28 June 2015

Sometimes resolution hangs like a death sentence, and forgiveness has a lightness that feels like a weight.

I think we put off resolving things because once they're over, they're done. There's no hope for a better outcome, and maybe that hope is worth the anxiety that waiting brings. It is hard to know that you are the last one believing in something. You wonder whether or not your hope is even valid. Whether your persistence in hoping is faith or just idiotic stubbornness.

Even worse is, when granted pardon, the mixed feelings of continued guilt and freedom. Freedom, because even if it is your fault, you aren't blamed for it; guilt because you feel as if you are betraying everyone by being free. Sometimes I think that if I could just take all the hate and hurt into myself, I could bear it for them, and they could love each other again.

I spend hours wondering whether or not any of it would have happened if I hadn't tried to claim the friends for myself. It seems to me that without my grasping presence, there would have been no conflict. And when I see the sadness that the loss causes the friends I succeeded in tearing away, I think that I would gladly give them up so that they could have their family back. I play the downfall over and over again, and I'm constantly falling on the sword of my memories until I don't know the difference between introspection and masochism.

If only it were so simple; one relationship for another. But now I realize that nothing is that simple, and that even the so called 'stable' relationships are immensely complicated. Sometimes I wonder if any of them are worth the fight, and then I remember that I have not had an honest relationship since the year I turned sixteen. That will be two years in October.

I constantly struggle with the tension between wanting to be known, and knowing that there are others who need understanding more than I. Every chance I have to tell my story and bare my soul is a time that could be used to help those who are unused to wearing sadness the way I am. I will not hurt myself over this, I will not end my life. But there are others that might, and I can't justify taking their time for myself.

I spent years of my life trying to escape from stereotypes in an attempt to make people see me, but all that I succeeded in doing was sliding into a new label: angry. I have given up now, and sometimes I think about what I would want people to know about me if I had the chance to tell them. Here it is: anger is just sad's bodyguard. I think my bones are made of mourning and my veins are filled with black ink instead of blood. I grieve the loss of finite family and friends. I endure the end of intimacy. I weather the withering of love and kindness.

But I would not call myself depressed. To me, depression is something that sucks the life out of you and deprives you of your ability to create or enjoy the things you love. But I don't know if I could write without my sadness. I don't know if my fingers could create music without its galvanizing force. I have my days of sunlight, and they are just rare enough to allow me to enjoy the haze of the gray without all the garish light of constant elation. I suppose, in the end, I like my world of purple and gray. It suits me in the same way that light and gold suit some of my friends.

Sometimes I think that sad isn't such a bad way to be.