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Blanket Thanks
May. 29th, 2007 10:58 pmTo everyone who responded to the Monday meltdown, a big thank you. I'm certainly feeling better than I was then, which is good...but whenever I think too hard about stuff like this, it brings up too many unresolved/unresolvable issues in my own life, let alone Cal's. It's tiring, and boring, and makes me feel angry and weak. Like Warren Zevon sings, in "Never Too Late For Love":
You say you're tired--
How I hate to hear you use that word
Every time it hurts;
You say you're tired--
How I hate to hear you use that word.
Everybody hurts.
And yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm on that spectrum somewhere, too--why not? Give me pictures of people, I can tell you what they're feeling; hell, give me a film to watch, and I'll feel it along with them. Where I continue to have fairly consistent problems is in figuring out what the person next to me is feeling, or (better yet) why the Hell I should care, aside from "because if you don't at least pretend to, you'll lose your job." So I come off as cold or reserved, because my emotions are LOUD, and I need to put some automatic distance between myself and them to be able to just function straight on a daily basis. And man, if I could turn some magic switch and make sure Cal isn't going to end up being forty years old and still feeling like such tiny, basic crap as networking and small talk are the metaphorical equivalent of walking around with your skin off and your insides hanging out, oh God, I would. He isn't even three yet.
Mom is trying to meet me halfway on this, I know. She's trying hard. But again, it all boils down to her saying: "You seem fixed. You seem invested in the idea of being the way you are, like nothing will ever change. Why can't you just imitate the action of the tiger, fake it 'til you make it? Things do get better, when you do."
To which I reply: "Yes, they do. I get it. What do you think I've been doing, all this time? But at the end of the day, it's still fucking FAKE, isn't it? And it always will be."
I'm not that person, the one who "knows" (deep down) that everything's going to work out. The only thing I know is myself, and the mere fact that I desperately love my own son enough to not wish any version of my own childhood on him doesn't make me good, or nice, or "deserving". I don't deserve anything. Nobody does.
Maybe it's chemicals. Maybe it's genetics. Maybe everybody else is exactly as screwed up as I am, and they just fake it better. I'm not them; I neither know, nor care. I don't see the utility in it. I just figure out what I have to do, and I do it. That's me. That's all I got.
Anyhow. Here I am, and Steve's in Halifax, and I have to get up and go to school tomorrow. Got![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
agincourtgirl covering me with Cal, plus Mom taking up slack here and there. And Steve comes back on Monday. And there's still deadlines to deal with.
So: If you ever wondered where "it" comes from, for me? This is where. The good part is, the hole never runs dry. The bad part is, I have a hole.
And it never goes away.
You say you're tired--
How I hate to hear you use that word
Every time it hurts;
You say you're tired--
How I hate to hear you use that word.
Everybody hurts.
And yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm on that spectrum somewhere, too--why not? Give me pictures of people, I can tell you what they're feeling; hell, give me a film to watch, and I'll feel it along with them. Where I continue to have fairly consistent problems is in figuring out what the person next to me is feeling, or (better yet) why the Hell I should care, aside from "because if you don't at least pretend to, you'll lose your job." So I come off as cold or reserved, because my emotions are LOUD, and I need to put some automatic distance between myself and them to be able to just function straight on a daily basis. And man, if I could turn some magic switch and make sure Cal isn't going to end up being forty years old and still feeling like such tiny, basic crap as networking and small talk are the metaphorical equivalent of walking around with your skin off and your insides hanging out, oh God, I would. He isn't even three yet.
Mom is trying to meet me halfway on this, I know. She's trying hard. But again, it all boils down to her saying: "You seem fixed. You seem invested in the idea of being the way you are, like nothing will ever change. Why can't you just imitate the action of the tiger, fake it 'til you make it? Things do get better, when you do."
To which I reply: "Yes, they do. I get it. What do you think I've been doing, all this time? But at the end of the day, it's still fucking FAKE, isn't it? And it always will be."
I'm not that person, the one who "knows" (deep down) that everything's going to work out. The only thing I know is myself, and the mere fact that I desperately love my own son enough to not wish any version of my own childhood on him doesn't make me good, or nice, or "deserving". I don't deserve anything. Nobody does.
Maybe it's chemicals. Maybe it's genetics. Maybe everybody else is exactly as screwed up as I am, and they just fake it better. I'm not them; I neither know, nor care. I don't see the utility in it. I just figure out what I have to do, and I do it. That's me. That's all I got.
Anyhow. Here I am, and Steve's in Halifax, and I have to get up and go to school tomorrow. Got
agincourtgirl covering me with Cal, plus Mom taking up slack here and there. And Steve comes back on Monday. And there's still deadlines to deal with.So: If you ever wondered where "it" comes from, for me? This is where. The good part is, the hole never runs dry. The bad part is, I have a hole.
And it never goes away.
