Not quite an explanation of why I haven't been writing but ought to

I need to write something.  I have so many things that have been jangling around in my head these past couple of weeks that I need to say but have been avoiding saying (or saying only obliquely) by posting quotations instead.  Some I am afraid to write because I am worried that writing will make them go away and they are too precious to me.  Others I am afraid to write because I am angry at certain people in my life and I don't know how to say what I need to say without drawing their anger in return.  There, that's cryptic enough, but does it satisfy?  If only I could just jam my fingers on the keyboard and have all of the resentment and anger and frustration flow out.   Asdfghjkl;--so there!  It's not working.  See, to help myself feel better I need to explain myself to myself, but I can't do that obliquely, so I'm still simmering, angry, feeling got at and unable to protect myself. 

I could say something.  Why don't I?  Because I've tried in the past and gotten bit.  Because sometimes the things that people are saying aren't really about me, they just push buttons that I have from my past experiences with them or from things other people have written or said.  Because sometimes the things that people are saying are things that they've said over and over to me, perhaps not realizing how much they hurt, perhaps intending to hurt, I can't always be sure.  Because I'm bad at boundaries, I feel like I am not allowed to have them, not allowed to say, "No!"  Because there are things that I need to work through in my thinking about myself in order to be clear whether what I am hearing has actually been said.  Because part of me is so weary of being misunderstood and hurt that I would rather just not have those relationships in my life than suffer every time I try to participate in them.

The cat has been peeing on the rug in the backroom where I'm sitting now.  (This is a room that used to be my study, but since we remodeled the kitchen has been refurnished as a little--and I do mean little, 9'x8'--sitting room, complete with little leather chairs from Pier 1 and a big sunburst mirror like a cathedral rose.)  At least, I think it was the cat.  It could have been the dog.  Or both of them, taking turns.  The rug was soaked through when I came home on Saturday evening after spending the day up at a fencing tournament hosted by that university to the north of here.  Thinking about it now, after we have cleaned the rug, put down a plastic rug runner with the spikey side up to protect the rug and deter paws, and removed the lid on the new litter box that we got to keep the dog from eating the cat poo, I am amazed at how angry I was, sitting here in this chair, wanting to kill the cat. 

I felt so helpless against whatever it was that was upsetting the cat so that she felt the need to pee on the rug.  If it was the cat, I'm still not entirely sure it was only she.  I'm pretty sure it was at least in part the cat because there was less to clean out of her box for the past several days, maybe as much as a week, the rug was pretty comprehensively soaked in the spot where whoever it was had been peeing.  But I couldn't do anything except rage.  Because it wasn't really the cat's fault?  Because she might be sick or upset about something that we needed to change?  Because you don't really train cats in the way that you train dogs?  And yet, it was the cat who was ruining my rug, the centerpiece of my special, cozy sitting room. 

No, this isn't a perfect analogy for the way I am feeling about the things that certain people have been saying to me, but it's close.  Maybe they don't mean to hurt me, but they have.  Maybe it's something I've done, maybe it isn't.  Maybe they care, maybe they're just oblivious to the effect that they have.  Maybe it's entirely up to me how to respond--which, in large part, I know it is.  But do I want to?  Ah, there's the rub.  I'm really not sure I do.  Actually, I am sure.  I don't want to respond.  I want to be rid of the tar baby, rid of the buttons, rid of everything to do with the way that certain people make me feel, rid of the me that I inevitably seem to become whenever I interact with them.  If only I didn't care.  If only I could just let go, neither hate nor love, maintain a perfect indifference to the things that they say. 

As if.  It is only because they can push all those buttons that I even think in these terms; nobody wastes time longing for indifference unless it is the last thing that she feels.  So are they peeing on my rug because they're mad at me?  Or is it because they are somehow hurting?   Or is it just that they like peeing on the rug?

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

#War Is Better With Dragons

How to Signal You Are Not a White Supremacist

Five Reasons My Book Rocks

V. Milo will divide us. R. Thanks be to God.

Chapter-by-Chapter Sneak Peak