viragette

I keep a journal. Not so much a journal as a form of pixelated extroversion. I am beginning to wonder if I ever really think without writing. Several weeks ago, I realized to my horror that perhaps I am an extrovert - I just write all that crap down rather than torturing some poor soul with it. Present company excluded.

A recurring idea in my journal is that Someone is messing with me. I mean God. I don’t mean The Dude or The Pasta in the sky. I mean The One Proof that there is order and meaning in the universe - The Sense of Humor. Not my sense of humor, obviously. THE Sense of Humor. Because, if there is one thing I can accept as a Universal Truth, it is that the Universe is laughing at me. At us all. I don’t know whether my Universal Truth is the One that made the earth and the sky and everything. I just know that It makes fun of me.

Over the last three years, I divorced, moved to a new city where I knew no one, and started a new job. I bore myself with how blissful all of this has been. I am a freakishly lucky girl. But, there have been some things that have been bothering me. Two things.

I’m not afraid of anything. And I don’t cry.

Let’s not get crazy. You can keep your big hairy spiders away from me. But it is pretty weird to realize that I’m not afraid of - dying? Going blind? Losing my right hand. Being paralyzed. Losing my job. Dying alone. Being single. Misunderstood. Unknown. Judged. Hurt. A failure. A Failure. Unloved.

Because, really - none of that is going to break me. I can accept it. And with this acceptance of - whatever - I am a more tolerant and loving person. I can love people as they are, because I am not afraid of being disappointed. I’ve barely shed a tear in years.

This might not seem like a complaint. But it feels like something is missing. I’m not comfortable being so - comfortable. I feel - somehow too peaceful. I wonder if I’m out of touch. I worry that I don’t feel pain like I ought. I worry that I’ve run out of tears. I mean, it’s really weird to feel like I’ve been kicked in the gut by some ridiculous injustice and, before I even get a chance to start blinking, witness a part of myself draw herself dripping from the stream of my consciousness, shake off the torrent of fear and rage, and from that more peaceful vantage bend down to whisper in my ear “you know, it really doesn’t matter.” And then - I can’t for the life of me cry. Not on my own account. I have tried.

It’s not that I don’t care, it’s just that I don’t get worked up. I find myself amused when I see someone work themselves into a foment. I secretly think they enjoy it. They enjoy the cold logic and the fury and the self justification. I know I used to. And I have empathy, but I also find myself wondering - what’s with the leash? Why relenquish control and peace? How am I helping myself if I believe that other people can “make” me angry, sad, happy. They can’t. Unless I let them. So they “made” you mad? Riiiigghht.

I have new neighbors downstairs. They fight. It’s ironic that they have decided to go at it as I am writing this. As if they are adding punctuation to my point. His voice is raised. The last time it was all three timbers - shouting, whining and crying. She’s mostly crying and whining. I’m hoping they don’t progress to the punching of the walls tonight. It’s only 7:30, afterall. It is all just so - boring. I try to ignore it, but I also feel compelled to listen in case they come to blows. And every second of every minute of every hour of the whining, crying, bickering circus I restrain myself from going down there and revealing the secret of the universe to them both: Shut Up. It doesn’t matter. DTMFA. Oops. There it goes. A big slam. Another. And then the elevator is called. Someone is leaving. Good. For Christ Sake, just let them go. This will probably mean another fight later tonight. Why do people do that? What is the point of that? Why did I ever put up with that?

Anyway, the universe cracked me upside the head a couple of weeks ago. It has answered my prayers. I felt afraid. I found something that I am afraid of. Someone. It’s really a rather lovely feeling after all this time. I was taken aback at first and sort of edged up to the feeling like I do to that low wall on my roof on a windy morning. Peaking over the edge to the drop, it always looks so mundane. It’s just the garden below. But then I imagine falling, and a surge of terror swirls up from the pit of my stomach.

My relief at feeling fear has been tangible. I’ve worried while it was gone. And I thought, immediately: “Now all I need is to be able to cry again.” Which was evidently the ironic foreshadowing that the Universe had been waiting for. Not three days later something caught me by surprise and I felt such relief and gratitude that - to my shock - I started to cry. And then it was ON! This was my chance - and I was going to make the most of it. I sat down on the floor of my apartment and put my hands in my hair and shed real, live tears. For a whole - 2 minutes. But still. And I felt this insane mixture of pain, elation and the conscious awareness of OMG, WTF, don’t mess this up! It didn’t make any sense. But it didn’t matter. What I cry for has never made any sense. I’m just glad that I still can.

The heady delight has not worn off. It’s clung to me while I wonder about the point of trying to understand the “truth” about another person when no one really knows their own truth for themselves. I wonder why we try to understand why other people do things. It doesn’t matter if their reason seems unreasonable - it’s their reason. There is no “why” when it comes to the actions of others. Because, ultimately, perhaps sadly, their “why” is irrelevant. If you can understand it, it’s your why too. And if you can’t, it doesn’t change their behavior in the slightest. It doesn’t make their behavior wrong. If you just can’t understand why someone would do something, it doesn’t stop them from doing it. And yet it is tempting to wonder. It doesn’t bring much comfort to have figured out that reason cannot be had. It brings me to the edge of an abyss, looking down into a garden into which I am terrified of falling.