and if you ever need someone (i'll still be waiting)
Monday, April 15th, 2002 05:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erikaWaiting.
You know, for most of my life, I have rushed everything. Rushed learning, skipped a grade. Rushed reading, at over a thousand words a minute. Rushed writing, scribbled and poured my heart out onto paper, couldn't use pencil because it smudges too easily, too impatient to wait for ink to dry. And I rushed rejection, always the first to push someone away. I was the one who dumped, I was the one to cut off friends, I was the one... I was the one who didn't really care about anything at all and so I rushed through everything because nothing . . . nothing mattered.
And then about two years ago things started to matter and I was no longer just drifting through, but then neither was I any happier. EVERYTHING mattered so very much that I was completely paralyzed. Sometimes I'd stay up all night, thinking of the endless permutations of everything I had to do. Sometimes I'd cut myself, angry that I couldn't choose, angry that everything mattered so much that I forced myself to make some sort of decision, and the only thing I could really agree on was how much I hated myself.
Sometimes I'd combine the two, indifference and burn-out, rush through the least important things as a way to procrastinate masterfully on the really important things. Sometimes -- . . . I hate this. But I'd get involved as a way to distract myself from the important things in life. (Anthony: You need "love" [the way you see it] like you need a hole in the head.) I'd pretend to love someone (Jake) or I'd wrap myself up in someone (Nathan) and I'd focus all my time and energy on them and it worked so well, because when I was wrapped up in them, I didn't have to think about me, I felt free. But I was trapped, more insidiously than ever.
I was good. Oh, I was so very good at what I did.
I hated myself, hated the very idea of all that ability I knew I was pissing away with every second, with every yoctosecond I closed my eyes to what I needed to do. I HATED that word, that evil evil word: potential. And more than the word, I hated those who told me what I was doing, those caring loving friends and those (now ex) boys who tried to fix everything that was falling down around me, all around me falling.
But more than that, more than anything, anything potential or wasting, I hated that feeling. Waiting.
Because there was always something I was supposed to be doing, always something I should've done, always something I would have done, or could've done, always another apology, another excuse. (I'm sorry I didn't care, sorry I stopped loving you, sorry I was myself when I might've been someone else, someone better.) But never the right time, never the right moment, always a little off. A slightly different beat -- and it was wrong. Or at least that's how I felt.
And waiting -- oh, waiting! Just a innocuous word for losing. Every moment, I felt like more potential was lost and I would always be scrambling to keep up, I would never ever finish or even be halfway done. You snooze, you lose; the early bird catches the worm; better now than never; a stitch in time saves nine; time & tide wait for no man. It was like an endless torrent of THINGS I had to DO, had to SAY, had to BE, and NOW or it was all over.
But I was so depressed, even though I was sure the sky was falling, I couldn't think of any way at all (at all) to prop it up. Couldn't even stick my finger in the dam -- I just watched time wear me away. No motivation, plus the intelligence to know just how much of a difference I COULD have made ... if only -- oh, if only I hadn't waited.
If I wasn't working, I wasn't doing anything. If something, anything, wasn't happening, drama was going on every instant, then obviously I was useless and might as well not exist. The concept of relaxation was completely alien, anathema to me. How can you relax if you know every pause for a breath just leaves you further and further behind?
Any wonder I hated the idea of waiting? Waiting meant... losing. Waiting meant chances lost. And the longer I waited, especially when it came to people I cared about -- well, obviously I was going to lose them too.
Ah, you say, ah. And yes, even now, I feel like... if I don't say the right thing, at the right moment, when I am needed, perfect phrases, then I am going to lose the people I care about the most.
I tell Alena daily, weekly, hourly, fervertly: you are my best friend. She used to not understand, used to be confused as to why I felt the need to constantly re-affirm how much I cared about her. But in my own way, I was asking her to want to be bound to me; I was asking her to accept how I felt and validate it with love of her own. Like my love was some sort of parking voucher, present at a store and get it validated, then you are legit, then you are Okay.
If there are no words cementing a tie of affection, I feel -- oh, how I fear losing. I fear that the people I love will slip away from me. And the longer I have to wait for a definition, the more I assume I've already lost the person. That they hesitate to describe their emotions . . . not because they feel too much, but because they feel far too little.
Waiting.
Still in my mind's eye I can see the sands of time slip through the proverbial hourglass. Each, a missed opportunity.
And the longer I live, the more I wish, sometimes, that I were cold and heartless: so that the inevitable separation and wait for your return, for your affirmation, for your love . . . would not hurt so goddamn badly.
I wait because I believe you are worth it. But never, never smile and tell me it is easy, that I have the easy job. Every fibre in me screams to cut my losses and run, and I have to grit my teeth and set my resolve.
And yet I am still waiting. Waiting, for you. And I have hope (esperanza) that you will be worth the anguish of this wait.
You know, for most of my life, I have rushed everything. Rushed learning, skipped a grade. Rushed reading, at over a thousand words a minute. Rushed writing, scribbled and poured my heart out onto paper, couldn't use pencil because it smudges too easily, too impatient to wait for ink to dry. And I rushed rejection, always the first to push someone away. I was the one who dumped, I was the one to cut off friends, I was the one... I was the one who didn't really care about anything at all and so I rushed through everything because nothing . . . nothing mattered.
And then about two years ago things started to matter and I was no longer just drifting through, but then neither was I any happier. EVERYTHING mattered so very much that I was completely paralyzed. Sometimes I'd stay up all night, thinking of the endless permutations of everything I had to do. Sometimes I'd cut myself, angry that I couldn't choose, angry that everything mattered so much that I forced myself to make some sort of decision, and the only thing I could really agree on was how much I hated myself.
Sometimes I'd combine the two, indifference and burn-out, rush through the least important things as a way to procrastinate masterfully on the really important things. Sometimes -- . . . I hate this. But I'd get involved as a way to distract myself from the important things in life. (Anthony: You need "love" [the way you see it] like you need a hole in the head.) I'd pretend to love someone (Jake) or I'd wrap myself up in someone (Nathan) and I'd focus all my time and energy on them and it worked so well, because when I was wrapped up in them, I didn't have to think about me, I felt free. But I was trapped, more insidiously than ever.
I was good. Oh, I was so very good at what I did.
I hated myself, hated the very idea of all that ability I knew I was pissing away with every second, with every yoctosecond I closed my eyes to what I needed to do. I HATED that word, that evil evil word: potential. And more than the word, I hated those who told me what I was doing, those caring loving friends and those (now ex) boys who tried to fix everything that was falling down around me, all around me falling.
But more than that, more than anything, anything potential or wasting, I hated that feeling. Waiting.
Because there was always something I was supposed to be doing, always something I should've done, always something I would have done, or could've done, always another apology, another excuse. (I'm sorry I didn't care, sorry I stopped loving you, sorry I was myself when I might've been someone else, someone better.) But never the right time, never the right moment, always a little off. A slightly different beat -- and it was wrong. Or at least that's how I felt.
And waiting -- oh, waiting! Just a innocuous word for losing. Every moment, I felt like more potential was lost and I would always be scrambling to keep up, I would never ever finish or even be halfway done. You snooze, you lose; the early bird catches the worm; better now than never; a stitch in time saves nine; time & tide wait for no man. It was like an endless torrent of THINGS I had to DO, had to SAY, had to BE, and NOW or it was all over.
But I was so depressed, even though I was sure the sky was falling, I couldn't think of any way at all (at all) to prop it up. Couldn't even stick my finger in the dam -- I just watched time wear me away. No motivation, plus the intelligence to know just how much of a difference I COULD have made ... if only -- oh, if only I hadn't waited.
If I wasn't working, I wasn't doing anything. If something, anything, wasn't happening, drama was going on every instant, then obviously I was useless and might as well not exist. The concept of relaxation was completely alien, anathema to me. How can you relax if you know every pause for a breath just leaves you further and further behind?
Any wonder I hated the idea of waiting? Waiting meant... losing. Waiting meant chances lost. And the longer I waited, especially when it came to people I cared about -- well, obviously I was going to lose them too.
Ah, you say, ah. And yes, even now, I feel like... if I don't say the right thing, at the right moment, when I am needed, perfect phrases, then I am going to lose the people I care about the most.
I tell Alena daily, weekly, hourly, fervertly: you are my best friend. She used to not understand, used to be confused as to why I felt the need to constantly re-affirm how much I cared about her. But in my own way, I was asking her to want to be bound to me; I was asking her to accept how I felt and validate it with love of her own. Like my love was some sort of parking voucher, present at a store and get it validated, then you are legit, then you are Okay.
If there are no words cementing a tie of affection, I feel -- oh, how I fear losing. I fear that the people I love will slip away from me. And the longer I have to wait for a definition, the more I assume I've already lost the person. That they hesitate to describe their emotions . . . not because they feel too much, but because they feel far too little.
Waiting.
Still in my mind's eye I can see the sands of time slip through the proverbial hourglass. Each, a missed opportunity.
And the longer I live, the more I wish, sometimes, that I were cold and heartless: so that the inevitable separation and wait for your return, for your affirmation, for your love . . . would not hurt so goddamn badly.
I wait because I believe you are worth it. But never, never smile and tell me it is easy, that I have the easy job. Every fibre in me screams to cut my losses and run, and I have to grit my teeth and set my resolve.
And yet I am still waiting. Waiting, for you. And I have hope (esperanza) that you will be worth the anguish of this wait.
