.
You know (and yes: I do know), the L-word I should really give up?
Laziness.
I should get off of my sad little wallowing ass and pick up my pen again, and write from my heart. And dare. And breathe. And live. And hope.
Brave words. Brave words, so determinedly said, brave girl. So, go ahead. The doors right there. Open it, and step through. I dare you. And so, so many are hoping and praying that you do. Stop lying. Stop lying in that bed, wallowing. Stop lying to yourself, shutting out the world, telling yourself it'll be okay if it all just goes away.
Yes, that's what I should do, huh?
Yeah.
40 days. Today was the first day.
You know, Mary dared. She did. She said 'yes,' in the face of entire loss: shame to her family and Joseph, and, if he were a righteous man by the standards of the time (that time being: today), she would be stoned to death.
I ... in Mass today I didn't see Mary, but I imagined the final battle. Do you know Michael was just a lowly archangel? And, I think, anyway, the reason God picked him to cast out Lucifer, the Light Bearer, an angel so great he was right next to God?
The reason?
Because all the other angels were like, 'I'm not worthy to the task God asks of me.' So they all stood around, looking toward God, and Michael raised his hand and said, ' ...' well, what could he say? I don't know, but maybe just stepping forward like that, a lowly archangel in the face of the Cherubim and Seraphim singled him out to do that task.
So I thought, for the final call, when Satan is finally defeated, the same quandary will arise. But this time, Mary's there, and she see this and roll her eyes and stamp her foot, and say, 'Oh, please!' and scold everybody with her thirty years of being a mother gives her and tell Satan, 'Okay, enough's enough, out you go,' and throw him out the door by his ear, and that will be that.
No huge pomp and ceremony. Just a mom, cleaning house, all of 14 years old when she held Jesus in her arms, or 44 years old when she let him go.
No big deal. But to God, nothing can be a big deal, because He's the biggest deal around.
No big deal, `phfina, just pick yourself up and go. By the ear and throw yourself and your scared little lazy ass out that door into the world. And live.
No big deal.
Well, we'll see.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Bad news: you win
May I preface this post? Of course this post is a follow-up, the 'second half,' as it were, of my previous diatribe, and, of course, I have no choice in the matter of writing this. I simply must write this, even though it does no good.
You see, this post, despite my preamble, has nothing to do with me: this post is about you. And, if you think the last one hurt, well, gf, you've got another thing coming, because the last post was all about me. This one? It's all about you, through my eyes.
This is gonna hurt you. A lot.
So, you know: standard caveat. Get the hell out if you want sugary goodness, and don't come crying to me if my words hurt you. There's only one way they can hurt, and that is: if they apply. So bitch and moan to the mirror.
I fucking warned you.
And what good will it do? None, probably. You are you. You are still being you, even after what happened. You are so you, as I see every day when I interact with you. And I love you. And I want the best for you.
And so this post.
I feel so like an angel right now. Do you know angels have no choice in the matter? In eternity, they made their choice: follow God, emptying themselves completely, or follow themselves, and what they think is right, filling themselves with the nothing they actually are without God.
Once that choice was made, Angels are forever fixed. Choice? They've already chosen, they simply must do what they must do.
I feel so like an angel. But angels are eternally happy: they made their choice, and now they choose, eternally to be happy with that choice, so I must write this, yes? But perhaps I can choose to be happy writing this.
So, you, being you, must read this, no matter how painful it is to you. So, you can now choose, too.
"God, this hurts. God, it's so true!"
And what do you choose? To deny this? To hate me, the messenger, forever?
Yes, you can choose this.
Do you choose to read this, and, in reading it, to see what's in there that you can take on for yourself and your life?
You know, people have an advantage over angels (besides being able to enjoy gnocchi): angels cannot change, but people can change.
You can change. You can be yourself, and you can change, and still be yourself. You can, you know: you can.
And I really, really don't know if I'm actually a person. Isn't that insane? But I can cop out and say that I'm a selkie and that once I find my skin, I will return to the sea, and this human life I've been faking and have been so sad living, I'll just forget it all, forget you, forget my loves and my sadnesses and swim away to be home again with my sisters.
I can say that. I can cop out. Just like you can cop out, and say, "But I can't change because of ..." because of whatever millstone you are hanging onto so desperately, calling the millstone your unalterable self, when really it's you being drug down by the millstone, and all you have to do is to let it go.
I am so looking into the mirror right now as I write these words, okay?
So, this post.
So, you've taken on me, unsalvageable me. And you put your heart into it, and you've sacrificed everything, your career, your educational prospects, your art, everything, to save me.
And you've watched me. You've watched me start to pull myself out of it, that pit I'm in, and you’ve been so proud and pleased with the progress you’ve seen in me. You know I’ve been pulling myself out, but, even if you refuse to admit it, even especially to yourself, you know you've had a hand in it, and if you looked at the past year objectively, you know you've had more than a hand in it, that you actually caused this to happen. That, really, if you weren't there, I would have been dead. Several times. By my own hand through suicide directly or through an accidental death from alcohol or drugs or just plain self-absorption as I'm crossing the street and *WHAMMO* truck and no more 'phfina.
How do I know this? Oh, come on, you know this, and I know it, too.
So, but now we're at this point, and I've started to come out of it, and I'm starting to express joy again and starting to write again and starting to relate to the world as the world and not this big scary place that I have to hide from.
And there's just so much to do, right? You have so much in me you see that if I just come out of myself just a little bit more, I can start to breathe again and to enjoy life, not fight it or be afraid of it, and you've got things planned, right? Like going on a hike on a mountain trail, even though I've never been outside, but you know it'll do me good. Or a trip to the mall to buy some mentionable and unmentionable clothes, 'cause you know that clothes make the girl and you know I would just see me in a whole new way if I tried on this kind of dress or, hell, a black pants-suit that you've seen executive vice presidents wear.
And so you're making our morning coffee, just so pleased at how far I've come, and just so excited about what is to come for me, for my life, and for us.
And then I drop the bomb.
I get up, and I look at you, and suddenly the firm foundation you had been laying is gone, because you hear the words I'm saying as I say them.
"We're done. We're through. I can't take this any more. I'm gone."
And that's it. I get up. I leave. I'm gone. Forever.
What the hell just happened?
Shocking, isn't it, when that happens. Totally out of the blue. And WHY?
I mean, like really: why.
Here's some 'why's for you, sweetheart. And I'll ask you to read them, just read them, to survive them, and then hate me. Forever. But see if any of them apply to you (they all do, honey), then see what you are willing to do about them.
Then read the second part. I mean really read it. I mean, like, recover what I've said to you, killing you with my every word, then come back here, and see what's really going on. You might miss it, but I'll ask you not to. I'm asking you to read this next part, take responsibility for it, then read the next part, and ... take responsibility for it (my irresponsibility), as well.
You are either everything here, as you've always been, or you're copping out.
Which one can you live with?
Part one: it's all your fault
So, really, you are as blind as a bat, you know that? Selfish and cruel.
I mean, not seeing this moment coming from a mile away?
What did you think? You think you owned me? We may have signed a piece of paper stating that, but did you really think that you own me?
Yes, you do. You think you're entitled to my heart, soul and body. Sure, you've given up your life for me, so as to save me.
What rights does that confer onto you?
Not a fucking thing. Not one single thing from me can you assume to have or to own.
Listen, sweetie, I'm a human being. I'm not your cat. I'm not your dog. I'm not your human slave.
And, sure, I'm not scrubbing your floors and providing my tongue for whenever your pussy has a tingle that needs tending to ...
... but.
But, look, I can wipe my cheek when I have food there, you don't need to reach across the table to do that. In a fucking public restaurant!
But, look, you don't have to present me in group as 'Well, she has some issues that we're working through, and she can't afford the full payment right now, but we'll find some way to get her into this session because it will really help her with her problems.' (Somebody actually said that. While I was standing right fucking there. As if I didn't exist, or had any feelings about what was being said. Just like what you write to me about me in your PMs.)
But, look, I know what I need to do when I have a headache. I know that ibuprofen exists, I know where the glasses are and how to fill them with water. I know where the bed is and how to turn down the sheets.
But, look, I know what opinions to have about my mother, your mother, that girl over there giving me the more-than-once over, my dad, current political views, what I should be doing for work or for getting my next chapter out, what I shouldn't be doing to get those things done.
But, look, I know what to say about myself and I know what not to say.
Do you know that?
No, you sure don't, not judging from the past year in how you've treated me like a baby, not judging from your PMs where you say, oh:
1. Are you a 40-year-old man who's a sexual deviant?
2. Are you really who you write? ...
... or more insidiously, 'if you're really who you write, then I care about you.'
3. People can't be trusted on the 'net, and oh, by the way, my gf asked me to ask you if you only wear white socks?
And then after all that hate wrapped up in mistrust comes at me from you ...
Look I'm on a roll, but I have to stop right here and let you know one little detail.
You fucking came to me. I didn't know you, any of you, at all! You read me; you felt something for me, then you reached out to me, and you have the gall to write that you don't trust me?
Here's a piece of advice for you. It's free, too. Go back and play with all your other god-damn friends if you don't trust me.
Oh, wait. You don't have any other friends? And I'm not talking acquaintances, I'm talking friends who know you and love you for you, who you actually are?
Wonder why.
Wonder if it's because you don't just mistrust me, you mistrust everybody, and you choose to lash out at me because I'm this weak, little, vulnerable baby girl who puts her heart on the line with every line she writes and you have the gall to say 'well, if you are who you say you are, then ...'
Just get present to that. Just get present to the fact that you came to me, and then you shit all over me with your mistrust and your advice as to how to live my live when I've done that for 22 years already, thank you.
Just get present to what a fucking cunt you are. Really.
Are you present to it?
No.
Because you also come to me on the other side of mistrust.
"Tell me more about you." "There's so much you don't say" "I really wish I knew you." "You don't open up all all."
Oh, really?
Pop quiz.
You know what my favorite food to make is.
What is your mother's favorite food?
You know where I've come from and where I'm now living.
What other fan-fiction author(ess) do you know this about?
You know what job I'm working at. You know how I interact with customers. You know how my day starts and ends.
Who else do you know this about? Do you even know this about your roommates?
You know I go to group. You know my triumphs and tragedies there.
What are the extra-curricular activities of someone you know ITRW? What are their triumphs and tribulations in those activities?
You know the names of the string of my prior girlfriends.
Name the names of the girlfriends of your girlfriends. Name the names of your prior girlfriends. Hard, isn't it, going over those memories. Who have you told? Anybody?
You know that I'm a lesbian, and I'm out to my immediate family, and out to you, but not to my extended family, coworkers (there are some who suspect) and customers.
Who are you out to? Who are your friends out to?
You know, reading my stories, PMs and entries, what I struggle with, every day: me. Me-me-me. And happiness. And joy. And despair. And fear. And self-loathing so great it makes you flinch, right?
What are you struggling with? What is your boss struggling with? What is your mom struggling with? What is that girl you hate so much struggling with?
You know how old I am. You know my family relations, and how I relate to them.
ANY other fan fiction writer, or book writer, or anybody you can say that about?
Bonus question: Why do you say that I withhold, when I've told you more about myself than you've told anybody else in your life? And when I've told you more than you know than from anybody else in your life? Why do you keep needing more from me, after I've given my all ... and more ... what does that say about you, this mistrust coupled with this neediness?
I dare you to ask yourself these questions, and to answer them fully before you get on another kick about needing to know more about me, and I'm not giving it to you (the fucking nerve!) and since I'm not, I'm not trustworthy?!?!
Excuse me, have you read one of my stories, or PMs, or entries?
Thanks for that.
Fuck you, too.
...
I'm gone
So, back on topic. So you're clueless as to why I would say 'I'm gone,' with all that mistrust of me that you've poured all over me.
AND.
And then you go into telling me what I should say or what I shouldn't. Who I should have as a gf and who I shouldn't. Who I can see at a restaurant for dinner and who I shouldn't. What I should do while I'm feeling sick and what I shouldn't. Who I should live with (you) and who I shouldn't, and why, and how you will be so much more awesome than people I picked to be with, that, by the way, honey, includes you.
And, oh, after all these diatribes, why am I not writing anymore, and I must be so unhappy.
Yeah, thanks for that.
So, you really didn't see this coming. You really didn't see me cringe when you wipe my cheek from across the table. You really didn't see me check out when you started into your 'Well, 'phfina, it's nice that your mother ...' or 'Well, 'phfina, I really think you shouldn't ...' that last for, God!, 27 minutes, and please can you just finish, I already said, you're right, so why are you going on about this?
You know why you didn't see this coming?
Because you forgot.
You forgot I'm a human being, not a doormat to walk over or a leaky faucet to fix or a baby that needs her diapers changed and your mommies to suck on for sustenance.
And you had the right. You had the right to me, and to the rest of my life and yours. I'm yours forever, and you've planned your whole life around that: me and you, and you and me, and you forgot to consult me about that future.
Don't believe me? I can fucking send your PMs back to you and highlight the parts where you did this, whether my name's 'phfina, Violet, Melissa, B_ or F_.
You treat me as if the only reason I exist is for your happiness.
And then I go and leave you.
So, wait a minute. Let's review here, and add more salt to the wound.
What are you for? I mean: why do you exist?
Didn't you set out to set me free from my addictions and my self-hatred?
Didn't you see me improve? And I mean 'improve' as is improve so much that I started going back to school, that I started writing again, that I started painting or I got a job that I love and hate but I'm doing and that I'm fulfilled in, that I started texting and calling friends and family again?
Didn't you see this?
And so, when I said, 'we're through' ... well, isn't the appropriate response: YAY! LET'S HAVE A PARTY!
A coming out or a coming back party for me, because I made it, I finally made it?
Isn't that the appropriate response?
Let me tell you your response. You told me it already, haven't you?
Your response?
"This is so unfair! I gave my life/career for you! You can't do this! After all I've done, I deserve a little (like for the rest of my life) gratitude!"
So, instead of us coming to completion, both of us happy that we both did something: we saved a life: mine. Instead of that, you turn cold, or you kick and scream and break plates and grab hold of my ankles as I'm walking out the door.
Or you throw me out of the house.
"Get the hell out of here! I hate you! I never want to see you again! You are a selfish, needy bitch who has no appreciation or has no idea what friendship is, you ungrateful bitch! I'm done with you! Don't you ever come back to me again! You get hooked in your addictions again, and I hope you die! I'll come to your funeral and laugh! No, I won't come to your funeral and you'll be sorry then!"
This is you. This is what it's like to be living with you. And this is what it's like to leave you.
This is you.
"But I'm not domineering! I'm not draconian!" (I've actually been told that.)
Okay, so what are you then? Are you a person who actually loves? who actually listens? who actually hears the words she's saying to me, because she looks, hard, into the mirror as she says them, and know these words are loving and caring and empowering?
Newsflash: if you see yourself that way ... well: you are so fucking blind, okay?
So you have to own this. I left you. Or I never accepted your offer for help. And it's your own damn fault.
And that's the good news.
Do you understand me? If you own that that's the way you are ... and you choose to be that way ... then you can own that you can choose to be any other way that you so choose. "I'm draconian, AND I choose not to shit all over 'phfina in what I say or how I control her, instead I choose to love, to listen, and to let her be her and to stand for her being her is the best, brightest, most beautiful person I will ever know in the whole world."
Do you know how hard I am crying as I write this?
And if you choose to own that, then you can choose to celebrate it when I say, 'You know, what you just said to me is so rude.'
Instead of saying, 'I'm not rude; you're just sensitive ... (and then you whisper to yourself) and (more than a little) imbalanced.' You would say, 'Wow! Wow, yeah: if somebody said what I just said to you, so thoughtlessly, I would just go off on them or hold a pity-party for weeks! I'm sorry, honey, forgive me, okay? You are really X, that's how I see you, and please catch me when I start talking meanly like that.'
AND YES, I'm a sensitive, more than a little imbalanced girl who can't take care of herself. AND you said those things to me how? Thoughtfully? With love? So that I would be empowered?
So, yes, it's hard, for a human being (you) to talk with a human being (me).
And you have, for the past year, so utterly failed in even grasping at trying to see how hard it is. You've just made your pronouncements at me, like I'm a microphone, and nothing else, and expected that there's no other way than your way. What views do I have? Have you asked me?
"Oh, 'phfina, I mistrust you because you're obviously not who you say you are, who could be that brutally honest, so there, and who writes stuff that so drew me to you, and I don't trust myself, nor you, so I have a test for you: do you only wear white socks, and depending on how you answer that will be the measure of my trust for you, so what do you think about me shitting all over you so thoughtlessly?"
Read that. Read that out loud, and hear the utter absurdity in what you're saying.
Now, go back to your PMs and read what you've written to me, your pronouncements about me, about yourself ('I'm not a writer like you' 'My reviews are repetitive and suck' 'I'll never be able to open up about things like you'), about the world, about time, about anything, about your gf, about your gf's bf ... about your ability to help a person in need, about your mother, about how your mother raised you.
Just go back and review what you said to me. Just go back and review what you say to anybody.
And you wonder why I say, after you've coddled, controlled, and criticized me, that 'We're through.'
You are so fucking blind.
Do you know there are people who have never done that: judged me nor mistrusted me? There're really smart, too, just like you, so you can't use the 'I'm smart so I'm critical' excuse that I'm so comfortable using.
They chose just to believe me and to believe in me, and not put me through tests nor demand my trust, not to require things from me but to ask for them and to be okay with my sometimes no?
Newsflash: you didn't get a PM from me saying ... fuck it: I'll tell you them now.
Saga. Julia. massrié.
And then some of you have the temerity to judge Saga, for example, to envy her, to compare yourselves favorably to her, when she's never done to me what you have done, or written those mistrustful, needy words you've written? Or to give up on massrié or to distance yourselves from her? Or to say, 'oh, I so know how to fix you 'cause the last girl I fixed left me and I curse her name forever!'
Nice.
And: look in the fucking mirror.
Now, don't take away from this that you are bad, wrong, less than or not loved.
I love you.
AND you are doing these things that are off-putting and that actually push people away. Me, and your exes.
You choose to continue to do this? Well, you'll keep getting the same results you've been getting.
I know.
So this entry isn't for them, unless they choose to make it be for them. This entry is for you.
This entry is especially for you, and why? Because I love you with my whole heart, and mind, and strength, and spirit, and soul.
Don't you see that?
Don't you see that I love you?
...
So, have you hung in there? Survived this onslaught?
Good, 'cause now it gets much worse.
Brace yourself.
Part II: You absolve yourself from 'it's all my fault'
SO NOW you say, when I'm going:
"Oh, okay, well ... have a nice life."
Okay. Wait a minute. Wait just a fucking minute. Weren't you the one to see that I'm in the shit? And that everything I'm doing is only digging myself deeper into the cesspool?
And I say 'I can't take this anymore'? And you're like, 'Okay'?
Sell out. Wuss.
And haven't I said this, in one way or another, every single day we've been together? 'This is too hard' 'I can't do this' 'You can't do this to me.' 'I hate this.' 'I hate life.' 'I hate myself.' 'I HATE YOU!'
And the whole time, you were like, 'Yes, dear, it's okay, it's gonna be okay,' as you held me through my panic attack or drug withdrawal or whatever.
Don't you remember you? That strong person who could take anything thrown her way from me, from the insurance companies, from the police, from neighbors?
Remember?
No, you don't. Because before, you were like, 'she's just saying that, she's out of control, she doesn't mean that meanly, I'm strong enough to carry her and to carry me through this attack.'
Now, it's personal.
Why?
What shifted?
Honey, nothing did. Not on my side.
I just said, 'We're done. We're through. I can't stand this/you anymore.'
But this time you chose to believe the words I'm saying.
Don't you see these are insane words from an insane person?
Do you know: I've really said this. I mean, haven't you read 'Rosalie and Me'? Remember what I told Julia?
I do.
Like it was yesterday.
I also remember what I was doing when I told her these words.
I was begging.
I was begging silently.
'Please-o-please-o-please-o-please don't believe me. Please don't let me leave you. Please try one more time to break through to me. Please don't try, please actually do stop me at the door. Please.
Please.'
And she let me go out that door, me being so cool, trying to hold it all together until I could get to my little red corola and then where I would bawl my eyes out as I'm driving on the most dangerous highway in the U.S.A. to get home to my mom's?
And you're letting me go because I'm a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch who just said those words?
Newsflash: I've always been a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch and you, before, chose to see the good in me that was there. And you brought it out of me.
And you're letting me go back out into the world, knowing I'm those things, knowing I have my addictions that you helped me to recover from, and now with you not in the picture anymore what am I going to go right back to?
But I say I'm cured now and I'm done with you.
And you are so done with me.
You are so done with me, that when I come back, crawling on my hands and knees, or my mother calls you and says I have fallen deeper into depression.
You say, 'Tough cookies' and throw a party with your friends to delight in my misery, and you start scanning the obituary pages, with glee to find my name there.
And you know.
You know that you caused my coming back to myself.
And you know.
You know that you sold out on me, but, more importantly, you sold out on yourself. You know this.
How do I know you know this?
"Oh, 'phfina, I am so over you."
Yeah? Why do I keep coming up in conversations with any and everybody you meet? Why do you keep going over all the things you've done for me? And my ingratitude? Why did you wallow for upwards of a year after I left you, then the rest of your life is spent explaining and justifying why you are in the right and I am just a thoughtless little cunt that you committed to rescuing (hm, you committed to rescuing me because why? Because I'm a cunt? Or because you saw that there was something and somebody to rescue?)
You not only believed me, and were so fucking blind to everything in you that drove me away, no, you took it one step further and then believed that you have no say in the matter, that you did nothing to effect my salvation so my leaving you will hopefully cause me to die so you can throw a party that there's one less bitch in the world you have to deal with, and serves me right.
You've won.
That's the bad news: you sold out on me, and you've sold out on yourself. I'm 'cured' now, and I'm gone, so you get to win.
I'm 'all better now.' And I may or may not be, but you've accomplished what you've set out to do.
Yay. You win.
AND you get to say, 'well, it's not my fault: she's so needy and greedy, she deserves everything coming to her. I hope they have extra gasoline in hell for her reception.'
Yay. It's not your fault. You win.
Isn't the victory so sweet?
Yeah? So keep living like you're living, you'll keep winning like you've been winning. Even if you change jobs, or change gfs, or change people to fix, you'll keep repeating those wonderful results that has you PMing me with what you're going through right now, which is the fallout of what you choose to ignore and choose to refuse to take responsibility for.
That's all I got for you, sweetie. All I got is this.
Bad news: you win.
And the choice was and is totally yours to make.
p.s. I love you.
You see, this post, despite my preamble, has nothing to do with me: this post is about you. And, if you think the last one hurt, well, gf, you've got another thing coming, because the last post was all about me. This one? It's all about you, through my eyes.
This is gonna hurt you. A lot.
So, you know: standard caveat. Get the hell out if you want sugary goodness, and don't come crying to me if my words hurt you. There's only one way they can hurt, and that is: if they apply. So bitch and moan to the mirror.
I fucking warned you.
And what good will it do? None, probably. You are you. You are still being you, even after what happened. You are so you, as I see every day when I interact with you. And I love you. And I want the best for you.
And so this post.
I feel so like an angel right now. Do you know angels have no choice in the matter? In eternity, they made their choice: follow God, emptying themselves completely, or follow themselves, and what they think is right, filling themselves with the nothing they actually are without God.
Once that choice was made, Angels are forever fixed. Choice? They've already chosen, they simply must do what they must do.
I feel so like an angel. But angels are eternally happy: they made their choice, and now they choose, eternally to be happy with that choice, so I must write this, yes? But perhaps I can choose to be happy writing this.
So, you, being you, must read this, no matter how painful it is to you. So, you can now choose, too.
"God, this hurts. God, it's so true!"
And what do you choose? To deny this? To hate me, the messenger, forever?
Yes, you can choose this.
Do you choose to read this, and, in reading it, to see what's in there that you can take on for yourself and your life?
You know, people have an advantage over angels (besides being able to enjoy gnocchi): angels cannot change, but people can change.
You can change. You can be yourself, and you can change, and still be yourself. You can, you know: you can.
And I really, really don't know if I'm actually a person. Isn't that insane? But I can cop out and say that I'm a selkie and that once I find my skin, I will return to the sea, and this human life I've been faking and have been so sad living, I'll just forget it all, forget you, forget my loves and my sadnesses and swim away to be home again with my sisters.
I can say that. I can cop out. Just like you can cop out, and say, "But I can't change because of ..." because of whatever millstone you are hanging onto so desperately, calling the millstone your unalterable self, when really it's you being drug down by the millstone, and all you have to do is to let it go.
I am so looking into the mirror right now as I write these words, okay?
So, this post.
So, you've taken on me, unsalvageable me. And you put your heart into it, and you've sacrificed everything, your career, your educational prospects, your art, everything, to save me.
And you've watched me. You've watched me start to pull myself out of it, that pit I'm in, and you’ve been so proud and pleased with the progress you’ve seen in me. You know I’ve been pulling myself out, but, even if you refuse to admit it, even especially to yourself, you know you've had a hand in it, and if you looked at the past year objectively, you know you've had more than a hand in it, that you actually caused this to happen. That, really, if you weren't there, I would have been dead. Several times. By my own hand through suicide directly or through an accidental death from alcohol or drugs or just plain self-absorption as I'm crossing the street and *WHAMMO* truck and no more 'phfina.
How do I know this? Oh, come on, you know this, and I know it, too.
So, but now we're at this point, and I've started to come out of it, and I'm starting to express joy again and starting to write again and starting to relate to the world as the world and not this big scary place that I have to hide from.
And there's just so much to do, right? You have so much in me you see that if I just come out of myself just a little bit more, I can start to breathe again and to enjoy life, not fight it or be afraid of it, and you've got things planned, right? Like going on a hike on a mountain trail, even though I've never been outside, but you know it'll do me good. Or a trip to the mall to buy some mentionable and unmentionable clothes, 'cause you know that clothes make the girl and you know I would just see me in a whole new way if I tried on this kind of dress or, hell, a black pants-suit that you've seen executive vice presidents wear.
And so you're making our morning coffee, just so pleased at how far I've come, and just so excited about what is to come for me, for my life, and for us.
And then I drop the bomb.
I get up, and I look at you, and suddenly the firm foundation you had been laying is gone, because you hear the words I'm saying as I say them.
"We're done. We're through. I can't take this any more. I'm gone."
And that's it. I get up. I leave. I'm gone. Forever.
What the hell just happened?
Shocking, isn't it, when that happens. Totally out of the blue. And WHY?
I mean, like really: why.
Here's some 'why's for you, sweetheart. And I'll ask you to read them, just read them, to survive them, and then hate me. Forever. But see if any of them apply to you (they all do, honey), then see what you are willing to do about them.
Then read the second part. I mean really read it. I mean, like, recover what I've said to you, killing you with my every word, then come back here, and see what's really going on. You might miss it, but I'll ask you not to. I'm asking you to read this next part, take responsibility for it, then read the next part, and ... take responsibility for it (my irresponsibility), as well.
You are either everything here, as you've always been, or you're copping out.
Which one can you live with?
Part one: it's all your fault
So, really, you are as blind as a bat, you know that? Selfish and cruel.
I mean, not seeing this moment coming from a mile away?
What did you think? You think you owned me? We may have signed a piece of paper stating that, but did you really think that you own me?
Yes, you do. You think you're entitled to my heart, soul and body. Sure, you've given up your life for me, so as to save me.
What rights does that confer onto you?
Not a fucking thing. Not one single thing from me can you assume to have or to own.
Listen, sweetie, I'm a human being. I'm not your cat. I'm not your dog. I'm not your human slave.
And, sure, I'm not scrubbing your floors and providing my tongue for whenever your pussy has a tingle that needs tending to ...
... but.
But, look, I can wipe my cheek when I have food there, you don't need to reach across the table to do that. In a fucking public restaurant!
But, look, you don't have to present me in group as 'Well, she has some issues that we're working through, and she can't afford the full payment right now, but we'll find some way to get her into this session because it will really help her with her problems.' (Somebody actually said that. While I was standing right fucking there. As if I didn't exist, or had any feelings about what was being said. Just like what you write to me about me in your PMs.)
But, look, I know what I need to do when I have a headache. I know that ibuprofen exists, I know where the glasses are and how to fill them with water. I know where the bed is and how to turn down the sheets.
But, look, I know what opinions to have about my mother, your mother, that girl over there giving me the more-than-once over, my dad, current political views, what I should be doing for work or for getting my next chapter out, what I shouldn't be doing to get those things done.
But, look, I know what to say about myself and I know what not to say.
Do you know that?
No, you sure don't, not judging from the past year in how you've treated me like a baby, not judging from your PMs where you say, oh:
1. Are you a 40-year-old man who's a sexual deviant?
2. Are you really who you write? ...
... or more insidiously, 'if you're really who you write, then I care about you.'
3. People can't be trusted on the 'net, and oh, by the way, my gf asked me to ask you if you only wear white socks?
And then after all that hate wrapped up in mistrust comes at me from you ...
Look I'm on a roll, but I have to stop right here and let you know one little detail.
You fucking came to me. I didn't know you, any of you, at all! You read me; you felt something for me, then you reached out to me, and you have the gall to write that you don't trust me?
Here's a piece of advice for you. It's free, too. Go back and play with all your other god-damn friends if you don't trust me.
Oh, wait. You don't have any other friends? And I'm not talking acquaintances, I'm talking friends who know you and love you for you, who you actually are?
Wonder why.
Wonder if it's because you don't just mistrust me, you mistrust everybody, and you choose to lash out at me because I'm this weak, little, vulnerable baby girl who puts her heart on the line with every line she writes and you have the gall to say 'well, if you are who you say you are, then ...'
Just get present to that. Just get present to the fact that you came to me, and then you shit all over me with your mistrust and your advice as to how to live my live when I've done that for 22 years already, thank you.
Just get present to what a fucking cunt you are. Really.
Are you present to it?
No.
Because you also come to me on the other side of mistrust.
"Tell me more about you." "There's so much you don't say" "I really wish I knew you." "You don't open up all all."
Oh, really?
Pop quiz.
You know what my favorite food to make is.
What is your mother's favorite food?
You know where I've come from and where I'm now living.
What other fan-fiction author(ess) do you know this about?
You know what job I'm working at. You know how I interact with customers. You know how my day starts and ends.
Who else do you know this about? Do you even know this about your roommates?
You know I go to group. You know my triumphs and tragedies there.
What are the extra-curricular activities of someone you know ITRW? What are their triumphs and tribulations in those activities?
You know the names of the string of my prior girlfriends.
Name the names of the girlfriends of your girlfriends. Name the names of your prior girlfriends. Hard, isn't it, going over those memories. Who have you told? Anybody?
You know that I'm a lesbian, and I'm out to my immediate family, and out to you, but not to my extended family, coworkers (there are some who suspect) and customers.
Who are you out to? Who are your friends out to?
You know, reading my stories, PMs and entries, what I struggle with, every day: me. Me-me-me. And happiness. And joy. And despair. And fear. And self-loathing so great it makes you flinch, right?
What are you struggling with? What is your boss struggling with? What is your mom struggling with? What is that girl you hate so much struggling with?
You know how old I am. You know my family relations, and how I relate to them.
ANY other fan fiction writer, or book writer, or anybody you can say that about?
Bonus question: Why do you say that I withhold, when I've told you more about myself than you've told anybody else in your life? And when I've told you more than you know than from anybody else in your life? Why do you keep needing more from me, after I've given my all ... and more ... what does that say about you, this mistrust coupled with this neediness?
I dare you to ask yourself these questions, and to answer them fully before you get on another kick about needing to know more about me, and I'm not giving it to you (the fucking nerve!) and since I'm not, I'm not trustworthy?!?!
Excuse me, have you read one of my stories, or PMs, or entries?
Thanks for that.
Fuck you, too.
...
I'm gone
So, back on topic. So you're clueless as to why I would say 'I'm gone,' with all that mistrust of me that you've poured all over me.
AND.
And then you go into telling me what I should say or what I shouldn't. Who I should have as a gf and who I shouldn't. Who I can see at a restaurant for dinner and who I shouldn't. What I should do while I'm feeling sick and what I shouldn't. Who I should live with (you) and who I shouldn't, and why, and how you will be so much more awesome than people I picked to be with, that, by the way, honey, includes you.
And, oh, after all these diatribes, why am I not writing anymore, and I must be so unhappy.
Yeah, thanks for that.
So, you really didn't see this coming. You really didn't see me cringe when you wipe my cheek from across the table. You really didn't see me check out when you started into your 'Well, 'phfina, it's nice that your mother ...' or 'Well, 'phfina, I really think you shouldn't ...' that last for, God!, 27 minutes, and please can you just finish, I already said, you're right, so why are you going on about this?
You know why you didn't see this coming?
Because you forgot.
You forgot I'm a human being, not a doormat to walk over or a leaky faucet to fix or a baby that needs her diapers changed and your mommies to suck on for sustenance.
And you had the right. You had the right to me, and to the rest of my life and yours. I'm yours forever, and you've planned your whole life around that: me and you, and you and me, and you forgot to consult me about that future.
Don't believe me? I can fucking send your PMs back to you and highlight the parts where you did this, whether my name's 'phfina, Violet, Melissa, B_ or F_.
You treat me as if the only reason I exist is for your happiness.
And then I go and leave you.
So, wait a minute. Let's review here, and add more salt to the wound.
What are you for? I mean: why do you exist?
Didn't you set out to set me free from my addictions and my self-hatred?
Didn't you see me improve? And I mean 'improve' as is improve so much that I started going back to school, that I started writing again, that I started painting or I got a job that I love and hate but I'm doing and that I'm fulfilled in, that I started texting and calling friends and family again?
Didn't you see this?
And so, when I said, 'we're through' ... well, isn't the appropriate response: YAY! LET'S HAVE A PARTY!
A coming out or a coming back party for me, because I made it, I finally made it?
Isn't that the appropriate response?
Let me tell you your response. You told me it already, haven't you?
Your response?
"This is so unfair! I gave my life/career for you! You can't do this! After all I've done, I deserve a little (like for the rest of my life) gratitude!"
So, instead of us coming to completion, both of us happy that we both did something: we saved a life: mine. Instead of that, you turn cold, or you kick and scream and break plates and grab hold of my ankles as I'm walking out the door.
Or you throw me out of the house.
"Get the hell out of here! I hate you! I never want to see you again! You are a selfish, needy bitch who has no appreciation or has no idea what friendship is, you ungrateful bitch! I'm done with you! Don't you ever come back to me again! You get hooked in your addictions again, and I hope you die! I'll come to your funeral and laugh! No, I won't come to your funeral and you'll be sorry then!"
This is you. This is what it's like to be living with you. And this is what it's like to leave you.
This is you.
"But I'm not domineering! I'm not draconian!" (I've actually been told that.)
Okay, so what are you then? Are you a person who actually loves? who actually listens? who actually hears the words she's saying to me, because she looks, hard, into the mirror as she says them, and know these words are loving and caring and empowering?
Newsflash: if you see yourself that way ... well: you are so fucking blind, okay?
So you have to own this. I left you. Or I never accepted your offer for help. And it's your own damn fault.
And that's the good news.
Do you understand me? If you own that that's the way you are ... and you choose to be that way ... then you can own that you can choose to be any other way that you so choose. "I'm draconian, AND I choose not to shit all over 'phfina in what I say or how I control her, instead I choose to love, to listen, and to let her be her and to stand for her being her is the best, brightest, most beautiful person I will ever know in the whole world."
Do you know how hard I am crying as I write this?
And if you choose to own that, then you can choose to celebrate it when I say, 'You know, what you just said to me is so rude.'
Instead of saying, 'I'm not rude; you're just sensitive ... (and then you whisper to yourself) and (more than a little) imbalanced.' You would say, 'Wow! Wow, yeah: if somebody said what I just said to you, so thoughtlessly, I would just go off on them or hold a pity-party for weeks! I'm sorry, honey, forgive me, okay? You are really X, that's how I see you, and please catch me when I start talking meanly like that.'
AND YES, I'm a sensitive, more than a little imbalanced girl who can't take care of herself. AND you said those things to me how? Thoughtfully? With love? So that I would be empowered?
So, yes, it's hard, for a human being (you) to talk with a human being (me).
And you have, for the past year, so utterly failed in even grasping at trying to see how hard it is. You've just made your pronouncements at me, like I'm a microphone, and nothing else, and expected that there's no other way than your way. What views do I have? Have you asked me?
"Oh, 'phfina, I mistrust you because you're obviously not who you say you are, who could be that brutally honest, so there, and who writes stuff that so drew me to you, and I don't trust myself, nor you, so I have a test for you: do you only wear white socks, and depending on how you answer that will be the measure of my trust for you, so what do you think about me shitting all over you so thoughtlessly?"
Read that. Read that out loud, and hear the utter absurdity in what you're saying.
Now, go back to your PMs and read what you've written to me, your pronouncements about me, about yourself ('I'm not a writer like you' 'My reviews are repetitive and suck' 'I'll never be able to open up about things like you'), about the world, about time, about anything, about your gf, about your gf's bf ... about your ability to help a person in need, about your mother, about how your mother raised you.
Just go back and review what you said to me. Just go back and review what you say to anybody.
And you wonder why I say, after you've coddled, controlled, and criticized me, that 'We're through.'
You are so fucking blind.
Do you know there are people who have never done that: judged me nor mistrusted me? There're really smart, too, just like you, so you can't use the 'I'm smart so I'm critical' excuse that I'm so comfortable using.
They chose just to believe me and to believe in me, and not put me through tests nor demand my trust, not to require things from me but to ask for them and to be okay with my sometimes no?
Newsflash: you didn't get a PM from me saying ... fuck it: I'll tell you them now.
Saga. Julia. massrié.
And then some of you have the temerity to judge Saga, for example, to envy her, to compare yourselves favorably to her, when she's never done to me what you have done, or written those mistrustful, needy words you've written? Or to give up on massrié or to distance yourselves from her? Or to say, 'oh, I so know how to fix you 'cause the last girl I fixed left me and I curse her name forever!'
Nice.
And: look in the fucking mirror.
Now, don't take away from this that you are bad, wrong, less than or not loved.
I love you.
AND you are doing these things that are off-putting and that actually push people away. Me, and your exes.
You choose to continue to do this? Well, you'll keep getting the same results you've been getting.
I know.
So this entry isn't for them, unless they choose to make it be for them. This entry is for you.
This entry is especially for you, and why? Because I love you with my whole heart, and mind, and strength, and spirit, and soul.
Don't you see that?
Don't you see that I love you?
...
So, have you hung in there? Survived this onslaught?
Good, 'cause now it gets much worse.
Brace yourself.
Part II: You absolve yourself from 'it's all my fault'
SO NOW you say, when I'm going:
"Oh, okay, well ... have a nice life."
Okay. Wait a minute. Wait just a fucking minute. Weren't you the one to see that I'm in the shit? And that everything I'm doing is only digging myself deeper into the cesspool?
And I say 'I can't take this anymore'? And you're like, 'Okay'?
Sell out. Wuss.
And haven't I said this, in one way or another, every single day we've been together? 'This is too hard' 'I can't do this' 'You can't do this to me.' 'I hate this.' 'I hate life.' 'I hate myself.' 'I HATE YOU!'
And the whole time, you were like, 'Yes, dear, it's okay, it's gonna be okay,' as you held me through my panic attack or drug withdrawal or whatever.
Don't you remember you? That strong person who could take anything thrown her way from me, from the insurance companies, from the police, from neighbors?
Remember?
No, you don't. Because before, you were like, 'she's just saying that, she's out of control, she doesn't mean that meanly, I'm strong enough to carry her and to carry me through this attack.'
Now, it's personal.
Why?
What shifted?
Honey, nothing did. Not on my side.
I just said, 'We're done. We're through. I can't stand this/you anymore.'
But this time you chose to believe the words I'm saying.
Don't you see these are insane words from an insane person?
Do you know: I've really said this. I mean, haven't you read 'Rosalie and Me'? Remember what I told Julia?
I do.
Like it was yesterday.
I also remember what I was doing when I told her these words.
I was begging.
I was begging silently.
'Please-o-please-o-please-o-please don't believe me. Please don't let me leave you. Please try one more time to break through to me. Please don't try, please actually do stop me at the door. Please.
Please.'
And she let me go out that door, me being so cool, trying to hold it all together until I could get to my little red corola and then where I would bawl my eyes out as I'm driving on the most dangerous highway in the U.S.A. to get home to my mom's?
And you're letting me go because I'm a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch who just said those words?
Newsflash: I've always been a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch and you, before, chose to see the good in me that was there. And you brought it out of me.
And you're letting me go back out into the world, knowing I'm those things, knowing I have my addictions that you helped me to recover from, and now with you not in the picture anymore what am I going to go right back to?
But I say I'm cured now and I'm done with you.
And you are so done with me.
You are so done with me, that when I come back, crawling on my hands and knees, or my mother calls you and says I have fallen deeper into depression.
You say, 'Tough cookies' and throw a party with your friends to delight in my misery, and you start scanning the obituary pages, with glee to find my name there.
And you know.
You know that you caused my coming back to myself.
And you know.
You know that you sold out on me, but, more importantly, you sold out on yourself. You know this.
How do I know you know this?
"Oh, 'phfina, I am so over you."
Yeah? Why do I keep coming up in conversations with any and everybody you meet? Why do you keep going over all the things you've done for me? And my ingratitude? Why did you wallow for upwards of a year after I left you, then the rest of your life is spent explaining and justifying why you are in the right and I am just a thoughtless little cunt that you committed to rescuing (hm, you committed to rescuing me because why? Because I'm a cunt? Or because you saw that there was something and somebody to rescue?)
You not only believed me, and were so fucking blind to everything in you that drove me away, no, you took it one step further and then believed that you have no say in the matter, that you did nothing to effect my salvation so my leaving you will hopefully cause me to die so you can throw a party that there's one less bitch in the world you have to deal with, and serves me right.
You've won.
That's the bad news: you sold out on me, and you've sold out on yourself. I'm 'cured' now, and I'm gone, so you get to win.
I'm 'all better now.' And I may or may not be, but you've accomplished what you've set out to do.
Yay. You win.
AND you get to say, 'well, it's not my fault: she's so needy and greedy, she deserves everything coming to her. I hope they have extra gasoline in hell for her reception.'
Yay. It's not your fault. You win.
Isn't the victory so sweet?
Yeah? So keep living like you're living, you'll keep winning like you've been winning. Even if you change jobs, or change gfs, or change people to fix, you'll keep repeating those wonderful results that has you PMing me with what you're going through right now, which is the fallout of what you choose to ignore and choose to refuse to take responsibility for.
That's all I got for you, sweetie. All I got is this.
Bad news: you win.
And the choice was and is totally yours to make.
p.s. I love you.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
In the Arms of an Angel
Of course. You know, I'm weird. You know it, and I know it, too. I have these discussions with myself, and when I write my stories, with you as well, that I don't hear anybody else having.
I think about Angels occasionally. I mean, I really, really think about them.
You know, or maybe you don't, but angels do. From forever, Angels have known everything, so I mean, there they are, forever, knowing everything.
... and their looking down at us ... they are looking down at me.
And, you know how it is: when you so know something, and you so try to tell somebody, or you so try not to, knowing if they only listened to you, they would just avoid so much trouble and heartbreak. I know you struggle with this, because I've read your PMs to me.
So there this angel is, my profile pic, and she's weeping.
She's probably thinking about me.
And, the thing is, angels don't cry. I mean, they want the best for you, but that also includes ... what do you call it? free choice? No: free will, so I screw up, and I either learn from it, or I keep screwing up until I do learn or I die, and there the angels are, cheering me on, wanting the best for me ... loving me.
And that statement, right now, really hits me like a ton of bricks ... or a ton of feathers from angels' wings? Because ... well, I grew up how I grew up, but I've always felt alone and ... well, unloved, and when I do feel love it's like WHAMMO! and I just reel under that.
I'm probably not going to keep this pic up. It called to me. Maybe there's a story in there, called something like: "My Guardian Angel" and why she's weeping, or something like that, or not, but it called to me, and I shared it with you.
They say the sea is cold, but in it runs the hottest blood of all.
Angels, mermaids, vampires.
I am surrounded by super-natural things in my thoughts, and my thoughts take life and you read them in my writing.
I am surrounded by miracles, and maybe there's an Angel looking down from Heaven, weeping for me, and my silly, silly choices and struggles. Maybe she is weeping.
But I know she loves me. That's so hard for me to believe. I'm loved by something that knows everything about my nature, but still loves me.
And, sometimes, I wonder why I exist. Heh: 'sometimes.' Okay, a lot of the times (sometimes I don't, 'cause I'm happy or sad or writing or making an iced latte or ... whatever), but I heard once that women should cover their heads so the angels won't see them and be tempted away from Heaven (I so know the temptation ... often).
AND I also heard that why I'm here? And this is a shocker for me: why I'm here is to teach the angels.
The angels know everything, but they have never, ever experienced one single thing. Not one hug, nor laugh, nor cry, nor ... writing a story nor going to the bathroom nor eating gnocchi (God! poor things!) ... and the only way they can experience that: feeling hurt or love or hungry or happy, is through us ... through me.
Right this second, me crying at my keyboard, I'm teaching an Angel, my angel, something through my experience.
And that, right now? It gives me a little bit of hope, and a little bit of strength that I didn't know I had.
Thanks, there, Angel. Be seeing you around.
p.s. and oh, btw, this pic is of the Angel of Grief, also call the Weeping Angel. The original is in Rome, but this one is a replica found in a New England (of course, do you see the stark, barren, forlorn tree? So New England. I'll touch on New England later, as I have before).
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