People, friends of mine, 'blog readers, whatever, keep telling me to stop bottling things up. They tell me to just let it out. That I'll feel better afterwards.
Well I've tried letting it out. Too many times. When, exactly, do I get to feel better? The most I've managed to do is empty myself completely. I then spend a few days waiting for something to fill that void and - surprise! - it's pain again! Sometimes I can conjure up something else, like anger or shock or disappointment. But none of those quite fit this hole in me. Nope, it's a pain-shaped hole, and pain seems to be all that can fill it.
People tell me that time heals all wounds.
How much time should it take? Does the passage of time even matter when the wound is constantly being reopened? When I continue to be drawn, day after day, week after week, back to the scene of the crime? Am I just supposed to feel a little bit better every day until I eventually wake up and I feel fine? Will I then say to myself "Wow, that was kind of fucked up," and then I'll get on with my life? Or will I just all of a sudden not hurt, like somebody flipped a switch? Wouldn't the shock be too much for me?
People tell me that I will get better. That things will work out.
How can anyone know for sure? How can anyone tell me, with any kind of certainty, that I won't be laying on my deathbed in forty years thinking "I wonder if she'll come to my funeral?" Every answer to every question I've asked has only unearthed more questions. There's no end in sight. This beast just continues to feed on itself.
People tell me what a good person I am. How lucky any girl would be to have me in their life.
I had lunch yesterday with a girl that's not feeling very lucky, I guarantee it. She's told me that she waited her whole life to meet me, but that she met me three months too late. She says that she's just as trapped as I am, but she started out as an innocent bystander. She says that she wants out but she can't find the right door. She says that her life is like a nightmare where all of the hallways twist around and keep leading back to the same place. Back to me. No, I don't think she feels particularly lucky to have me in her life.
People tell me that I'm blowing this all out of proportion. That it just doesn't make sense for this to have affected me this much.
I know it's absurd. It's stupid. It's beyond ridiculous. That doesn't make it any less real. Telling me that there's no good reason for these feelings only makes me feel worse. Trying to reason with me is the worst thing you can do. Because I already know all that shit.
People try to help. They really do. And I appreciate it. It's just not doing any good, and I kind of wish they'd stop.
Hey, I know! Let's play a game. I'll go back to my old ways. I'll bottle all this up, and you won't have to see it anymore. I'll pretend that everything is fine, and you can play along. It'll be just like old times! What the Hell, I'll even give MixedSignalGirl what she's been wanting. We'll probably get married and maybe even have a couple of kids before I get too old to appreciate them.
You'll all be so relieved that I'm finally okay again, and that I'm actually happy. "See?" you'll tell me. "Everything worked out in the end."
And I'll nod and tell you how you were right all along, that I just needed time to heal, and then one day I'll explode into a million pieces.