it grieves me so to see you in such pain
Wednesday, November 2nd, 2005 10:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
erikaEx: that word covers a multitude of sins—from enemies to fierce apathy to acquintances. But what it really says is: the relationship that defined us is over.
The relationship that was most meaningful to us is finished. There is no more us, just the dying remnants of a dead past—broken promises, angry words, lying embraces.
And someday that pain too will be forgotten, a sporadic momento which is formed in my heart of accents (British & Australian), Stabbing Westward, a stuffed animal, a sweater, scars, the Terminator trilogy.
To that most probably will be added: MST3K, Clutch, and the entire state of California.
I remember that you never wanted me to say any of this, and I will write this anyway. You kept telling me that you didn't hate me. Perhaps merely not wanting me anymore is worse than if you did hate me.
I remember being held while I cried for some pain that seemed so important at the time and so trivial now. I remember how nervous I was when you opened the door for the first time, and how you trembled when I touched you. I remember how scared when you left Arcata and how elated when I saw you again. I remember how angry you made me sometimes and how good it felt to forgive you in my heart, to really truly let it go.
I wish I could let us go.
I remember thinking that you were right, and that I could be emotionally immature, and that no one had ever called me that before. No one had ever called me on wallowing in pain, delving into anguish for no reason other than the dig. Maybe no one else was insensitive enough to, but sometimes you have to say those things.
We see the people we love as we want to see them. Maybe it was just insensitivity. I think you would argue for that interpretation.
I needed to rescue you, fix you, make you happy, make you better. I thought that if I worked hard enough, your life would be better for having had me in it, and then it wouldn't matter if my life was worthless otherwise.
I remember you throwing things when you got mad, breaking stuff while I watched sometimes and biting my lip to keep from laughing because it wasn't funny; later envying you your ability to express anger and yet your self-control to keep it from touching me.
I envied your self control but hated you trying to control me.
I remember the constant fights we had about sex. I remember becoming disgusted and self-loathing over my weight. I remember how you demanded what felt like so much of me and so little of yourself. Criticising me when I couldn't bear to go to work, or when I overslept, and yet never thanking me for dealing with the bills and doing the grocery shopping, most of the cooking, all of the cleaning. In fact, criticising me for not keeping the apartment cleaner. Thanks!
You paid for everything, unstintingly, uncomplainingly. You made me laugh every day, hugged me, introduced me to amazing computer games and movies.
I remember laughing at ludicrously bad movies together and watching animated TV shows and The Daily Show. I remember you playing Clutch until I thought my ears were going to bleed and then sitting down and listening to it and realizing that I actually liked it.
Doubt I'll ever listen to that band again.
I remember still.
I remember more good things than bad, though the bad is there. The bad is easy to put into words, the good not so. Still, it was there and— I can't agree that you were right. I can't agree that we weren't right together, that we were bad together.
Summarize, trivialize. Pack it away and pretend, paste a smile on your face. You taught me that. I'm nowhere near as good at it as you are, my love. My love, my dearest. I don't have your self-control. So I will calm myself with thoughts of suicide if I must, but I won't cry. There are customers to serve, friends to placate, family to ignore. Relationships to leave.
The relationship that was most meaningful to us is finished. There is no more us, just the dying remnants of a dead past—broken promises, angry words, lying embraces.
And someday that pain too will be forgotten, a sporadic momento which is formed in my heart of accents (British & Australian), Stabbing Westward, a stuffed animal, a sweater, scars, the Terminator trilogy.
To that most probably will be added: MST3K, Clutch, and the entire state of California.
I remember that you never wanted me to say any of this, and I will write this anyway. You kept telling me that you didn't hate me. Perhaps merely not wanting me anymore is worse than if you did hate me.
I remember being held while I cried for some pain that seemed so important at the time and so trivial now. I remember how nervous I was when you opened the door for the first time, and how you trembled when I touched you. I remember how scared when you left Arcata and how elated when I saw you again. I remember how angry you made me sometimes and how good it felt to forgive you in my heart, to really truly let it go.
I wish I could let us go.
I remember thinking that you were right, and that I could be emotionally immature, and that no one had ever called me that before. No one had ever called me on wallowing in pain, delving into anguish for no reason other than the dig. Maybe no one else was insensitive enough to, but sometimes you have to say those things.
We see the people we love as we want to see them. Maybe it was just insensitivity. I think you would argue for that interpretation.
I needed to rescue you, fix you, make you happy, make you better. I thought that if I worked hard enough, your life would be better for having had me in it, and then it wouldn't matter if my life was worthless otherwise.
I remember you throwing things when you got mad, breaking stuff while I watched sometimes and biting my lip to keep from laughing because it wasn't funny; later envying you your ability to express anger and yet your self-control to keep it from touching me.
I envied your self control but hated you trying to control me.
I remember the constant fights we had about sex. I remember becoming disgusted and self-loathing over my weight. I remember how you demanded what felt like so much of me and so little of yourself. Criticising me when I couldn't bear to go to work, or when I overslept, and yet never thanking me for dealing with the bills and doing the grocery shopping, most of the cooking, all of the cleaning. In fact, criticising me for not keeping the apartment cleaner. Thanks!
You paid for everything, unstintingly, uncomplainingly. You made me laugh every day, hugged me, introduced me to amazing computer games and movies.
I remember laughing at ludicrously bad movies together and watching animated TV shows and The Daily Show. I remember you playing Clutch until I thought my ears were going to bleed and then sitting down and listening to it and realizing that I actually liked it.
Doubt I'll ever listen to that band again.
I remember still.
I remember more good things than bad, though the bad is there. The bad is easy to put into words, the good not so. Still, it was there and— I can't agree that you were right. I can't agree that we weren't right together, that we were bad together.
Summarize, trivialize. Pack it away and pretend, paste a smile on your face. You taught me that. I'm nowhere near as good at it as you are, my love. My love, my dearest. I don't have your self-control. So I will calm myself with thoughts of suicide if I must, but I won't cry. There are customers to serve, friends to placate, family to ignore. Relationships to leave.
