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amulIt seems like every time I manage to catch my breath, something knocks it right out of me.
(f)AD posted a picture of herself in her LJ. it's the first time I've seen her face since she visited back in August. She looks....well, she looks pregnant, and happy with her guy.
I fled from the internet. Dove into a pile of comic books I had just received even though I knew I had work to do. I was twitching, making strange noises, unable to comprehend what it was I was feeling.
I have this list of emotions written down on a piece of paper. The urge to look at it, to find some concise term for the rawness I'm still feeling, twelve hours later, is overwhelming. What is this reaction all about?
It's not jealousy, or my usual need to take care of someone. It's got more to do with the idea that these events are changing her, making her less and less of the girl I once loved every day. I've managed, somehow, to keep her in my life, but she is no longer the girl I knew. She's changing, for the better, really, but still she is changing. Becoming less of the creature that was so utterly mine.
A related tangent: This morning, I forgot to check the temperature of the water before stepping into the shower. It hit my foot as I was stepping in, scalding hot. The pain, not quite searing, pushed me into revelation. I remembered. My Ex used to like her showers this hot. It was something we always argued about. I'd always considered myself someone who liked hot showers, but compared to her tastes I liked them cold. I remembered the dozens of times we showered together, could see her standing there in the shower with me, her body changing over the years, the nature of our showers changing, too. But still I could not see her face, can no longer remember the sound of her voice. In that brief moment, water running down my ankle, pooling red hot around my foot, I almost remembered what it felt like to love her, once.
Someone asked me yesterday why I write the stuff I do in my journal. Defiance, mostly. For years I wasn't allowed to talk about the truth, wasn't allowed to let anyone know how I was feeling. Whatever our problems were, Christine would make them ten times worse if I let anyone know we were having them. If she caught me so much as frowning at a party, her rage would boil over, and simple problems would take weeks to resolve. So fuck her. Fuck anyone who tells me I'm not allowed to feel, not allowed to let my feelings affect me, not allowed to talk about it.
I'd been wanting to express myself for years, had forgotten how. Roo showed me that I was still feeling things underneath all that carefully crafted calm, and (f)AD taught me to accept it, to let me feel them, to let them out.
Nothing happens when you talk about how you really feel! Nothing bad, anyway. What was she so frightened of? It's a mystery to me.
When (f)AD broke up with me, I sent her a goodbye CD. On it, I wrote, These tears I shed are part of your gift to me, and it's still so amazingly true. She's pregnant, and it's the first time I've seen what she looks like since early in her first trimester. It was a shock, and I wasn't expecting it, and it overwhelmed me, and there's nothing wrong with any of that. It's not something that needs to be hidden. Emotions happen, and in a certain light, it's kind of cool. I let myself feel it. Let myself react to it.
I'm human. Of course it's going to affect me. In fact, letting it affect me is sort of cherishing the friendship she and I have forged in the last year. I would not have reacted to news like this so openly, back in '03. These tears I shed are part of what she gave me.
So why do I feel so ashamed of them? Why is there a Xine-shaped figure sitting on my shoulder, mocking me for hurting over this? Is there some part of my admission of emotion that is destructive in a way I don't understand? Is it wrong of me to let it show on my sleeve?
Nothing happens when you talk openly. Nothing bad. If I called (f)AD up and told her how I reacted to seeing her, she'd acknowledge the validity of my response, without feeling guilty about it. I'm so sure of it, I don't even need to call her, to get her acceptance of my emotion before allowing myself to feel it. That's part of what she gave me, too.
So where does the shame come from?
(f)AD posted a picture of herself in her LJ. it's the first time I've seen her face since she visited back in August. She looks....well, she looks pregnant, and happy with her guy.
I fled from the internet. Dove into a pile of comic books I had just received even though I knew I had work to do. I was twitching, making strange noises, unable to comprehend what it was I was feeling.
I have this list of emotions written down on a piece of paper. The urge to look at it, to find some concise term for the rawness I'm still feeling, twelve hours later, is overwhelming. What is this reaction all about?
It's not jealousy, or my usual need to take care of someone. It's got more to do with the idea that these events are changing her, making her less and less of the girl I once loved every day. I've managed, somehow, to keep her in my life, but she is no longer the girl I knew. She's changing, for the better, really, but still she is changing. Becoming less of the creature that was so utterly mine.
A related tangent: This morning, I forgot to check the temperature of the water before stepping into the shower. It hit my foot as I was stepping in, scalding hot. The pain, not quite searing, pushed me into revelation. I remembered. My Ex used to like her showers this hot. It was something we always argued about. I'd always considered myself someone who liked hot showers, but compared to her tastes I liked them cold. I remembered the dozens of times we showered together, could see her standing there in the shower with me, her body changing over the years, the nature of our showers changing, too. But still I could not see her face, can no longer remember the sound of her voice. In that brief moment, water running down my ankle, pooling red hot around my foot, I almost remembered what it felt like to love her, once.
Someone asked me yesterday why I write the stuff I do in my journal. Defiance, mostly. For years I wasn't allowed to talk about the truth, wasn't allowed to let anyone know how I was feeling. Whatever our problems were, Christine would make them ten times worse if I let anyone know we were having them. If she caught me so much as frowning at a party, her rage would boil over, and simple problems would take weeks to resolve. So fuck her. Fuck anyone who tells me I'm not allowed to feel, not allowed to let my feelings affect me, not allowed to talk about it.
I'd been wanting to express myself for years, had forgotten how. Roo showed me that I was still feeling things underneath all that carefully crafted calm, and (f)AD taught me to accept it, to let me feel them, to let them out.
Nothing happens when you talk about how you really feel! Nothing bad, anyway. What was she so frightened of? It's a mystery to me.
When (f)AD broke up with me, I sent her a goodbye CD. On it, I wrote, These tears I shed are part of your gift to me, and it's still so amazingly true. She's pregnant, and it's the first time I've seen what she looks like since early in her first trimester. It was a shock, and I wasn't expecting it, and it overwhelmed me, and there's nothing wrong with any of that. It's not something that needs to be hidden. Emotions happen, and in a certain light, it's kind of cool. I let myself feel it. Let myself react to it.
I'm human. Of course it's going to affect me. In fact, letting it affect me is sort of cherishing the friendship she and I have forged in the last year. I would not have reacted to news like this so openly, back in '03. These tears I shed are part of what she gave me.
So why do I feel so ashamed of them? Why is there a Xine-shaped figure sitting on my shoulder, mocking me for hurting over this? Is there some part of my admission of emotion that is destructive in a way I don't understand? Is it wrong of me to let it show on my sleeve?
Nothing happens when you talk openly. Nothing bad. If I called (f)AD up and told her how I reacted to seeing her, she'd acknowledge the validity of my response, without feeling guilty about it. I'm so sure of it, I don't even need to call her, to get her acceptance of my emotion before allowing myself to feel it. That's part of what she gave me, too.
So where does the shame come from?
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no subject
Date: 20 Feb 2006 03:48 (UTC)I figured those pics would freak a few people out,... but I think my longtime avoidance of the lens followed by my sudden acceptance of pregnancy-as-a-state-of-being is reflected nicely in the huge gap between portraits.
Dunno. I felt obligated to comment, but you're right--all I really have to say to you is, "Yeah, it's cool, I understand." You're doing the introspective bits quite well on your own. :)
no subject
Date: 20 Feb 2006 05:15 (UTC)I still don't know what the underlying sense of shame was all about.
no subject
Date: 21 Feb 2006 23:50 (UTC)Just leftovers from your time with Christine, I would assume. You know it's okay to have these emotions, but your brain is still in the process of training itself out of the old way of thinking.
no subject
Date: 22 Feb 2006 05:39 (UTC)