Journaling story
May. 20th, 2008 02:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sroniA few weeks ago, I was having a hard time with my emotions. Writing helps me. For whatever reason, I couldn’t journal; it just wasn’t happening. So I decided to write a “story” specifically for the purpose of getting through the emotions.
This was the result.
***
It was a very grey day. Not stormy. Just grey. And not even gray, which has some combination of blue and green. No. Just grey. No color. Just … blah.
I was in Saint Louis, looking up at the Arch. The river (I think the Mississippi, but it could also be the Missouri) was completely flooded. I’m pretty sure a parking lot was submerged under river water. I can’t be sure, though, since that’s the only time I’ve seen it. Compare and contrast. Except that I’ve got nothing to compare it to.
My emotions felt a lot like the sky. Flat. Grey. No color. Just … blah.
No, that’s not right. My emotions were in an upheaval. Don’t know why, they just were. I was trying to straighten them out.
I was also trying to ignore them.
The two don’t exactly work together very well, and they for darned sure don’t play nicely together.
I know who I want to blame for my emotional turmoil. I even know the cause of a lot of it. The reason I want to blame them is because they’re the root of it. But I also know that it’s not their fault. They’re not to blame for what I do to myself. Not to blame for what I put myself through. Sure, it wouldn’t have happened without them, but it takes two.
No, my emotions weren’t devoid of color. If anything, they were too violently colorful, so that I couldn’t look at them without it hurting my eyes. But I had to try.
I found a bench — no sense hoping for quiet amidst that chaos, apparently every school in the area had decided on that particular day for a field trip to the Arch, because the place was overrun by kids — and tried to sort through my emotions and their colors.
Depression was there, an ugly black weaving its way through the brighter colors. I grabbed at it, and followed the strand to figure out why it was there. After tracing it back, I returned to the jumbled mess of warring emotions. Depression-black was still there, the pieces I hadn’t been able to get, but not so strong, and it wasn’t as tangled.
Next I found guilt, an ugly, sickly green. I knew why it was there, no need to figure out the whys of it. I just untangled it as best I could, pulling it out of the snarl of colored emotions.
Next I found fear, streaking the jumble with an angry, seething red. What was I afraid of? That people would hate me. Well, I can’t do anything about how other people feel. What else? That they would be mad at me. Well, again, I can’t do anything about how other people feel. I can do everything right, and someone will still be mad at me. Someone will disagree with me, no matter what I do.
I moved on from fear and to the next one. I had a coil of depression, a ball of guilt, and a coil of fear. And there was still depression, guilt and fear left in the jumble, just not as much. It still hurt to look at the jumbled snarl, but not as bad. The colors were no longer warring with each other, but they were still violently bright.
I found anger next, the color of old blood. I untangled and wound it up, tracing it back to the beginning. I was angry at myself. I was angry at my friends. I was angry at my family. All for different things. I was angry at my family for not understanding why I do my job. I was angry at them for taking it personally that I continue doing it. I was angry that they kept trying to make me come home to stay. I was angry at myself for feeling that way. I was angry at myself for the fact that whenever I talked to them, whenever I visited, I prepared myself for an ambush. I was angry at them for the preparation being necessary. I was angry at my best friend, for constantly changing his mind. I was mad at myself, for constantly changing my mind. I was angry at my friends for telling me what a cute couple Eric and I would make. I was angry at myself for ignoring my inner voice. I was angry at myself for rushing into things with Eric. I was angry at Eric for falling in love with me. I was angry at myself for hurting him. I was mad at him for letting me hurt him. I was angry at myself for not being able to be the person he saw me as. I was angry at Eric for not seeing through the mask I wore. I was angry at myself for wearing the mask in the first place. I was mad at myself for being able to wear the mask so convincingly. I was angry that he’d told so many people when I hurt him. I was angry that I couldn’t be what he needed, what he wanted, what he saw, what he deserved. I was angry that I kept doing the same thing to myself, to other people, and that I kept hurting them and me. I was angry at the people who said that I’m not good for a real relationship. I was angry at myself for them being right.
I was angry about a lot of things that I didn’t realize until I sat down to untangle the reasons.
This was a good start. I no longer felt like throwing myself into a wall multiple times until my brains bashed in.
My friend had been the one to talk me out of that plan. His exact words were, “If you do something to hurt yourself, I won’t talk to you again. And if you kill yourself, I’ll find some way to bring you back and kill you myself. Then I’ll bring you back again and let your family have at you. Then I’ll bring you back and turn you over to Stacy. Then I’ll bring you back and I’ll kill you again.”
With friends like that (who I totally believe, by the way), who needs enemies?
I was making progress. I’d gotten the bad emotions untangled. But that still left the good ones, all in a jumbled knot. I had to finish the job. I had to.
I grabbed onto happiness, a bright purple. There was a lot of that color. I was happy that my family was still talking to me. I was happy that my friend was still my friend. I was happy that I had all the friends I did. I was happy that I had the job I did. I was happy that I was good at my job. I was happy that I had eyes and could see the beauty around me. I was happy that I could appreciate the beauty even when I was upset and depressed. I was happy for all the rain we’d been getting, even if our van did leak all over my floorboard. I was happy that I was with the people I was. I was happy that my friend and I would be able to hang out over break after all. I was happy that I wouldn’t have to make good on my threat to lock Evan and myself in a room together until we straightened out our issues. I was happy that Evan and I were friends again and that he’d given up on ignoring me. I was happy that I could go hiking when I went home. I was happy that my friends in Asia were coming back soon. I was happy that the flowers were blooming. I was happy for all the animals that I’d gotten to see.
I was happy for a lot of things.
I found love, a soft, warming yellow. It wasn’t just of the people I loved, but the people I knew loved me, too. That soft yellow took awhile to untangle; it was woven in, around and through everything, without getting into knots. That yellow is so much a part of me, and part of everything I do and feel, that I couldn’t get it all. I was able to get most of it, but nowhere near all. I was too secure in the love from my friends and family, and most importantly, from God, and my love for them is the reasons for doing everything I do, and for what I feel. (Particularly guilt. It’s really easy to twist love into guilt.)
I latched onto peace and serenity next. It was the only thing left, and it was this bright, vibrant blue that hurt my eyes to look at. The yellow hurt, too, but somehow, the yellow love hurt and soothed at the same time. The peaceful blue just hurt. I wrapped it up all neatly, then looked at my balls of emotional color.
I had empty black depression, sickly green guilt, old blood brown fear, seething red anger, bouncing purple happiness, warm yellow love, healing blue serenity, and a small jumble of colored emotions. The small ball was no longer chaotic, no longer painful. I could manage it now, without wanting to hurt myself to make it all go away.
I could handle the emotions.
I stood up from the bench, stretching my now cramped muscles, and walked out of the museum. As I reached the river (my river, I selfishly called it), the sun broke out of the clouds.
The grey day now had a little yellow in it.
***
Thought people might be interested in reading that.
In other news, I realized that if I ever found myself in an abusive relationship, giving those stupid lies, no one would be able to tell the difference. “I fell into the doorframe.” “I accidentally choked myself with the seat belt.” “I shut the door on myself.” “I fell and hit my jaw on the door knob.” And worst of the worst, “I walked into their hand.”
Those are all things that I’ve said because they were true.
This was the result.
***
It was a very grey day. Not stormy. Just grey. And not even gray, which has some combination of blue and green. No. Just grey. No color. Just … blah.
I was in Saint Louis, looking up at the Arch. The river (I think the Mississippi, but it could also be the Missouri) was completely flooded. I’m pretty sure a parking lot was submerged under river water. I can’t be sure, though, since that’s the only time I’ve seen it. Compare and contrast. Except that I’ve got nothing to compare it to.
My emotions felt a lot like the sky. Flat. Grey. No color. Just … blah.
No, that’s not right. My emotions were in an upheaval. Don’t know why, they just were. I was trying to straighten them out.
I was also trying to ignore them.
The two don’t exactly work together very well, and they for darned sure don’t play nicely together.
I know who I want to blame for my emotional turmoil. I even know the cause of a lot of it. The reason I want to blame them is because they’re the root of it. But I also know that it’s not their fault. They’re not to blame for what I do to myself. Not to blame for what I put myself through. Sure, it wouldn’t have happened without them, but it takes two.
No, my emotions weren’t devoid of color. If anything, they were too violently colorful, so that I couldn’t look at them without it hurting my eyes. But I had to try.
I found a bench — no sense hoping for quiet amidst that chaos, apparently every school in the area had decided on that particular day for a field trip to the Arch, because the place was overrun by kids — and tried to sort through my emotions and their colors.
Depression was there, an ugly black weaving its way through the brighter colors. I grabbed at it, and followed the strand to figure out why it was there. After tracing it back, I returned to the jumbled mess of warring emotions. Depression-black was still there, the pieces I hadn’t been able to get, but not so strong, and it wasn’t as tangled.
Next I found guilt, an ugly, sickly green. I knew why it was there, no need to figure out the whys of it. I just untangled it as best I could, pulling it out of the snarl of colored emotions.
Next I found fear, streaking the jumble with an angry, seething red. What was I afraid of? That people would hate me. Well, I can’t do anything about how other people feel. What else? That they would be mad at me. Well, again, I can’t do anything about how other people feel. I can do everything right, and someone will still be mad at me. Someone will disagree with me, no matter what I do.
I moved on from fear and to the next one. I had a coil of depression, a ball of guilt, and a coil of fear. And there was still depression, guilt and fear left in the jumble, just not as much. It still hurt to look at the jumbled snarl, but not as bad. The colors were no longer warring with each other, but they were still violently bright.
I found anger next, the color of old blood. I untangled and wound it up, tracing it back to the beginning. I was angry at myself. I was angry at my friends. I was angry at my family. All for different things. I was angry at my family for not understanding why I do my job. I was angry at them for taking it personally that I continue doing it. I was angry that they kept trying to make me come home to stay. I was angry at myself for feeling that way. I was angry at myself for the fact that whenever I talked to them, whenever I visited, I prepared myself for an ambush. I was angry at them for the preparation being necessary. I was angry at my best friend, for constantly changing his mind. I was mad at myself, for constantly changing my mind. I was angry at my friends for telling me what a cute couple Eric and I would make. I was angry at myself for ignoring my inner voice. I was angry at myself for rushing into things with Eric. I was angry at Eric for falling in love with me. I was angry at myself for hurting him. I was mad at him for letting me hurt him. I was angry at myself for not being able to be the person he saw me as. I was angry at Eric for not seeing through the mask I wore. I was angry at myself for wearing the mask in the first place. I was mad at myself for being able to wear the mask so convincingly. I was angry that he’d told so many people when I hurt him. I was angry that I couldn’t be what he needed, what he wanted, what he saw, what he deserved. I was angry that I kept doing the same thing to myself, to other people, and that I kept hurting them and me. I was angry at the people who said that I’m not good for a real relationship. I was angry at myself for them being right.
I was angry about a lot of things that I didn’t realize until I sat down to untangle the reasons.
This was a good start. I no longer felt like throwing myself into a wall multiple times until my brains bashed in.
My friend had been the one to talk me out of that plan. His exact words were, “If you do something to hurt yourself, I won’t talk to you again. And if you kill yourself, I’ll find some way to bring you back and kill you myself. Then I’ll bring you back again and let your family have at you. Then I’ll bring you back and turn you over to Stacy. Then I’ll bring you back and I’ll kill you again.”
With friends like that (who I totally believe, by the way), who needs enemies?
I was making progress. I’d gotten the bad emotions untangled. But that still left the good ones, all in a jumbled knot. I had to finish the job. I had to.
I grabbed onto happiness, a bright purple. There was a lot of that color. I was happy that my family was still talking to me. I was happy that my friend was still my friend. I was happy that I had all the friends I did. I was happy that I had the job I did. I was happy that I was good at my job. I was happy that I had eyes and could see the beauty around me. I was happy that I could appreciate the beauty even when I was upset and depressed. I was happy for all the rain we’d been getting, even if our van did leak all over my floorboard. I was happy that I was with the people I was. I was happy that my friend and I would be able to hang out over break after all. I was happy that I wouldn’t have to make good on my threat to lock Evan and myself in a room together until we straightened out our issues. I was happy that Evan and I were friends again and that he’d given up on ignoring me. I was happy that I could go hiking when I went home. I was happy that my friends in Asia were coming back soon. I was happy that the flowers were blooming. I was happy for all the animals that I’d gotten to see.
I was happy for a lot of things.
I found love, a soft, warming yellow. It wasn’t just of the people I loved, but the people I knew loved me, too. That soft yellow took awhile to untangle; it was woven in, around and through everything, without getting into knots. That yellow is so much a part of me, and part of everything I do and feel, that I couldn’t get it all. I was able to get most of it, but nowhere near all. I was too secure in the love from my friends and family, and most importantly, from God, and my love for them is the reasons for doing everything I do, and for what I feel. (Particularly guilt. It’s really easy to twist love into guilt.)
I latched onto peace and serenity next. It was the only thing left, and it was this bright, vibrant blue that hurt my eyes to look at. The yellow hurt, too, but somehow, the yellow love hurt and soothed at the same time. The peaceful blue just hurt. I wrapped it up all neatly, then looked at my balls of emotional color.
I had empty black depression, sickly green guilt, old blood brown fear, seething red anger, bouncing purple happiness, warm yellow love, healing blue serenity, and a small jumble of colored emotions. The small ball was no longer chaotic, no longer painful. I could manage it now, without wanting to hurt myself to make it all go away.
I could handle the emotions.
I stood up from the bench, stretching my now cramped muscles, and walked out of the museum. As I reached the river (my river, I selfishly called it), the sun broke out of the clouds.
The grey day now had a little yellow in it.
***
Thought people might be interested in reading that.
In other news, I realized that if I ever found myself in an abusive relationship, giving those stupid lies, no one would be able to tell the difference. “I fell into the doorframe.” “I accidentally choked myself with the seat belt.” “I shut the door on myself.” “I fell and hit my jaw on the door knob.” And worst of the worst, “I walked into their hand.”
Those are all things that I’ve said because they were true.
