EloquentScream
Bluelighter
You know, I don't cry when I'm sad, down or feeling whatever other euphemism that passes for "generally unhappy".
If anything, I can handle being melancholy like a champ.
I'm fucking fantastic there.
The waterworks come when I'm frustrated.
Put me in a box and restrict me; that's when the tear-ducts flow.
Unless I'm selecting the method of temporary suffering, that is. When the method of control is under my control, it's fine.
I used to wonder if my co-workers/boyfriend/friends know that I'm a former head-case with recurring bouts of lunacy that shimmer through. The more perceptive ones who see it excuse me for a cornucopia of reasons.
Dave put it succintly yesterday, upon hearing that after I took my car in for a damage estimate and "whose fault was it anyway?" decision at the body shop, I made it to my meeting, only 25 minutes late.
"You function so well because you're used to constant fuck-ups. You aren't swayed, distracted or in a state of panic when the tide changes, as it invariably does. You show up to lunch meetings after you get hit by a bus, you come to dinner meetings after your mother has a stroke. You managed 3 years of a deeply unhappy relationship without anyone knowing the extent of the strife. How do you do it?"
I laughed. Of course.
He said, "...That's how you get through it. Because if -"
-- "I don't laugh, I will cry. That's how. Exactly right."
Dave nodded. "I operate under the same guise. Does your boyfriend know any of it?"
And me, I laughed some more.
"No. I don't intend to tell him the specifics right now. Why dole out a sob story when everyone has one? If he needs to get around to it, he eventually will. Until then, I don't see the need when he's on the other side of the world. He's looked into my eyes. He's seen me wake up in the morning. He knows some of it; no names, places or faces, but some of it is inscribed in my face and body. He understands and accepts that much, which is to me, the most vital part. Dave, do you know Symposium?
Well, that explains it. That's what keeps me going. Knowing that love is perfect, we're all imperfect and that the world is impermanent and ever-changing, but there's a chance to better what we've got in the time we have. Samsara kicks my ass and that's cool."
"Lauren, do you two ever discuss past relationships? Renee (his fianceé) and I haven't ever."
"No. Never. Why? He's another chance for me, as I am for him. I don't think I believe in fate, but in case I'm wrong about that, I'm not going to tempt it either. I say something, I'm bringing it into existance. We don't talk about failure. We talk about hope."
"It was real good talking about this with you. I think we understand one another even better than before."
...
And he's right. It was.
And today, when I'm wounded, I take it by myself. I'll be better tomorrow. Always am.
It's the culmination of all those events over-taking me and putting me in a box. A day of solitude will remove that box; it will be destructed completely after tonight's sleep. Tomorrow morning, I may not even be bright-eyed or bushy tailed, but I will heal. Not completely, but enough to go on and do what I need to.
Yeah, you can go out or go home. Henry Rollins had that part right. I'll give him that, even if it isn't mine to give. I know when to go home. Tomorrow, I go out.
I used to wish that I could visit my 9 year old self in a dream and say that there will be a tomorrow, that it isn't going to end.
...
But had I the ability, would I be able to function the way I do now? Maybe thinking the sky would fall gave me the callouses I needed.
Let's give John Locke a divine hand.
Even if Symposium has my heart.
If anything, I can handle being melancholy like a champ.
I'm fucking fantastic there.
The waterworks come when I'm frustrated.
Put me in a box and restrict me; that's when the tear-ducts flow.
Unless I'm selecting the method of temporary suffering, that is. When the method of control is under my control, it's fine.
I used to wonder if my co-workers/boyfriend/friends know that I'm a former head-case with recurring bouts of lunacy that shimmer through. The more perceptive ones who see it excuse me for a cornucopia of reasons.
Dave put it succintly yesterday, upon hearing that after I took my car in for a damage estimate and "whose fault was it anyway?" decision at the body shop, I made it to my meeting, only 25 minutes late.
"You function so well because you're used to constant fuck-ups. You aren't swayed, distracted or in a state of panic when the tide changes, as it invariably does. You show up to lunch meetings after you get hit by a bus, you come to dinner meetings after your mother has a stroke. You managed 3 years of a deeply unhappy relationship without anyone knowing the extent of the strife. How do you do it?"
I laughed. Of course.
He said, "...That's how you get through it. Because if -"
-- "I don't laugh, I will cry. That's how. Exactly right."
Dave nodded. "I operate under the same guise. Does your boyfriend know any of it?"
And me, I laughed some more.
"No. I don't intend to tell him the specifics right now. Why dole out a sob story when everyone has one? If he needs to get around to it, he eventually will. Until then, I don't see the need when he's on the other side of the world. He's looked into my eyes. He's seen me wake up in the morning. He knows some of it; no names, places or faces, but some of it is inscribed in my face and body. He understands and accepts that much, which is to me, the most vital part. Dave, do you know Symposium?
Well, that explains it. That's what keeps me going. Knowing that love is perfect, we're all imperfect and that the world is impermanent and ever-changing, but there's a chance to better what we've got in the time we have. Samsara kicks my ass and that's cool."
"Lauren, do you two ever discuss past relationships? Renee (his fianceé) and I haven't ever."
"No. Never. Why? He's another chance for me, as I am for him. I don't think I believe in fate, but in case I'm wrong about that, I'm not going to tempt it either. I say something, I'm bringing it into existance. We don't talk about failure. We talk about hope."
"It was real good talking about this with you. I think we understand one another even better than before."
...
And he's right. It was.
And today, when I'm wounded, I take it by myself. I'll be better tomorrow. Always am.
It's the culmination of all those events over-taking me and putting me in a box. A day of solitude will remove that box; it will be destructed completely after tonight's sleep. Tomorrow morning, I may not even be bright-eyed or bushy tailed, but I will heal. Not completely, but enough to go on and do what I need to.
Yeah, you can go out or go home. Henry Rollins had that part right. I'll give him that, even if it isn't mine to give. I know when to go home. Tomorrow, I go out.
I used to wish that I could visit my 9 year old self in a dream and say that there will be a tomorrow, that it isn't going to end.
...
But had I the ability, would I be able to function the way I do now? Maybe thinking the sky would fall gave me the callouses I needed.
Let's give John Locke a divine hand.
Even if Symposium has my heart.
