new wineskins
"I don't know why I can't let it go!"
I whined to XN as we sat under towering skyscrapers, sipping on ice cold beer amidst the bustling white noise of a rooftop bar. It was an ordinary Saturday, just like most others, except this time I felt sucker punched in the gut. For the longest time, I refused to let go of my final memories of QH, worrying that letting go meant forgetting. Yet, my worst fears had come true, he finally unfollowed me. We were back to being strangers. Just a distant memory of a whirlwind romance a lifetime ago.
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In my blog description, I have the words "I only write when I am falling love, or falling apart" plainly used to describe my literary motivations. I thought it made me seem edgy and self-aware. Now I look back at it and cringe. Through the words I'd written, sketched, dreamed aloud and typed into paragraphs of whiny prose, I looked at the intertwining cause and effect, seeing the phrases "I feel" and "I want" pop up so very often. I poured out so much yearning and unmet expectations. Yet for all the time I spent skimming the surface, I never ever fully addressed the depths of my hurt and gave meaning to them. I found myself at the bottom of a huge hole I've dug, and if I could paint a visual image for you, it felt like standing in a maze of rabbit holes I've burrowed. I am still lost.
In a culture so obsessed with instantaneous results, staying in the waiting means being left behind. So I try to process my feelings quickly, putting them through the grind, or sweeping them under the carpet. As a generally agreeable person, I don't get defensive when triggered, but collect what I'd like to call residual anger and hindsight shame. I obsess and fume, allowing innocuous comments to eat me up inside, or ruminate over careless words and actions. Trying not to act out of line, I end up internalising the rage and shame, allowing a toxic narrative of “Get over it, you should do better” dictate my self worth. No wonder I feel so much regret.
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Our conversations carried us through the balmy night, and these thoughts wafted through the air like the disappearing trails of white smoke contrasted against the darkened silhouettes of strangers. The clock struck midnight and it was time to head home. I feel terrible tonight. My insides are wrung and bruised. I feel like I lost a love of a lifetime, and I guess I'll never even know. It is what it is. But I'll hold fast to things of certainty. I know why I chose differently then, and even now in this -sianness- I am reminded time and again of who is on the other side of these decisions.
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I'm discovering so many things about myself.
Blindspots I was never attuned to, bad habits I'd decorated and tried to convince myself were justified... Even in the 3am haziness, they are sit plain as day on my consciousness. Re: the Christian counselling course we've been working through, I'm asked to identify my "heat", and everyday I am reminded of how much I cling onto my old self, hiding it away from scrutiny. [ Jesus, can't I just keep this one thing?] The thing is, in varying degrees, I believe we all enjoy feeling hurt. Sounds masochistic doesn't it? Let me elaborate. Playing the victim is great, it means someone else did me wrong, the blame is not mine to admit, it's not my fault.
In my blog description, I have the words "I only write when I am falling love, or falling apart" plainly used to describe my literary motivations. I thought it made me seem edgy and self-aware. Now I look back at it and cringe. Through the words I'd written, sketched, dreamed aloud and typed into paragraphs of whiny prose, I looked at the intertwining cause and effect, seeing the phrases "I feel" and "I want" pop up so very often. I poured out so much yearning and unmet expectations. Yet for all the time I spent skimming the surface, I never ever fully addressed the depths of my hurt and gave meaning to them. I found myself at the bottom of a huge hole I've dug, and if I could paint a visual image for you, it felt like standing in a maze of rabbit holes I've burrowed. I am still lost.
In a culture so obsessed with instantaneous results, staying in the waiting means being left behind. So I try to process my feelings quickly, putting them through the grind, or sweeping them under the carpet. As a generally agreeable person, I don't get defensive when triggered, but collect what I'd like to call residual anger and hindsight shame. I obsess and fume, allowing innocuous comments to eat me up inside, or ruminate over careless words and actions. Trying not to act out of line, I end up internalising the rage and shame, allowing a toxic narrative of “Get over it, you should do better” dictate my self worth. No wonder I feel so much regret.
/
Our conversations carried us through the balmy night, and these thoughts wafted through the air like the disappearing trails of white smoke contrasted against the darkened silhouettes of strangers. The clock struck midnight and it was time to head home. I feel terrible tonight. My insides are wrung and bruised. I feel like I lost a love of a lifetime, and I guess I'll never even know. It is what it is. But I'll hold fast to things of certainty. I know why I chose differently then, and even now in this -sianness- I am reminded time and again of who is on the other side of these decisions.
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