I want to write something, but I think I should wait a little while. I should wait until this nagging little something rattling around in my head slows down enough for me to recognize it for what it is. Anything I write now will be just a guess.
But I want to write something, so I'm going to, dammit.
The other night, after the fucked up shit happened, I reacted pretty much as I expected. I then laid awake all night, all tensed up, waiting for it to happen again. Hoping it would happen again, at least on some layer. I mean, on a conscious level I wanted it to stop, but some small part of me was actually excited over the prospect.
I'm not completely sure which part of me that was.
Was it a part of me that stands over whatever small spark of hope for the future I still harbor? Perhaps it was a part of me that still clings to the idea that this can all be fixed somehow, that given the proper opportunity, I can still make everything okay. Maybe even better than okay. Maybe even great.
Any of these things would be understandable, certainly. Even expected, as long as you're looking at me from the outside. Through this 'blog perhaps.
From in here though, from here inside my head, I know that it was none of those things. Those parts of me are gone. Perhaps comatose, perhaps dead. Maybe they've just gone off to Tahiti and are getting plastered with Koko. I dunno, but wherever they are, they're not in my head now, and they weren't in my head the other night either.
So what was it? What was it that dared to hope for the bullshit to continue while the rest of me screamed for it to end?
Perhaps, and I hope that this is correct, there's just a part of me that's become so bored with drifting about that it'll welcome any stimulation whatsoever. That would at least make some sense, right? I can deal with that, if that's all it is.
But I don't think so.
I think, I'm afraid, I really hope I'm wrong, but maybe that small part of me hoped for another chance to...
I'm having a hard time thinking of words here.
The other night I didn't react in the most mature manner. I reflexively did what I felt needed to be done, but I don't think I did it for the right reasons. I did it for me, to ease my own discomfort.
Since when did I become important? I'm not the victim here, and I never have been.
By reacting the way I did, I put myself first. I gave no thought to what effect it might have on anyone else. I saw a hand timidly reaching out to me, and I slapped it away.
This bothers me a lot, that I'm capable of doing this. What bothers me even more is the possibility that the small part of me, the one that hoped for more bullshit the other night, that this part of me wanted to cause more pain. To be in control of the situation. To dish it out for once.
To get a little bit of revenge.
I've known for a long time that I'd come out of all this as a different person. I hope the person I become is not this shallow self-centered prick I fear is sitting inside me now. Waiting, hoping even, for a chance to lash out...
Man, even thinking about this is upsetting me. I don't want to be this person. I hope I'm not this person.
I really should have waited a while before I wrote this entry.