"heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned,/ nor hell a fury like a woman scorned."*
meh. that's not even accurate. at least not for me.
i have this thing i'm learning to do. i used to be so bad at it. a lot of times, i still am. but i've worked really, really hard. practice hasn't made perfect, but i'm hell of a lot better than i used to be. really, my most immediate fear was that this was going to destroy all that progress i'd made, & i'd end up spiraling back down to where i was. i don't want to go back down that dark hole. i don't want to wall myself in, suffocating myself in order to feel protected. i don't want to stop trusting.
to be fair, i don't have all the answers. no confirmation from the horse's mouth. however, though i am an English major, i am still pretty good at math, & i know when the numbers start to form a pattern, beginning to add up. i have the sum that i've come to. now it's just a matter of time until that answer comes on its own. if it has the balls.
there it goes--even without an explanation, i've shot the first volley across the bow. if i was to fully indulge that side of me, the barrage would be endless, stilling the craft in the water. then the burning skeleton of a ship would be boarded, & everything would devolve into close combat. there'd be no denouement because i know where all the vulnerabilities are; it would be lambs to the slaughter. my often-docile manner belies my other self--when the occasion calls for it, i can be vicious & ruthless.
but this is not one of those occasions. [you're welcome, you-know-who-you-are.] am i hurt? yes. am i furious? absolutely. am i altogether shocked? not so much. [refer to the paragraph above discussing numbers & patterns.] none of those emotions play into it. this is not a case where "it's not worth my time. i'm going to move on already." yes, i won't be lingering. but this is worth it because, at the very least, i deserve to be heard.
& it sure as hell isn't an "i'm not going to waste my breath because i am above this behavior, so i'm going to cut the cord & pretend the past _x_ weeks/months/years never happened." that would be a bald-faced lie.
there's one reason i won't take any of those paths: words, 100% transparency, & honest-to-Jesus consequences that stick make the greater impact.
it's all a perverse, sickeningly-amusing-to-someone gumwad of irony. from its infancy, this involvement made me want to be better, to learn to trust again. even taken in small steps, the training regimen of required trust was so difficult that i cried & cried, afraid that i couldn't do it, terrified that i was painting a target on my back. that i was giving him the green light to betray me. today? it's too gory to describe the remains of this particular trust transaction.
i don't know what else to say about the situation, beyond this: when reality finally descended this morning, i couldn't move. i couldn't get up. i was numb. i was devastated. i was angry. i was confused--surely, i'd been hurt before, & after every single one of those implosions, i unleashed a torrent of tears. so why wasn't it happening? why weren't my eyes red, my pillow soaked, my tissue box empty? disappointment was my bedfellow, & anger my lover, but sadness didn't dare show its face in my presence. then, after a time, i remembered. & i'll always remember. i am strong.
knowing that, i can cry.
----------
*the mourning bride, by william congreve (III.viii)
**"kicking the living shit out of a heavy bag"--think about that for a while.
meh. that's not even accurate. at least not for me.
i have this thing i'm learning to do. i used to be so bad at it. a lot of times, i still am. but i've worked really, really hard. practice hasn't made perfect, but i'm hell of a lot better than i used to be. really, my most immediate fear was that this was going to destroy all that progress i'd made, & i'd end up spiraling back down to where i was. i don't want to go back down that dark hole. i don't want to wall myself in, suffocating myself in order to feel protected. i don't want to stop trusting.
to be fair, i don't have all the answers. no confirmation from the horse's mouth. however, though i am an English major, i am still pretty good at math, & i know when the numbers start to form a pattern, beginning to add up. i have the sum that i've come to. now it's just a matter of time until that answer comes on its own. if it has the balls.
there it goes--even without an explanation, i've shot the first volley across the bow. if i was to fully indulge that side of me, the barrage would be endless, stilling the craft in the water. then the burning skeleton of a ship would be boarded, & everything would devolve into close combat. there'd be no denouement because i know where all the vulnerabilities are; it would be lambs to the slaughter. my often-docile manner belies my other self--when the occasion calls for it, i can be vicious & ruthless.
but this is not one of those occasions. [you're welcome, you-know-who-you-are.] am i hurt? yes. am i furious? absolutely. am i altogether shocked? not so much. [refer to the paragraph above discussing numbers & patterns.] none of those emotions play into it. this is not a case where "it's not worth my time. i'm going to move on already." yes, i won't be lingering. but this is worth it because, at the very least, i deserve to be heard.
& it sure as hell isn't an "i'm not going to waste my breath because i am above this behavior, so i'm going to cut the cord & pretend the past _x_ weeks/months/years never happened." that would be a bald-faced lie.
- starting with the latter, if i discard the past, then i also discard myself. i've come damn far & am very proud of myself for doing so. the involvement up until now has driven me to be better. i'm more of my own person, i like who i've become, & i fucking refuse give anyone enough power to make me let go of myself. no person gets the privilege of deconstructing me until i am no longer my whole self. i am worth too much for that.
- also, i am so not above this. while i've only actually ever hit one person out of sheer rage (twenty years ago, eighth grade--he should have known not to fuck with a girl who'd already endured enough shit from thirteen year old boys), i have more than enough figurative fire to raze a New York City block to smoldering ashes. & if i had access to one right now, i really would be kicking the living shit** out of a heavy bag. thing is, if i substituted a person for that bag, all it says is "joanna is emotionally eviscerated, you fucking fuck." & honestly? i'm not.
there's one reason i won't take any of those paths: words, 100% transparency, & honest-to-Jesus consequences that stick make the greater impact.
it's all a perverse, sickeningly-amusing-to-someone gumwad of irony. from its infancy, this involvement made me want to be better, to learn to trust again. even taken in small steps, the training regimen of required trust was so difficult that i cried & cried, afraid that i couldn't do it, terrified that i was painting a target on my back. that i was giving him the green light to betray me. today? it's too gory to describe the remains of this particular trust transaction.
i don't know what else to say about the situation, beyond this: when reality finally descended this morning, i couldn't move. i couldn't get up. i was numb. i was devastated. i was angry. i was confused--surely, i'd been hurt before, & after every single one of those implosions, i unleashed a torrent of tears. so why wasn't it happening? why weren't my eyes red, my pillow soaked, my tissue box empty? disappointment was my bedfellow, & anger my lover, but sadness didn't dare show its face in my presence. then, after a time, i remembered. & i'll always remember. i am strong.
knowing that, i can cry.
----------
*the mourning bride, by william congreve (III.viii)
**"kicking the living shit out of a heavy bag"--think about that for a while.
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