(no subject)
Jan. 28th, 2008 12:26 amIt's not very often that I am found at a loss for words. All weekend, since the wee hours of Saturday morning, I have been opening my mouth to say something, to make some kind of definitive statement other than one of only shock and pain, but it doesn't quite seem to be working. This is discomfiting and I don't like it one fucking bit.
It doesn't help that my brain is a complete maelstrom of emotions and the clinical side of me, the one that is learning all of these fancy new learnings, is constantly nattering on about disenfranchised grief and the stages of mourning.
I want to cry and break things that will smash with a satisfying glass shattering sound. I want to upend copious amounts of whiskey down my throat and I want to sleep for a thousand days. I want to scream and hug every single person I love. I want this constant prickle of tears that's set up camp behind my eyes to just go the fuck away. I want my friends to stop looking and sounding like pale ghosts of themselves. I want this hurt to go away. I want this guilt to go away. I want all of this to have never happened.
But, it did happen. It did. He's gone. And no matter how weird all of this seems, that's reality. He's gone and he went in one of the shittiest possible fashions ever.
Earlier this evening, I wrote this to Ella:
I severed my physical and social ties to J., but I never stopped caring about him. He pissed me off beyond all rational thought and it hurt far too much to be around him anymore, but it didn't change that I still considered him family, as I consider all of my friends to be my family.
Sometimes, especially now with what's happened, I wish I hadn't done it. There were times that I missed him so badly that I had my hand on the phone to call him and tell him that even though he was acting like a tremendous tool, that I still loved him and maybe when he pulled his head out of his ass (and I pulled mine out of my own, trust me, I don't 100% blame anyone for my actions), that maybe we could try to be friends again. But, I let my pain and selfishness color my brain and take over my feelings and I never did it.
And it fucking hurts like hell that I never did it.
That's my own cross to bear, however, and my own emotional mine field to be navigated. Changes like that blow hard and cold and I'm not anticipating the coming months with much eagerness.
All week, he had been on my mind. Things would come up in unrelated conversation that reminded me of him, like talking about the days of investigating Byberry or retelling the story of meeting an ersatz William Burroughs one drunken night in a 7-11. And my iPod was doing that thing that seems so creepy in retrospect, constantly playing music on shuffle that reminds me of a person. Ministry. The Revolting Cocks. Pigface. REM. Over and over again. It was still doing it on Saturday afternoon. I drove to work with Burning Inside cranked up to ear-shattering volumes and didn't even realize there were tears on my face until I glanced in the rearview mirror. Wemble had the same thing happen to her; she wanted to find a place that had good Vietnamese food and thought to herself, I should get a hold of Jim, I bet he'd know a place.
Was the universe trying to tell us something? Why wasn't I fucking listening?
I don't understand this. None of it seems right.
Blackjack, you jerk. If you were shooting for the gold medal in the Asshole Olympics, let me tell you, you really did a goddamn bang up job of it.
I'm sorry that you felt like this was the answer to whatever was seething inside of you. I'm sorry that we never reconciled. And I'm sorry that I didn't make it clear to you that even though I didn't have the emotional fortitude to be in the same room with you anymore, that if you had called me, I would have been there in a heartbeat. I probably would have put my boot in your ass first, but I would have been there for you.
I'm just so fucking sorry for all of it, everything.
It doesn't help that my brain is a complete maelstrom of emotions and the clinical side of me, the one that is learning all of these fancy new learnings, is constantly nattering on about disenfranchised grief and the stages of mourning.
I want to cry and break things that will smash with a satisfying glass shattering sound. I want to upend copious amounts of whiskey down my throat and I want to sleep for a thousand days. I want to scream and hug every single person I love. I want this constant prickle of tears that's set up camp behind my eyes to just go the fuck away. I want my friends to stop looking and sounding like pale ghosts of themselves. I want this hurt to go away. I want this guilt to go away. I want all of this to have never happened.
But, it did happen. It did. He's gone. And no matter how weird all of this seems, that's reality. He's gone and he went in one of the shittiest possible fashions ever.
Earlier this evening, I wrote this to Ella:
I severed my physical and social ties to J., but I never stopped caring about him. He pissed me off beyond all rational thought and it hurt far too much to be around him anymore, but it didn't change that I still considered him family, as I consider all of my friends to be my family.
Sometimes, especially now with what's happened, I wish I hadn't done it. There were times that I missed him so badly that I had my hand on the phone to call him and tell him that even though he was acting like a tremendous tool, that I still loved him and maybe when he pulled his head out of his ass (and I pulled mine out of my own, trust me, I don't 100% blame anyone for my actions), that maybe we could try to be friends again. But, I let my pain and selfishness color my brain and take over my feelings and I never did it.
And it fucking hurts like hell that I never did it.
That's my own cross to bear, however, and my own emotional mine field to be navigated. Changes like that blow hard and cold and I'm not anticipating the coming months with much eagerness.
All week, he had been on my mind. Things would come up in unrelated conversation that reminded me of him, like talking about the days of investigating Byberry or retelling the story of meeting an ersatz William Burroughs one drunken night in a 7-11. And my iPod was doing that thing that seems so creepy in retrospect, constantly playing music on shuffle that reminds me of a person. Ministry. The Revolting Cocks. Pigface. REM. Over and over again. It was still doing it on Saturday afternoon. I drove to work with Burning Inside cranked up to ear-shattering volumes and didn't even realize there were tears on my face until I glanced in the rearview mirror. Wemble had the same thing happen to her; she wanted to find a place that had good Vietnamese food and thought to herself, I should get a hold of Jim, I bet he'd know a place.
Was the universe trying to tell us something? Why wasn't I fucking listening?
I don't understand this. None of it seems right.
Blackjack, you jerk. If you were shooting for the gold medal in the Asshole Olympics, let me tell you, you really did a goddamn bang up job of it.
I'm sorry that you felt like this was the answer to whatever was seething inside of you. I'm sorry that we never reconciled. And I'm sorry that I didn't make it clear to you that even though I didn't have the emotional fortitude to be in the same room with you anymore, that if you had called me, I would have been there in a heartbeat. I probably would have put my boot in your ass first, but I would have been there for you.
I'm just so fucking sorry for all of it, everything.