Something I would like to express, and cannot ever seem to: the fact that I lack a context from which to express myself.
Because, let me be honest, and say that even if I have not reached alarming levels of rage or jealousy or utter devotion, I know already that they are possible. But why? Because I am accustomed to feeling them? Perhaps. But why? I have no answer to that. Why should I feel any one way? (or any number of ways) And why should it always be so intense? And what is it that I am feeling, exactly?
Let me go back a little.
I think often about who I write about. There’s me. And there’s mostly just me.
I don’t write about my family anymore because I do not need to. That’s not productive, and usually I would only write about them when they stress or upset or anger me. That’s not an accurate picture of them, and why should I put that in my blog? That’s tedious and stressful for me to write like that.
Then there is Jester. I don’t write about him. On purpose.
Partly because of my last relationship, wherein I was often accused of writing about my ex in ways that made him seem stupid or that embarrassed him. So I determined that with Jester, his feelings mean more to me than having blog content. So I don’t write about him and cannot, therefore, hurt his feelings or embarrass him in that way.
But…doesn’t it upset him that I don’t make a big deal about him and how much I love him?
Maybe it does. I assume not since he has not said as much. But even if he wanted me to write about him, I would not. Because all the little details I observe about him and the words he says and the ways he makes me feel about him are so difficult for me to get right in sharable words.
But I think about them a lot. Words I would use to tell about him. Phrases. Sometimes I write them down in a paper journal, but mostly I just keep them to myself because they sound silly. If I can’t do better than that, I may as well keep it to myself.
There are people from work. Sometimes I mention them because they are the only people I am around a lot. But that’s not interesting. Too much explaining who is who. And most of them? I am neither close with them nor attached to the idea of them. Nothing worthwhile to say.
So…I have my friends. These people whom I get so deeply, terribly, obsessively attached to, without understanding how or why. And I can absolutely write about that because I can’t understand what the hell I’m actually saying most of the time.
I have never understood the how or why. But, for basically my whole life, I have always had a friend–not the same one the whole time, mind–whom I care for so much that it hurts me. But I don’t know why. There is no reason in it. I mean, sure, people care for their friends…of course they do. But in all of my observing people who are friends, and listening to people talk about friends, and reading about people who write about friends, or in all of the songs and movies and books where people have friends…it doesn’t seem like I have the capacity for basic friendship.
I seem to go straight from casually interacting with someone to loving that someone so much that it’s intolerable to me. And I don’t mean I just get odd, short-lived infatuations. Eight years…five years…twelve years…they last until you bloody well cut ties with me or drop off the radar.
It seems all wrong, and that is probably one of the biggest things that has always distorted my perception of myself and how I even fit in with other humans.
I love my friends too much.
And it feels like that. Often. Like being in love. Except…that’s not quite it. That’s not what I’m trying to express. But it’s the closest context I have to explaining how I feel.
Feelings are bloody frustrating and should be outlawed. Or maybe it’s words. Semantics. I don’t possess the proper English words to explain myself.
I waited an hour for her today. Part of it in front of her house before I realized she was not home, and part of it wandering around a golf course and expecting her to tell me she wasn’t going to be there after all.
But she was. And we walked the whole golf course again…heard a flock of birds fly over our heads and not make any chirrups or tweets, and we could hear the rush of air from all their little wings flapping…looked at hawthorn trees and tried to twist off little thorn branches…talked about people and grooming and razors and those dreams where things are chasing you and you wake up in a panic. And we went to her house and sat in the kitchen and talked about cats and relationships and I got irritated because she told me he pushed her (except I can’t feel that way, can I? since I’m his boss…) and watching people’s televisions through their windows at night.
We talked very much, for having such a brief hangout time.
And then I went to see back-to-back movies at the theatre, and she went out to see him.
After my first movie, I saw I had a text:
“Hanging out with you is like a nice mental cleanse”
I keep thinking about that and guessing what it was supposed to mean and feeling all of that intense, irrational feeling that I wish I did not have. Except that I do. I just don’t understand why.