I hate that I know now that I still don’t quite know how completely unprepared I was and am. I am beginning to know, but that does not make it better.
It almost seems familiar, but it’s different this time because I do not have (and am pretty sure I do not desire to have) that alternately fierce, slavish love feeling trying to make even the worst of it seem okay. (When you and I both know that all this sort of feeling does is intensify all feelings of a horrible nature.)
Anyway. She and I went to see a movie a few days ago. Prisoners. It was alright. Intense. But still too easy to figure out, and with an oddly positive ending to boot.
The most ridiculous thing about the whole situation was the actual going to the movie. We determined that to avoid being seen together, we would go in separately and leave separately. And we did. It was completely stupid. And we laughed about it…but I also learned yesterday that the person who is being disciplined for dating a staff member was supposedly given until today to decide if he was going to quit or accept being demoted.
I did not work today, so I don’t know what he decided. I’ll know tomorrow, I guess.
But that isn’t what all is awful. It’s kind of funny to keep up this ridiculous charade of not being friends when we see each other. She thought it was hilarious that I changed her name in my contacts list, but I don’t think she has any room to judge me. Apparently she is not a very good liar, and is having a hard time inventing things to tell people she is doing when we go places. You can only refuse to say who you are hanging out with so many times before you pique someone’s interest. 😛
I brought her a bag of things to make a collage, too…she said she wanted to make some, and I happen to suffer from a bizarre compulsion to save interesting stickers and tags and pieces of cardboard boxes with weird pictures on them…old blurry or washed-out photos from back when I used to take a lot of film pictures…she asked me why and I don’t know why I have done it. I told her it was because the small, psychic part of me knew that someday I would be her friend and she would need things to make artwork. She said she needed to know more psychics.
So. Yeah. Funny, a little.
Like maybe there is something to the idea after all, that there is some modicum of excitement in having a friendship or relationship that is in some way forbidden or illicit. (Or based on psychic notions.)
Not all funny though. Horrifying. That too. She sent me a link to some music she liked, and the first song? Horror. I mean, it was super lo-fi, alternative…but content-wise? A very detailed meditation on what happens to dead and dying bodies. What else can I expect from a girl who loves the subjects of anatomy and physiology, and wants to study mortuary science?
But…I have a small confession to make…though I have claimed to be a Goth, I am definitely a wuss where the physical aspects of death are concerned. I don’t like to think about that kind of thing. I start panicking, but it’s the kind of panic where all you can think of is being outside your body because you don’t want to deal with the whole mass of tissue and muscle and lungs and veins…and you’re panicking, but you have to NOT panic, because then you can feel the heart beating and the pulse of the blood and the breath going in and out and it’s all horrifyingly disgusting and wrong…
So you have to carefully peel your mind away from that thought and find something to absorb it. Like reading an interesting book. Except…the books I am currently working through are in league with these horrifying feelings (and, given my Wolf’s tendency to make connections where none should exist, I will probably forever associate these books with her) and with the overall attitude she seems to want to convey.
Ugh. Pessimistic philosophy? I should never have encountered it, except that I very much enjoyed Thomas Ligotti’s fiction. So I decided I wanted to read his essays on pessimism. My bad. I should really have known better, but I thought it would just be moderately interesting. I didn’t expect any of the ideas to have resonance of such magnitude that I have not been able to finish the book because it is too terrible.
She seems like that, too. Like she wants to say nothing matters and suffering outweighs all happiness one can expect to stumble across. Except that she seems to be making a conscious effort to want it. “It” being that sense of unfeeling acceptance or, at best, mild interest in observing the lack of meaning or significance in life. That isn’t something you can easily make yourself want.
I can’t take her very seriously about it. She told me she is a terrible person and she does not care about people, but I think she is a liar. Like I am. And I told her so. She would not be crying in my office over someone’s terminal illness if she did not care about people. Or taking her depressive friend to an appointment with a therapist. She would not do that if she didn’t care.
She didn’t have anything to say to that. So. I am sure she is lying for similar reasons as I would be. To make ourselves seem scary. Like animals puffing themselves up to scare off threats. Or maybe because she, like I have, really does think she is terrible. Because she thinks she should care more. Or wishes she could fix things.
I thought it was funny. We talked about emotions for a bit, and she even described them as animals. Dog. Cat. Bear. I have done that before, except that my third one was a Wolf. Still is. We differ though, in how they come out. She thinks of them as animals trapped inside her, and she vomits them out at the worst times and has to hurry and swallow them again before they damage things. I simply become the animals. They are not in me because they are me.
…I am getting ridiculous, perhaps. But I have a hard time imagining that I am projecting my thoughts and personality traits on her, as I so often do with people that I try to form connections with.
I think she is genuinely like me after all.
Except for the fascination with the body, living or dead. That is one thing we will never have in common.