Right now my head feels like there are at least three arrows sticking all the way through it--one through my head just above the eyes, one going through my head ear to ear at the base of my skull, and one drilling its way straight down through the top. My eyes and lips and nose are all swollen and my eyeballs feel the weight of someone jabbing them into my brain. I have a migraine and I have been ugly crying.
This migraine came on quickly- I was watching the movie About a Boy and suddenly there was a slight ache, then it grew, and then, during a fifteen minute phone call with my dear friend, it blossomed into a full blown ordeal. It started to hurt so bad I actually started to cry.
I think I gave myself this migraine; I think I did it just so I could cry.
My day had been going well- I had successfully avoided thinking about my troubles and my feelings and I stayed busy with errands and exercise, cooking and cleaning. But the movie- Hugh Grant (sadly)- opened the way for the ugly tears...
In the movie he plays an emotionally unavailable man. During the course of the movie I ruminated on all of the emotionally unavailable men I have become attached to and rejected by throughout the years. From big cataclysmic breakups to silly dating dismissals--I seem unable to do anything other than slam my fingers repeatedly in the drawer of unavailable men. Be it baggage or addiction, I seem to find the ones that can not see their way into opening their hearts to intimacy; into opening their hearts to me.
Here is where the ugly tears come in.
I hate this about myself. I hate that I want to be in a relationship. I hate that I want to be loved. I hate that I can't accept myself as I am, that I never feel good enough to be lovable, that I determine my own worth by the reaction of others. I hate all of this.
I hate it so much I give myself a migraine and start crying.
Crying for me is the most exhausting ordeal. I rarely do it. When I do, it is in muffled sobs--alone, I don't want my neighbors to hear, I don't want my friends to know--hell, I don't even want my dog to know. It is a bathroom-floor-clutching type of pain during which I often mentally picture Japanese warriors committing sebuku, and I feel a strange compulsion to slice myself open, vomit my guts out, and turn my skin inside out. This is how much I hate feeling sad. I loathe loneliness.
And I hate that I feel so worthless. I hate that I hate feeling sad-- mentally, I know that I am not unlovable. I know that I am compassionate, intelligent, sensitive, creative, vivacious, intuitive, and brave. I know that I am not doomed to forever fall into romantic entrapments with men who can't love me. I know that if I am rejected it is about the person rejecting me, not my own self worth. But I can not get rid of those feelings. I can not get my heart on board with my brain. I wish I could give myself a lobotomy and eliminate whatever neural pathways lead to my own self-loathing.
And mostly what I hate is this--typing away, going into the pain, exploring the feelings of self-hatred that linger in my core like a tumor in remission while I convince the world and myself that all is well. I would so much rather put on a performance.
But I'm starting to learn the only way out of pain is through it. Best to keep typing away, I guess.
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