It does sound like a sickness, doesn’t it? I’ve always thought it was with me. And so it still is.
Last post, I complained that he was absent–not so. Just quiet.
We had lots of thoughts to share while we were on vacation though. About this whole business of nostalgia…berating me without words about how I could presume to delude myself and say that my memories were so much better than what we know they are. Not that I can say his versions of them are truer, since my Wolf is the me with the penchant for all the dark embellishments.
It’s uncomfortable to be aware of rewriting your memories. They say we do it unconsciously anyway, and that our memories are as unreliable as outright fiction…but it’s bad when you see yourself doing it on purpose. I know I did. Not because I was trying to lie to myself. I just wanted to remember good things, and miss them. But the Wolf in me isn’t having it…what sort of ridiculousness am I up to?
It’s an easy answer. I suppose.
I want to feel a certain way. I want to hurt myself with these falsely warm memories. Not that they didn’t happen…just…that I revised memories of things that happened, cutting out the bad parts so that I can hurt myself in obsessing over why things were so much better then than they are now, when that just isn’t the case.
I’ve thought a good deal about it. This blasted desire to feel.
It’s still a thing with me, it seems. The desire to feel a particular way. You’d think I wanted to feel good, with all this cutting away of bad memories. But that’s not what I want. I don’t want a rosy memory lane to walk down.
I want something altogether different. Pain. A particular kind of mental anguish, which has no business seeming desirable. But I look for it sometimes. In reading and music and daydreaming…
It’s funny, because when we were driving all day up north, I had a playlist on that had mostly Goth-type music on it…and Jester said he needed a break because he could only handle so much “dark music” in a day.
I am pretty sure that out of all the music types I have ever been into, the Goth/industrial styles don’t strain me emotionally. Not like when I used to listen to mostly Christian rock, or metal/screamo styles…those songs allowed so much more pain in their delivery, but with Goth styles…it’s like there is a foregone conclusion that we are feeling pain…like…instead of focusing so much on raw anguish, with all its keen edges, the focus is on a more developed feeling…like melancholy. More quiet contemplation, fewer actual tears.
I don’t feel nearly as sad when I listen to it as I did when I listened to other music. And that’s even without taking into account all the songs about the supernatural and about dancing and all the ones without words that have little or nothing at all to say about feelings of any kind.
But that’s not what I was talking about.
Wolf. He keeps looking at me, and I can read the disapproval in his body language, even if he doesn’t say anything.
Except about that.
I keep wanting to do something…message…call…visit, maybe…K even said I should. But I don’t. And I think it’s for the same reasons I wanted to rewrite how I remember my summers from when I was in high school and college. So I can hurt, and think about how much better things used to be.
Except they weren’t. And I know this, because it’s one of the things he and I overlap most deeply over. So much so that the pain of it extinguishes his fires, and he says in a voice that is hard and cold that she doesn’t care.
He didn’t need to say that. I know.
But those words hold so much bitterness, and in hearing myself say them, I know it still hurts too much. It still does. I don’t need to do anything at all to sharpen the pain of it.
It will never not hurt.