In my last entry I talked about lying, and truth. But the truth is that if someone asks me how I am or what I feel, I would be lying if I said anything other than "I don't know." Or, what would be more accurate, I guess, would be to say that the feelings are too tangled up, and I don't know which ones come first, or how many they are, or how many layers deep they go. I've never been good at choosing a place to start.
(In cleaning a room or--so horrific--cleaning and packing to move--the question of where to start immobilizes me. "Just pick a place," people say. "It doesn't matter where you start, just pick a place and go from there." And I just continue to stand in the doorway, uncomprehending. I hear the words--they make sense--but still I have no idea how to put them into practice, and no idea how to learn to do it.)
I'm not even good at writing in a diary anymore. I used to keep one, from the time I was about fourteen till I was--maybe--about twenty. Even then I wasn't good at it. I wrote a lot, but if someone were to read those books (after they found the keys, of course), they'd be disappointed if they thought they were going to learn about my life or the world around me. Reading over them, I always notice that I almost never talk about any events, anything concrete to give a reader something to grab on to. No, it's all about feelings. And elaborate metaphors to illustrate those feelings.
"I wish it were the way it used to be, when the light shone upon me and everything seemed golden. Now I just huddle in the shadows, cold and shivering, a tattered blanket all I have to try to wrap myself in, and it is woefully small. . . ."
Okay, that's not an actual quote. It's something I just made up. But that's the gist of it. My writing is embarrassingly bad, though I blame my teachers for some of that. Why did they give me As and tell me it was good?
I don't completely ridicule that girl. I get it. She was a teenager, and that was the way she wrote as a teenager. I can tell now, of course, when a young writer is good--or going to be good--even through all the curlicues and winding sentences and "big" words. (I smile at them, though. I can't help that.) But of course I hold myself to a different standard, as we all do, I suppose. I should have been better. I should have seen it. How could I have remained so immature for so long? It was long after everyone else had matured, wasn't it? When I think about authors like Austen, like the Brontes, I think about how young they were when they first wrote publishable books. My writing was like the writing of a two-year-old when compared with that. I can't remember smiling over the naivety in Northanger Abbey or Wuthering Heights.
(Though, to be honest, Charlotte's Professor tends to make one grin. Or grimace. Because it's a mess, it's just an emotional, wish-fulfilling mess. It reminds me of the first "novel" I wrote--and actually managed to finish--when I was 16-18 years old. Oh, Charlotte. Your professor. And how he seemed in print form to value your qualities over anyone else's. . . . I know. I know. I know.)
Someone might say I'm just being hard on myself. "We're always harder on ourselves than anyone else . . . ," yada, yada, yada. But that's not what it is It is pure and simple narcissism. (If narcissism can be simple.) Because I have to believe that I was different from other people, that my writing had something indescribable even then, that there was foreshadowing, crystal ball revealing of how it was to be, much later. Because if none of that is true, then I'm just another person. I'm just another nameless wisher, and there is no magic charm to guarantee that it's all been written in the stars, I'm just another girl who wants something and is, if we look at statistics--boring, cold, flat statistics--much more than likely to fail. Branwell Bronte. Tolstoy's brother. So, you see, I need proof that this isn't the case, and you can imagine how upsetting it might be to think you might not find it. To think that you're ordinary. . . .
It's amazing the stories we tell ourselves to survive, isn't it? Amazing how the brain hits on something it just can't deal with, and so it comes up with an explanation, or invents an alternative that we cling to, because we have to--or else stumble and fall--fall hard. And we tell ourselves, "But if I believe so strongly, then it must be true, mustn't it?" And then, "Well, but if I believe in it hard enough, then it will have to come true, won't it?" And then, even as everything is ending, a baffled, "But it was true--it was true--wasn't it?"
But who cares if it is true? I do.
Who cares if it's true? I don't.
Hedda Gabler, in Henrik Ibsen's play of the same name, kills herself because she so badly wants two things that are so at odds with one another that it is impossible to possess both at the same time. A house divided against itself cannot stand. Hedda Gabler needs the impossible. If her needs cannot be met, she must die.
Don't worry, this is not a suicide note. I'm much too scared of death for something like that. And also, underneath all the doom and gloom and giving up, I'm forced to admit that I actually haven't given up. Not really. It only looks that way, mostly feels that way. But there is always that muffled spark. "Hope is the thing with feathers----- and never stops--at all--" How many wish this weren't true, I wonder? Sometimes the humiliation of hope is enough to make you sink to your knees. And even then--it sings on.
I think it's what I still do, maybe. Talk on and on about abstract feelings, until what once might have made sense in a single sentence--or two--becomes all tangled up and confusing and turns out not to make sense at all. But say life itself doesn't make sense, plain and simple, and we've come full circle.
(If circles exist. Or lines. Or even the contour of a beating heart.)
I know how I feel, but there are no words for it all. In all the words here I have barely even touched on it. So my answer must be "I don't know." Because I don't know how to tell you.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Monday, February 24, 2014
Lying
I'm not a good liar.
That is to say--I'm quite capable of lying, and--I think--of lying well. I think this because I used to be able to do it when I was younger. The actual moments of lying were always filled with fear, but afterward, when I knew I'd gotten away with it, they were a source of pride. Now, don't get me wrong--being proud of a lie is not a great thing any way you look at . Though, in hopes that this isn't just a way for me to justify my behavior, I do think that a lot of the pride came from feeling that I could act a part well, that I could be smart enough and creative enough to pull it off. It was an art form, and art, to me, was like air--necessary to life, and always nice to be able to breathe in the fresh kind. Any new form or nuance of art I wanted to go after and become good at. I don't know if I would have put it quite in these words at the time, but it's fairly safe to say this is how I felt about it.
In sixth grade, there was this time I forgot to do my homework. That almost never happened to me, but this time it had just completely escaped my mind. And this wasn't a teacher who would just shake her head at you or give you a 0 or something like that. This one would yell at you in front of everyone, and I mean really yell. She was loud. And cutting. And rather long-winded. She liked me, because I was a good student, but that didn't really mean all that much in moments like these. So when she called for the homework to be turned in, I froze for a second or two in shock. Then I stood up and walked over to her desk, while everyone else was putting their homework in the homework box and returning to their seats.
"Ms. ____," I said. "May I go to the restroom?"
She smiled at me: "Of course." And handed me the pass.
Heart pounding, I walked out of the room, down the hall, and into the girls' bathroom. I didn't really have to go, so I locked myself in a stall (in case anyone else came in), and waited for a decent amount of time. When I got back to class, everyone of course had moved beyond homework and were well into the next order of business.
That night, I did the homework. And at the beginning of class the next day I walked up to the teacher's desk again.
"Ms. ____?" I said. "Did you call for the homework yesterday?"
"Yes, I did," she said, pleasantly enough.
"Oh . . . I don't think I heard you."
She didn't pause to think for more than a second. "You know what? I think you were in the restroom. Here, I'll take it now."
"Thank you," I said, and gave it to her.
Some people might call this a lot of trouble for nothing. They might say, "It was just one day of homework. Who cares?" But I cared. Even more than getting bad grades on--anything--I dreaded being chastised, especially in front of others. I dreaded drawing any kind of negative attention to myself. So as I walked away from the desk, a smile snaked across my face--but it wasn't just from relief. I was good, and I knew it. I bragged about it. Oh, I bragged.
But the funny thing is that I guess even then I wasn't a natural liar. I really had to put on an act, an act I was nervous about the entire time I was performing it. And it was never about anything important--or about anything I considered important. Who cared if I lied about the homework once or twice? Who cared if, in high school, I left early when I had nothing but study hall left? It was a stupid rule anyway. You didn't have to go to your last period class if it was just a study hall, but you couldn't leave for the last two periods if both were study halls. Dumb. So I found that if you just walked out slowly and calmly and with a smile, no one said a word to you except, "See you tomorrow! Have a good night!"
Now, this was only a lie by omission. And about absolutely nothing that was really going to hurt anybody.
I actually had huge problems lying to certain people, like my parents (though you'd never get my dad to believe that). In addition to not liking to lie about important things, I also didn't like to lie to people who mattered to me. When I had to do it (if you didn't want to go to school, for instance, on field day--a day everyone else loved and I hated--it would be a good idea to say you were allowed to miss that day if, say, your parents just wrote a note excusing you), I'd often get caught because I would say as little as possible and avoid the subject like crazy. If I had to lie to someone who mattered (and to get out of a horrible day of school you dreaded or to keep some secret you just couldn't tell from a friend, then, yes, you'd have to lie), then I was awkward and noncommittal and usually ended up admitting whatever it was to whomever it was at some later point anyway.
After high school, I pretty much stopped feeling proud about executing any kind of lie, no matter how small or how inspired. I knew I could do it--I didn't like doing it. I still felt the need to lie about certain things, like when my dad was hellbent on me becoming an elementary school teacher and told me I had to take a certain elementary ed class that conflicted with the poetry class I was finally able to take. That, I thought--and still think--was sort of a necessary evil. Other than that kind of thing, though, I stayed away from it as much as I could.
Then there came a point in my life when I lied all the time. I lied about what I was doing, what I was feeling, and about who I was. Lying became second nature, and though I still hated doing it and agonized over it, it was very, very hard to stop. So when I finally did, I told myself that I would never lie again if I could help it, except in cases of sparing another's feelings, without hurting them further. And that would be minimal. I have told people I will never lie to them, and I mean it. If they say, "Please be honest with me--am I being a whiny baby?" or "--do you think there's anything I need to do to fix this piece of art?" I'll grit my teeth and give my honest answer in the kindest way possible if it is a negative one, so that when I say, "No; you have every right to be upset about this," or "No, that's amazing, and I love it," they'll believe it. Or I hope they will.
An ex-boyfriend of mine was always convinced that I was lying when I wasn't:
"All I was looking for was loyalty."
"I've been loyal!"
"Oh, please. You never once were."
"I love you."
"You do not, and it's fine. Just admit it, and we can both move on."
These conversations usually ended in a lie (if they didn't just end in me crying): "All right. Fine. You're right. You won't ever believe anything else, so I hate you, I'm disloyal, and whatever else you want to think."
It would be funny if it weren't sad.
What I do find unbelievably funny is that--after all of this--my psychologist now tells me I should lie more.
What?
"You like to preserve the integrity of things," she says with a smile. "You hate lying, based on principle. But sometimes it's better to lie to avoid certain situations. Don't bring unnecessary hurt upon yourself."
But I still find that very hard to do, and I've told her so. I don't consider myself a person who "tells it like it is." When people claim that, they're usually using it as an excuse to be rude or to no longer worry about any kind of filter. They often want a fight. I don't offer up useless information if it's going to hurt someone. But if you ask me a question--I will tell you the truth, as long as I know what the truth is. If I don't, I'll tell you so. And if it is something I feel I absolutely can't say--I will tell you that, too.
I'm not sure that this is taking the moral high ground. I don't think I'm preaching about anything. It's just that I've discovered it's a lot easier--and a huge relief--to tell the truth. I like feeling good about myself that way.
That is to say--I'm quite capable of lying, and--I think--of lying well. I think this because I used to be able to do it when I was younger. The actual moments of lying were always filled with fear, but afterward, when I knew I'd gotten away with it, they were a source of pride. Now, don't get me wrong--being proud of a lie is not a great thing any way you look at . Though, in hopes that this isn't just a way for me to justify my behavior, I do think that a lot of the pride came from feeling that I could act a part well, that I could be smart enough and creative enough to pull it off. It was an art form, and art, to me, was like air--necessary to life, and always nice to be able to breathe in the fresh kind. Any new form or nuance of art I wanted to go after and become good at. I don't know if I would have put it quite in these words at the time, but it's fairly safe to say this is how I felt about it.
In sixth grade, there was this time I forgot to do my homework. That almost never happened to me, but this time it had just completely escaped my mind. And this wasn't a teacher who would just shake her head at you or give you a 0 or something like that. This one would yell at you in front of everyone, and I mean really yell. She was loud. And cutting. And rather long-winded. She liked me, because I was a good student, but that didn't really mean all that much in moments like these. So when she called for the homework to be turned in, I froze for a second or two in shock. Then I stood up and walked over to her desk, while everyone else was putting their homework in the homework box and returning to their seats.
"Ms. ____," I said. "May I go to the restroom?"
She smiled at me: "Of course." And handed me the pass.
Heart pounding, I walked out of the room, down the hall, and into the girls' bathroom. I didn't really have to go, so I locked myself in a stall (in case anyone else came in), and waited for a decent amount of time. When I got back to class, everyone of course had moved beyond homework and were well into the next order of business.
That night, I did the homework. And at the beginning of class the next day I walked up to the teacher's desk again.
"Ms. ____?" I said. "Did you call for the homework yesterday?"
"Yes, I did," she said, pleasantly enough.
"Oh . . . I don't think I heard you."
She didn't pause to think for more than a second. "You know what? I think you were in the restroom. Here, I'll take it now."
"Thank you," I said, and gave it to her.
Some people might call this a lot of trouble for nothing. They might say, "It was just one day of homework. Who cares?" But I cared. Even more than getting bad grades on--anything--I dreaded being chastised, especially in front of others. I dreaded drawing any kind of negative attention to myself. So as I walked away from the desk, a smile snaked across my face--but it wasn't just from relief. I was good, and I knew it. I bragged about it. Oh, I bragged.
But the funny thing is that I guess even then I wasn't a natural liar. I really had to put on an act, an act I was nervous about the entire time I was performing it. And it was never about anything important--or about anything I considered important. Who cared if I lied about the homework once or twice? Who cared if, in high school, I left early when I had nothing but study hall left? It was a stupid rule anyway. You didn't have to go to your last period class if it was just a study hall, but you couldn't leave for the last two periods if both were study halls. Dumb. So I found that if you just walked out slowly and calmly and with a smile, no one said a word to you except, "See you tomorrow! Have a good night!"
Now, this was only a lie by omission. And about absolutely nothing that was really going to hurt anybody.
I actually had huge problems lying to certain people, like my parents (though you'd never get my dad to believe that). In addition to not liking to lie about important things, I also didn't like to lie to people who mattered to me. When I had to do it (if you didn't want to go to school, for instance, on field day--a day everyone else loved and I hated--it would be a good idea to say you were allowed to miss that day if, say, your parents just wrote a note excusing you), I'd often get caught because I would say as little as possible and avoid the subject like crazy. If I had to lie to someone who mattered (and to get out of a horrible day of school you dreaded or to keep some secret you just couldn't tell from a friend, then, yes, you'd have to lie), then I was awkward and noncommittal and usually ended up admitting whatever it was to whomever it was at some later point anyway.
After high school, I pretty much stopped feeling proud about executing any kind of lie, no matter how small or how inspired. I knew I could do it--I didn't like doing it. I still felt the need to lie about certain things, like when my dad was hellbent on me becoming an elementary school teacher and told me I had to take a certain elementary ed class that conflicted with the poetry class I was finally able to take. That, I thought--and still think--was sort of a necessary evil. Other than that kind of thing, though, I stayed away from it as much as I could.
Then there came a point in my life when I lied all the time. I lied about what I was doing, what I was feeling, and about who I was. Lying became second nature, and though I still hated doing it and agonized over it, it was very, very hard to stop. So when I finally did, I told myself that I would never lie again if I could help it, except in cases of sparing another's feelings, without hurting them further. And that would be minimal. I have told people I will never lie to them, and I mean it. If they say, "Please be honest with me--am I being a whiny baby?" or "--do you think there's anything I need to do to fix this piece of art?" I'll grit my teeth and give my honest answer in the kindest way possible if it is a negative one, so that when I say, "No; you have every right to be upset about this," or "No, that's amazing, and I love it," they'll believe it. Or I hope they will.
An ex-boyfriend of mine was always convinced that I was lying when I wasn't:
"All I was looking for was loyalty."
"I've been loyal!"
"Oh, please. You never once were."
"I love you."
"You do not, and it's fine. Just admit it, and we can both move on."
These conversations usually ended in a lie (if they didn't just end in me crying): "All right. Fine. You're right. You won't ever believe anything else, so I hate you, I'm disloyal, and whatever else you want to think."
It would be funny if it weren't sad.
What I do find unbelievably funny is that--after all of this--my psychologist now tells me I should lie more.
What?
"You like to preserve the integrity of things," she says with a smile. "You hate lying, based on principle. But sometimes it's better to lie to avoid certain situations. Don't bring unnecessary hurt upon yourself."
But I still find that very hard to do, and I've told her so. I don't consider myself a person who "tells it like it is." When people claim that, they're usually using it as an excuse to be rude or to no longer worry about any kind of filter. They often want a fight. I don't offer up useless information if it's going to hurt someone. But if you ask me a question--I will tell you the truth, as long as I know what the truth is. If I don't, I'll tell you so. And if it is something I feel I absolutely can't say--I will tell you that, too.
I'm not sure that this is taking the moral high ground. I don't think I'm preaching about anything. It's just that I've discovered it's a lot easier--and a huge relief--to tell the truth. I like feeling good about myself that way.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
FAIL
Ugh. I hate when I write vague poems. What good are those? I didn't set out to be vague . . . but it somehow spiraled away from me.
Fate
Fate
Write about the sun, she said,
worship at the altars
of the ancients.
Take communion with the dawn
of waking man,
find your bright equivalent.
I know Diana and Selene
are not enough
when the rays fight against my fingers
and stain red the darkness
even when I close my eyes.
But if I were to join forces with Sumer,
with Babylon—
If I were to build a tower—
I’m certain I would be struck down,
lie broken in the sun.
Aurora seems kinder—
but even then—
exhaustion—
Though sometimes I feel ancient
in my bones,
others I know I am too young,
the years stretching out before me
in an endless string of stars.
I miss you.
I miss you.
I miss you.
Luna, luna, luna. . . .
* * *
Also, in reading over old posts, I've realized how wildly unclear they are. I seriously don't know what on earth I'm talking about in several places.
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