Being Emo and I Apologize

I had the movie The Elephant Man on tonight last night. Dea came home towards the end and stopped in the doorway. She knows it is one of the movies that I don’t watch so much as cry-my-way-through. And she asked, point blank, “why do you do it to yourself?”

And it’s a valid question, I suppose. I don’t know why I do it to myself. Masochism? Catharsis? Maybe I just need permission to cry. No idea.

There are select movies that can cause me to weep through them. I love them, but they cannot be watched very often. I only put them on when I need to work something out of my system. And my watching is not limited because I weep uncontrollably, but because they do something to me, alter me for a little while. I get extremely introspective. It's almost like defragmenting myself. I do a self-assessment. I explore all those negative sectors. It takes a while. When I'm done, I'm better for it, a little more organized, possessing a little better perspective. But to get to the better end, I fall apart, mentally, emotionally.

When I went to bed last night, I was still in this highly vulnerable state. And Dea, angel that she is, came in to check on me. She settled herself beside me, her arm over me, her head against my chest, and I broke down and cried at her for who knows how long, interrupted only by my profuse apologizing. I'm not even sure what I was crying about, if I was crying about anything specific, or if I was apologizing for crying or for something else entirely.

She ended up spending the night (all completely chaste). I woke to her, still wrapped up in my arms, still sleeping. And I felt so much better. And so much worse. And I wanted to weep all over again. For all that love and all that trust, no matter how equally matched we are in both for each other, I don't feel worthy of it. I don't think we idolize each other. I think we are both too aware of each other's faults to consider even thinking of each other as paragons. But she adores me in a way I cannot comprehend because I'm not exceptional in any way, not extremely talented, not extremely patient, not even extremely kind.

For all that I am older and stronger than she and the most responsible member of the household, I'm not very good at this life-thing. I blunder my way through it. I pretend at confidence. I fake joy. Even when I am closest to bliss, like this morning with her contentedly beside me, I ache with an inexplicable misery. And it sounds so emo, I'm sorry, but I'm not sure I know how to be happy. I am sure I have the potential to be, but I don't know how to access it. And maybe that's why I watch films that destroy me, because I'm looking for something I cannot find so it's better to take it all apart and sort through it one item at a time.

I Would Make a Perfect Oberon

If you ever needed a definition for “gpoy,” here you go. My one saving grace however is that this is not self-initiated. One of my sweet and far-too-flattering Tumblr-friends requested I post the others (unsure if she would want me to identify her or specify her reason for asking, so you will just have to trust me that this is in fact the truth).

This is also my formal request to be cast as Oberon in some production of Midsummer Night’s Dream.

The Flower Crown

If I were Dea's boyfriend, I would be the best boyfriend ever. And while I am not her boyfriend, I am still the best something ever, I think (and she has since agreed with me, so it must be true).

Monday, Dea mentioned wanting a flower crown. I wasn't aware that such a thing was an everyday fashion accessory, but they are apparently, even outside of Renaissance fairs and Maypole dancing. I therefore went out, got all the supplies, and made one for her. Being my very first one, I am very pleased with how it turned out.

Dea loved it (but I couldn’t persuade her to let me take photos to share with others and that is her right). I didn’t look that bad today either, so I went ahead and modeled it myself. Voila!

You get to see one of my robes (gift from Phoebe). And, even more amazing, my hair doesn’t look like it’s an awful color here (but I’m still not happy with it, and once I can justify the expense and not hurt Sandy’s feelings, I’m going back to dark hair).

There are a lot more of me looking like some mockery of Dionysus, but one is more than enough at the moment. Maybe I’ll share the others at another time.

How You Do It

I was checking out at the grocery store and this young guy I’d never seen before was scanning me out, nose and eyebrow piercings, mostly shaved head with a fauxhawk with pink-dyed tips, tattoos poking out from under the collar and cuffs of his shirt and huge plugs in his ears. He grinned when we made eye contact, snapped his fingers and pointed at me and said, “I like your mouth.”

I snapped my fingers back and pointed at him and said, “Thank you! I like yours too.”

I’m not sure that would work with everyone, but that’s how you do it with me. I think he may have thought that I was part of the body modification scene and inflicted my scars upon myself, but I don't care. I can’t remember the last time interacting with someone new was that easy.

Complicated Insecurities

anonymous said:

You say you have a lot of insecurities. Are they because of your scarring? They shouldn't be. You're very good looking. 

First of all, Anon, thank you.

Secondly, I am sorry I did not reply right away since I needed a time when I could sit down and answer this properly.

Thirdly, I am now going to answer this properly:

I have a lot of things going on in my offline life that I don’t talk about much online. I get frequent anxiety attacks. I have severe chronic depression. I have a history of eating disorders and even though I have more or less moved beyond those at least, I still have a very complicated and unhealthy relationship with the rest of my body (not just my face) and with eating in general. I have a number of physical conditions that cause a lot of concern and require strict and constant monitoring. And I don’t talk about this stuff because it makes me uncomfortable and because they are not things I can solve or overcome by talking about it online. These things are purely internal.

My scarring on the other hand is completely external. People see it. People respond to it. People treat me accordingly. I have internalized my experiences with it, but if no one could see it, it would never affect me. Maybe it too isn’t something that can be, as I said above, solved or overcome by talking about it online, but it can be addressed online in a way that better equips me when I deal with other people’s responses and reactions to it offline.

With that said, it may surprise you that I don’t think about the scarring that much unless I’m reminded of it. My scarring as a self-initiated thought? That pretty much happens only when I’m concerned for my safety, when I am getting ready to go out into the populace, or when I’m about to be introduced to someone new (or the random incidental like when I went out to the diner with Sandy). But that is pretty much all. At home, or out and busy doing errands, or at work, or anywhere with people I know and like, or at dad’s university, or even in one location for a good period of time, I forget completely. Yes, the scars pull. I feel them all the time, but it has become background noise at this point, until something reminds me.

Being reminded of it happens often, so it is often on my mind. Aesthetically, as you complimented me upon my appearance, the scars, on the whole of things, aren’t much, but some people fret over a zit, and some people fret over unevenly shaped eyebrows, and other people worry about their makeup and go out and buy special waterproof products just to keep it perfect, and other people want to make sure they don’t have chocolate at the corners of their mouths, or food in their teeth, and those are such small things and yet, they are still thought about, sometimes insecure about. And the scars, for whatever else they are, are noticeable, deliberate, and for many, more than a little disturbing. And it is not something I can simply avoid.

When I’m in the grocery store and parents pull their children noticeably out of my way and stare at me like I’m a plague-carrier? I notice. I know why they’ve done that. I think about the scarring. I get self-conscious and anxious and insecure. When unimaginative teens start calling me names and then kick me when I ignore them while I am trying to enjoy a concert in the park, I know why they’ve done it. They have already spent a good ten to twenty minutes telling me why they did it. I think about the scarring. I think about how much I would like to wear a bandanna like a bandit in a Western so that such things won’t happen again, but then I think about the times I have done so in the past and been stopped by the cops. I think about having to take my scarf down and being stared at by many more people who would otherwise not have bothered looking up. And even thinking about it now makes me shake and feel sick to my stomach in panic. When we have new temps at work and they meet me in-makeup and then catch up with me after my hours and their faces drain because they didn’t realize when the first met me that I was scarred, I notice. When I pass people on the sidewalk and they involuntarily touch their mouths, I notice. I remember why. I touch my own. And when other people touch it, for as rare as it is, usually Simona or Dea or some other family member, I remember and I feel guilty. I get even more insecure then and I want to hide, not because they don’t understand, but because they do, and I am grateful. I just want to give them better than I’ve got. So when I say that I am a huge mess of insecurities, I mean it, for many reasons, some more visible than others.

Dea's Ex-Boyfriend Follow-Up

Dea's ex-boyfriend has called every hour on the hour today starting at 9 this morning leaving increasingly more insulting messages. With Dea’s full and free permission, this last time, I picked up, answered with “the freak here” since he apparently called me that (people really need to come up with something more creative, I’m so bored of the standard names), and then I apologized for not answering earlier since, I explained, with Dea’s new-found freedom from him, things just happened and we ended up having rough sex throughout the entire apartment building. There was dead silence on the other end and then he hung up.

Dea and Her Latest Boyfriend

Original situation, July 6:

Dea called me tonight asking me to pick her up. Apparently, this boyfriend is now her latest ex. Is it terrible of me and does it make me a horrible human being if I say that I am secretly delighted by this turn of events? I think it must but I cannot help how I feel. I have been supportive though, keeping my feelings to myself.
________

Follow up, July 7:

I heard the story today of why Dea broke up with her boyfriend and it was apparently over me (and I feel very guilty about being the cause, but I keep myself out of her relationships because she is entirely capable of making her own decisions and determining what’s important or not). From what I could gather, he did not like the fact that she and I are so close and live together, and she said that he used several choice names for me in the process which sealed the break-up for her.

This isn’t the first time. I am sure it will not be the last. But every time one of Dea’s boyfriends throws a tantrum about the fact that she lives with a man near her age who isn’t related, because “something might happen,” I have to laugh. She and I have been in the apartment this time, just the two of us, for a little more than three weeks and nothing has happened. Any prior times we have been in the apartment alone over the course of all the years? Nothing has ever happened. Even now, she’s sitting in the corner of the couch, her legs on me, toes flicking my elbow every so often, her headphones on, and she’s completely oblivious to anything else. Nothing will happen.

But, to be smug for a moment, any significant other of hers should feel envious, not of me, but of the relationship she and I have. That is not to say that I would ever interfere in her happiness, but I don’t think any other relationship could rival the depth of affection and strength of love she and I have for each other. The boyfriend that wins her over will be the one who accepts this and accepts me as part of the package.

The 4th

Work was rained out, again, today and rather than keep us for rehearsals or training, they just let us go since the weather is only due to get worse.

I am feeling more than a little melancholy since it seems like I spend every holiday alone. Dad’s off on his Burmese whirlwind adventure. Dea’s at her boyfriend’s family’s shindig. Phoebe is with her sister and nieces at her brother-in-law’s get-together. And here I am, at the apartment, not even the dog here for company.

And I know it is silly to feel this way since the 4th is not a holiday I have ever celebrated with enthusiasm. And eating barbecue, especially in front of strangers who would invariably be at any festivities, would get me so nervous that I really would embarrass myself. And it is not as if I have been purposely excluded from anything. And I have nothing else which would justify the inner restlessness and discontent.

Nonetheless, I am restless and discontent and feeling isolated.

I hope everyone else who celebrates on the 4th is having/ had a wonderful day.

Yesterday with Dea

After five days of killing myself at work (I think it came out to over 70 hours at the main job, and over ten more tutoring and balancing bank statements for my others), by Sunday evening I was physically dead and mentally exhausted. I therefore resolved that, yesterday, Monday, I should do naught but spend the day abed and sleep. It didn't quite work out that way, but it turned out even better than anticipated.

I woke early like usual, but still tiredly peevish, I opened the laptop beside the bed, put on the Russian musical of The Man Who Laughs, "Человек который смеется," since I didn't care if I fell asleep again in the middle of it, and wrapped myself around my second pillow. I must have been successful in falling asleep again because the next thing of which I became aware was the pillow being pried out of my arms. It was soon after replaced with the warm snugly body of my darling.

I was still a bit hazy, too hazy for any real conversation, and she was content with that. Her hair smelled of cucumber and was still a little wet from her shower and the damp ends plastered themselves against my neck and chest. We ended up napping together for another two hours, her head on my shoulder and tucked up under my chin. I woke again when she kissed me, first on the chin and then she pushed herself up on her elbow to kiss me on the mouth. She said nothing at first, played with my hair, then asked me, if I had no other plans, would I spend the day with her.

Such suggestions are the things for which I exist. We thus proceeded to spend the day in such pleasant occupation as to make my heart flutter for the next week. She decided against taking Philandros since I would be with her, and after I took him for a quick walk around the apartment complex, she and I set off to the park. Originally, we just thought we would walk around and catch up with each other but the adjacent playground was empty, so we amused ourselves there for a little while. I pushed her on a swing and we climbed to the tallest spiral slide and went down together, Dea settled between my legs and wrapped in my arms. When the families started coming, we abandoned it and went for lunch instead. Nothing fancy, just sandwiches. Afterward, we went back home and cuddled on the couch. I read some of Jasper Fforde's The Well of Lost Plots to her and then we put in some movies that we didn't pay attention to, and talked over them, and I fell asleep again. (I said I was tired!)

When we were out getting sandwiches though, I got a few looks like usual, but I don't know if someone had said something or what might have been the cause, but the young girl who checked us out, her eyes blazed with the fire of defiance as she said very loudly to the entire establishment, "You two are the cutest couple ever!"

Now, Dea and I are very hands-on with each other, above and beyond necessity even for her needs. Being in physical contact with her whenever possible is pretty much a compulsion on my end and a habit on hers. Even when her boyfriends are around, it's very difficult for us to keep our hands off each other. It's just what we do and how it has always been. And when we were waiting for our sandwiches, Dea had her back pressed to my chest, my arms were wrapped around her waist, and we were teasing each other about frivolous things, so of course, it would be natural for someone to think we were dating. But the moment the girl said it, I felt my cheeks burn up and I almost corrected the girl, but Dea, her face breaking out into a huge smile (even her dimple showing), said, "Thank you. I am very lucky to have him."

I know she loves me and I know she cares about me. But that simple public statement, the fact that she feels fortunate for having me in her life and to say it to others.... It makes me feel so grateful.