Tangerines and Purple Whales

I haven't really talked about it; see the end of this for more on my position on said. Anyway, this is for anybody who was aware or wondered.

I'm getting better, a little, I think. For the second time since she left me, I had a dream in which I was crying, but this time I didn't wake up sobbing--and I couldn't remember what I'd dreamed about. I doubt it helps that I'm pretty sick, and occasionally feverish. Normally I don't dream about it, and generally I don't cry; I resent it when I do have those dreams, even when I don't remember them, because they leave me with a strange feeling inside, kind of like my heart just got stepped on, a pulpy feeling that lets the juices of carefully held and organized thoughts kind of seep through my body and damage internal organs. Grab an orange or a tangerine or something, put it on the pavement, and carefully and deliberately step down on it, with your whole weight on your heel. That's how it ends up feeling for about half a day at a time, when I remember against my own wishes.

It's a long process. The weird thing is, it seems like my surface-level happiness has the quickest recovery, but the deeper I go, whether I'm delving purposely or being accidentally reminded as I described above, the less healed I am. My subconscious is, I think, doing better than it had been; during the times I'm not forcing an attitude on myself (e.g., I'm cheerful and confident when I'm on the sales floor), when I'm simply resting and feeling at-will whatever comes along, I find myself less depressed, more self-confident (or at least more self-worthy, if you will--look it up), more relaxed. When I'm chilling* at my bud's place watching some movie or what-have-you, I don't look to my side every few minutes and find myself surprised that the only girl in the room is my friend's. If something major happens in my life--say, I get fired by the Christians, or I find they're haggling immorally over my last paycheck, or I go to the temp agency and find them wonderfully encouraging there--my first impulse is no longer to pick up the phone and call her. I have other people rooting for me now.

I know what to do with myself at night. I'm getting out of the habit of thinking, "Well, if there's no one to share food with, I don't really feel like making any." Now I simply think, "Dammit, I'm hungry, and I think I have the correct ingredients in my cupboards. Stir yourself, man!" That's helpful. I remembered three days ago that I had a huge hunk of ground beef in the freezer, and it's taken pretty much since then to defrost. In the meanwhile I discovered a couple cans of spaghetti sauce in my cupboard, and a package of spaghetti--my last one, which is why I thought I'd had none. So last night I treated myself to a romantic (tongue-in-cheek) dinner and a movie, though the whole old, black-and-white movie thing backfired for me since I only have one, about the time leading up to the Civil War, and the first half or so is pro-South, which on that issue is something that makes me cringe. Cringing doesn't produce a self-romantic evening, or even a relaxing one, of course, so I ended up falling asleep to the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy--original BBC version.

This follows in the same vein. What do I say when people ask? Yeah, I was engaged. No, I didn't make the choice to leave the relationship. I'm doing okay; I have to live my own life. No, I don't consider us to be on speaking terms. Yes, it's hard. No, I'm not bitter. If I think about it, I'm angry, and as with anything, I respect an individual's right to make decisions whether or not I respect the decisions they make. The one I seem to get the most often--I don't know why--is, "Would you take her back?" I have nothing but blank looks in answer to that. It's a moot point--but "moot" means disputable, arguable, so maybe it's just a pointless question. It doesn't apply to reality; it's like asking, "Would you paint that whale purple?"

To essay, creative silence, this time, is more than an unfortunate accident; it's been a means of self-defense, not only out of fear of censure and resentful response to "too much said," but also as intentional self-defense from my own self, from the regrets and now much-reduced but once overwhelming feelings of loss I'd simply grown tired of feeling. Yet midst the struggle for not only sanity but also self-composure, closure, this tangible feeling of responsibility remains, responsibility not only to myself but also to others possibly and probably unknown who could profit from what I can only rightly identify as my innate ability to express, to put into words. Words are, after all, my best gift and greatest downfall.

So, here it is. I put things into words, and slightly less vague ones than usual.



(*OMG, I used that word naturally--I can't believe it! I swore throughout the entirety of college that I would never, ever use that word in my life--I didn't make the same promise about cursing, which I never used to do--and here I am using it!)