[Lost] Pretending
Jan. 30th, 2011 05:06 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
http://users.livejournal.com/_crimsonearth/ posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
writing_shadows“Honour the fallen,” I had said, “but do not dwell on their deaths.”
I was preaching as my Lady Winter would wish it, but I wonder how many people looking at me saw that I was struggling to take my own advice.
“Write a memory of someone you have lost, or a message, cast it into the fire so that it can be consumed and scattered to the four winds… and then… try to move on.”
Is that what this was? Moving on? Beside me sat an old lover, telling me he missed me, as my current lover looked on from across the amber glow of the bonfire. And later that night, I took a new one to my bed.
What have I become? Afraid to feel in case I feel too much, drowning my grief in the bottom of a bottle of vodka and in the arms of other men, wearing smiles I do not mean to reassure people that I am okay; that I’m not broken, but fleeing the mention of his name when I feel too weak to hold back the anger and the hurt and the tears.
And I think, worse still, those tears are no longer grief, but guilt. Why guilt, I do not know. When alive, he was just one of a handful, and yet, the realisation that his death brought made me feel suddenly… like I was betraying him. Or perhaps just betraying myself.
My Lady would have me bury it all under a veneer of ice. Bury it until it no longer aches, and then, when the ice melts, the hurts will not seem the mountains they once were for me to overcome. Winter teaches me detachment, coldness; to let the snowfalls wipe the slate clean, equalise everything. I love Winter; I honour her and lead my life by her example. Perhaps that is what I am doing. Burying it.
Somewhere, though, the darkness inside me lurks, and it is nothing to do with him. It is an older ache than that, a darker need. It is the sickness that they put in me, like the poison; the pairing of opposing principles. It is the urge to lash out, to bite down, to provoke. The need to be hurt, to feel blood on my hands, to fight until my body is a mess of bruises and broken bones.
Perhaps that’s part of what I miss; someone who understood the darkness in me. He might not have liked it, but he understood it, at least a little. Pretending that I’m not that girl… well, that’s Winter I suppose.
But it’s also tearing strips off of me all the time I ignore it. Like when the thorns tore at me as I first fled the Hedge. I said I’d be my own self-destruction. Could it be that repressing my self-destructive nature is, in fact, just a route to self-annihilation?
I’m never going to find my way out… am I?
I was preaching as my Lady Winter would wish it, but I wonder how many people looking at me saw that I was struggling to take my own advice.
“Write a memory of someone you have lost, or a message, cast it into the fire so that it can be consumed and scattered to the four winds… and then… try to move on.”
Is that what this was? Moving on? Beside me sat an old lover, telling me he missed me, as my current lover looked on from across the amber glow of the bonfire. And later that night, I took a new one to my bed.
What have I become? Afraid to feel in case I feel too much, drowning my grief in the bottom of a bottle of vodka and in the arms of other men, wearing smiles I do not mean to reassure people that I am okay; that I’m not broken, but fleeing the mention of his name when I feel too weak to hold back the anger and the hurt and the tears.
And I think, worse still, those tears are no longer grief, but guilt. Why guilt, I do not know. When alive, he was just one of a handful, and yet, the realisation that his death brought made me feel suddenly… like I was betraying him. Or perhaps just betraying myself.
My Lady would have me bury it all under a veneer of ice. Bury it until it no longer aches, and then, when the ice melts, the hurts will not seem the mountains they once were for me to overcome. Winter teaches me detachment, coldness; to let the snowfalls wipe the slate clean, equalise everything. I love Winter; I honour her and lead my life by her example. Perhaps that is what I am doing. Burying it.
Somewhere, though, the darkness inside me lurks, and it is nothing to do with him. It is an older ache than that, a darker need. It is the sickness that they put in me, like the poison; the pairing of opposing principles. It is the urge to lash out, to bite down, to provoke. The need to be hurt, to feel blood on my hands, to fight until my body is a mess of bruises and broken bones.
Perhaps that’s part of what I miss; someone who understood the darkness in me. He might not have liked it, but he understood it, at least a little. Pretending that I’m not that girl… well, that’s Winter I suppose.
But it’s also tearing strips off of me all the time I ignore it. Like when the thorns tore at me as I first fled the Hedge. I said I’d be my own self-destruction. Could it be that repressing my self-destructive nature is, in fact, just a route to self-annihilation?
I’m never going to find my way out… am I?
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Date: 2011-01-30 07:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-30 07:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-30 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-30 10:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-30 11:02 pm (UTC)*shakey fist and hugs*
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Date: 2011-01-30 11:09 pm (UTC)*Debs* wants to hug Nemoa. And Saffron probably would offer support too if she knew her.
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Date: 2011-01-31 01:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-26 08:14 pm (UTC)