Post Script:
Saturday, 27 December 2003 07:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carose59They're Talking About You, And It's Bringing Me Down.*
My dryer was delivered Friday morning.
And I went to the doctor, got myself a prescription (sinus infection, surprise, surprise). How much of this excess emotion is post-Christmas let-down and how much is just being sick? And how much is me just trying to self-destruct.
I had my first Christmas without my father, without his voice (with me being sick, I wouldn't've seen him—I haven't seen my mother—but I would have heard him wishing me a merry Christmas).
Christmas was also the only day I didn't get out to see the lights, the only day I didn't take your hand and lead you to those miracles of beauty.
Christmas I laid myself wide open, and spent the day waiting for the verdict, for judgement to be handed down—praying for absolution. Once again, I chose you over everything.
It would be easier to be quiet, of course. But I can't let myself be loved except for myself—I can't let myself be loved for lies—of commission, of omission, it doesn't matter. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth was burned into my mind at an early age, and while I'm not above prevarication, it's important to me now that the people I love see me, so I know that they love me (or don't).
When a guy moves into your head, you'd think he'd be perfect, you'd think he'd be like Heathcliff—
Wait. Heathcliff was perfect? Heathcliff was hardly perfect. He wasn't perfect either, the first guy I wanted so bad, back when I was in grade school—perhaps the least of His imperfections was that He never really saw me.
All right. You're not perfect. But you'd think, I'd think that if someone was living inside you, if your heart and your mind opened up like automatic doors, just slid asunder of their own volition, you'd think it would be to the arch-angel Gabriel, perfect and golden and perfect—
I went to NY in the middle of a manic episode, perhaps the first one I've ever had; perhaps the only one. (I only seem to be able to recognize them in retrospect.) And there, in your mother's home, I suddenly saw everything through your eyes. I was home, and I never wanted to leave.
Not leaving wasn't an option, of course. I left, I came back here, and I've stayed. I still dream of sitting at the kitchen table of your mother's home, having toast and tea for breakfast. Some nights I dream your dreams.
Since that summer, I've been different. There has been a second heart pounding in my chest. Except for moments of my own utter, dark despair, I've felt your breath fill my lungs, felt your blood in my veins. I've lived with a love for you so fierce it devours everything else inside me, and I feed it all I have with such joy it bewilders me.
I know how crazy people think I am because of this, people I've told more than the oblique accounts I tell here. I can't help that. I've been looking for someone who could believe with me, someone besides Pat (whom I could not live without, but who is so much a part of me it hardly counts as someone else). Every exposure of every intimate moment is another opportunity to be written off as crazy, or sick, or bad, or any combination thereof.
Until today. Oh, Jesus. Until today.
Today I opened up and Told All to Giovanna, and was embraced and kissed and petted and told I was not bad, or sick, or crazy. That same sweet understanding love I feel so strong from inside myself (from you), I felt from outside myself (from her).
I know there is nothing I could say that would make her leave me, and the security I feel is like love incarnate.
Which, when you think about it, is pretty much the perfect Christmas present.
All my love,
Monica Rose
*Take It On the Run,REO Speedwagon
My dryer was delivered Friday morning.
And I went to the doctor, got myself a prescription (sinus infection, surprise, surprise). How much of this excess emotion is post-Christmas let-down and how much is just being sick? And how much is me just trying to self-destruct.
I had my first Christmas without my father, without his voice (with me being sick, I wouldn't've seen him—I haven't seen my mother—but I would have heard him wishing me a merry Christmas).
Christmas was also the only day I didn't get out to see the lights, the only day I didn't take your hand and lead you to those miracles of beauty.
Christmas I laid myself wide open, and spent the day waiting for the verdict, for judgement to be handed down—praying for absolution. Once again, I chose you over everything.
It would be easier to be quiet, of course. But I can't let myself be loved except for myself—I can't let myself be loved for lies—of commission, of omission, it doesn't matter. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth was burned into my mind at an early age, and while I'm not above prevarication, it's important to me now that the people I love see me, so I know that they love me (or don't).
When a guy moves into your head, you'd think he'd be perfect, you'd think he'd be like Heathcliff—
Wait. Heathcliff was perfect? Heathcliff was hardly perfect. He wasn't perfect either, the first guy I wanted so bad, back when I was in grade school—perhaps the least of His imperfections was that He never really saw me.
All right. You're not perfect. But you'd think, I'd think that if someone was living inside you, if your heart and your mind opened up like automatic doors, just slid asunder of their own volition, you'd think it would be to the arch-angel Gabriel, perfect and golden and perfect—
I went to NY in the middle of a manic episode, perhaps the first one I've ever had; perhaps the only one. (I only seem to be able to recognize them in retrospect.) And there, in your mother's home, I suddenly saw everything through your eyes. I was home, and I never wanted to leave.
Not leaving wasn't an option, of course. I left, I came back here, and I've stayed. I still dream of sitting at the kitchen table of your mother's home, having toast and tea for breakfast. Some nights I dream your dreams.
Since that summer, I've been different. There has been a second heart pounding in my chest. Except for moments of my own utter, dark despair, I've felt your breath fill my lungs, felt your blood in my veins. I've lived with a love for you so fierce it devours everything else inside me, and I feed it all I have with such joy it bewilders me.
I know how crazy people think I am because of this, people I've told more than the oblique accounts I tell here. I can't help that. I've been looking for someone who could believe with me, someone besides Pat (whom I could not live without, but who is so much a part of me it hardly counts as someone else). Every exposure of every intimate moment is another opportunity to be written off as crazy, or sick, or bad, or any combination thereof.
Until today. Oh, Jesus. Until today.
Today I opened up and Told All to Giovanna, and was embraced and kissed and petted and told I was not bad, or sick, or crazy. That same sweet understanding love I feel so strong from inside myself (from you), I felt from outside myself (from her).
I know there is nothing I could say that would make her leave me, and the security I feel is like love incarnate.
Which, when you think about it, is pretty much the perfect Christmas present.
All my love,
Monica Rose
*Take It On the Run,REO Speedwagon