A Hiding Place...

Sometimes I have to wonder about myself. What kind of person has a more intense relationship with her laptop than the people around her? Apart from my family and a select few I care to call friend, I can't muster a positive feeling for my fellow man. That sounds wrong, and maybe if I was in a better frame of mind, I'd be willing to change my attitude. For today, I will revel in abject anti-socialness. Does that mean that if I saw someone broken down on the side of the road, or learned about yet another tragedy befalling innocents that I wouldn't care? Of course not, because try as I might, I'm a sucker. I can't stand to see anyone cry, especially if there's nothing I can do to fix it. So rather than engage with people outside of my happy box, I remain in my house safe from people who are trying to figure out how they're going to feed their children or buy gifts as the holidays rapidly approach. I'm not strong enough to wander outside of the box today. And yes, I know that makes me the chief of chicken shits, but I can't do it. In my happy world, people eat everyday, they have friends and a place to call home. More importantly, they know what it is to love and be understood without strings attached or bounds applied.

When's the last time you felt as though you could be exactly who you are without having to hide? I know I spend more time behind closed doors--and not of the brick and mortar variety--than being open with those around me because I'm afraid if they see the real person that inhabits the corporeal version of me that folks will be down right disappointed. If anyone else told me that they refused to function outside of the superficial, I'd tell them to embrace reality and to wish a fuck you to anyone who refused to accept them otherwise. So easy to say, but not to do. Why? Because it costs each of us something to be real. It's expensive, and in a world where we celebrate cheap and easy, being who we are is just too damn expensive. So we'll stay locked in our closets, smiling and pretending to engage with others all the while crying inside because yet again, we've failed the one person whose opinion actually matters.

Tonight, I was driving home from the video store after returning Brokeback Mountain and heard a song that played at one of my best friend's son's funeral. I hadn't heard it in a while. In fact, when I tried to find it on Napster, I couldn't even remember what the name of the song was. So I left it in the back of my mind where all my heartbreaking memories reside because I don't know that I could function otherwise. Anyway, the song played and I tried to just hear it without letting it sink to my heart. I almost did it. But as it continued, I couldn't help but remember standing in the procession with my friend and her family as we celebrated a life that came and went too quickly.

As much as I LOVE my friend, I will never understand her grief. I tell her I love her, and I flew across the world to be with her on that day, but I came home to all of my children safe, healthy and alive. And I have to wonder if she thought I was just applying a set of trite words--a used bandage--to cover her pain. I felt like such a sham that day because I didn't know her pain. Truth be told, I don't want to because I'm not made of strong enough stuff to survive and not be bitter. I am sure the days I cry for her loss aren't even a small fraction of the tears she's shed over the past couple years, but they are no less real. I promise. I'm tired of people that I love being in pain. I'm tired of them dying.

Maybe now that I've spewed my pain over the board, my heart will awaken and I'll be able to write. Better than that, I'll be able to hear my characters, because right now I'm too numb to care about them. Trust me, that's not a good place to be. When I started writing tonight, I'd planned to explore why exactly I write. Man, has this taken a different turn. Maybe I'll save that for tomorrow.