I remember the last time I felt this way. The spring of 2005 brought me away from Gage towers with the same feeling of dread and helplessness. I remember the silent tantrums I threw, the anxiety, the fits of desperation, and attempts to clutch onto the dying time, ebbing away like the finest sand slipping between the cracks of my clammy fingers. I do not leave well, even from the things that are markedly bad for me, I cannot let go of because they are familiar.

A marker of my insecurity, perhaps? Probably. I'm not sure if this is something that will eventually change, that I will *grow* out of, or if it will be something that I will battle for the rest of my life. I hope it's the former. But for now, I will just grit my teeth and remember what Paco said, even if it...yeah:

Besser ein Ende mit Schrecken als ein Schrecken ohne Ende

Anger.

No point saying hurtful things, no? Only, frustration mounts and does not quell when one does not feel justified, vindicated and empowered to name her hurt. Blind oppressors, poor white men with burdens. It will be my condescension burning into your back where my love used to lie.

Only you can help yourself there.
Of course, you hands clean, obligation-free disaster. What else was I expecting from you? Other then the theatrics of your pain, oblivious to the trails of blood you leave behind. Not yours, for you only bleed from your eyes, and that's all you see.

I will slowly regain respect for myself again.

But I can't say the same about all the respect I've lost for you. Which is, everything. I remember clearly the moment when your words started to ring hollow in my ears: It was when I looked at your life, and thought to myself "Why would I ever want to be like that?". I'm only glad I didn't take your advice, I don't want to fuck up my life like you have with yours. And everytime you laugh at me for doubting you, I smirk a little on the inside and roll my eyes.

I pine now but I won't pine later. I will not be like her, bemoaning your absence, begrudging your silence anymore. Because this child's play isn't worth it, and I get paid more babysitting anyway. You tell me to grow up and I will. Unfortunately, I don't think you can. But fortunately, that won't be my loss. Thank God it was a mere 4 months, instead of, 8 years.

The only hurt you inflict on me now is the anger of not being recognized and legitimated. But that's ok. There will be a time when you will disappear from my horizon, when you will wall yourself up again in your hurt and find some other unsuspecting heart to dribble with.

Maybe we'll return, but right now all I can see myself saying is, "remember the hurt you caused? Well that's brought me this, but no thanks to you, really."

So a few more sleeps a few more days, we'll smile and be cordial and tender. Ad then the horrible end will come, better then horror without end. Which would be you. No one has ever treated me so badly, and no one ever will again.

God, you're such a jerk.

Let me stare at you with wide open eyes.

The people who stood by me weren't the god-rockers. But they showed me the face of God anyway. And perhaps more clearly then I have ever seen.

I threw caution to the wind once, what's one more time?

O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In herbs, plants, stones, and their true qualities:
For nought so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give,
Nor aught so good but strain'd from that fair use
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs, grace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.

~ R&J, Act 2 Sc. 3

This can work both ways, can't it?