It Hurts So Bad But Feels So Good (Plus An Appropriate Poem By ee cummings)
Okay, I’m going to try to make this one quick, because the Fiery One may be home right away, and I want to be on the ready to love the boy up some. He arrived home from yet another work trip last night, albeit a short one, and was there nooky? No, there was no nooky. And why is that? Because I chose yesterday evening to be an emotional freakus, jumping from joy at seeing him to anger to frustration to happy cuddling to regret to loneliness to mmm-the-happiness-that-is-buttered-potatoes to sadness to sheer exhaustion from so much emotional yo-yoing. At one point, the Fiery One gently inquired as to whether I had been taking my St. John’s Wort regularly. (I have, by the way. I’d hate to see what would happen if I didn’t).
Some of this was due to the beginning stages of PMS, which I established upon checking the calendar on the wall. What a relief it was to know that this fact of my life was at least partially culpable for the torment I was experiencing. I will never understand why this comes as such an unforeseen surprise to me every month. 17 years × 12 months = enough fucking time to get used to this already!
On top of that, I have had a few extra stressors, and I don’t react all too kindly to stress in my life. One of these stressors is that tomorrow morning at 8:30 am I have my first in a series of three job reviews, and things like this always freak me the fuck out. I really like my job, and I think I’m picking up on most of the finer points alright, but still I grow paranoid. Perhaps this is because when one of my supervisors alerted me about my impending review, she sat me down and told me three things that I had screwed up on, and she didn’t bother to temper this list with any positive points. This doesn’t bode well, but I’m still new, and mistakes are made when you start from knowing zilch and find yourself on a 90° learning curve. Just when I was plummeting to my lowest in job confidence, though, the universe threw a present my way. I ran into a lady in the hallway that I used to see sometimes when I was in my old position, and she told me that I was always one of the most pleasant people with the nicest smile that she ran into at work. She and I had actually never spoken before because we work in different departments, so this little universal vote in my favour helped dig me part way out of my self-pity hole. I’m starting to feel a little better about the review tomorrow morning, so the Fiery One is bound to have a much more pleasant evening tonight. Thank god.
Other factors contributing to my emotional loopiness included but were not limited to: my desire to finish school or go to school afresh or move forward on that learning track being thwarted by finances, my need to express myself through the physical creation of art but my inhibition / anxiety about doing so, my lack of faith in my own writing abilities, my feeling of invisibility, and my need to feel successful but not knowing where to start to get there. Crikey, that’s a heavy list. It’s as though I’m entering into some sort of mid-life crisis without having reached middle age.
At any rate, as difficult as this avalanche of stress is, I’m glad it’s happening. It signals a shift within myself that I have been wanting to happen for a long time. Over the past couple of years, I have wanted things in my life to be different. I have felt helpless to change things but too emotionally distant from myself to worry too much about my sense of futility. That is much worse than this, I swear. At least with the feelings I’m having now, I feel like I’m moving forward, or that I will move forward eventually.
The emotions I’m experiencing lately are akin to what I felt in my late teens and early twenties when I dyed my hair or shaved my head, wore combat boots (oops, I still do), never bought new, and blasted Skinny Puppy or Alice in Chains if the mood moved me. Outside, I may be wearing dress pants with carefully ironed creases down the legs and a button-up shirt, but on the inside I’m stomping around in boots with oil and acid resistant soles railing against the Man and screaming fuck this, Fuck This, FUCK THIS! Damn, but it feels good.
It hurts so bad, but it feels so good.
by e e cummings
Life is an old man carrying flowers on his head.
young death sits in a cafe
smiling, a piece of money held between
his thumb and first finger
(i say "will he buy flowers" to you
and "Death is young
life wears velour trousers
life totters, life has a beard" i
say to you who are silent.--"Do you see
Life? he is there and here,
or that, or this
or nothing or an old man 3 thirds
asleep, on his head
flowers, always crying
to nobody something about les
roses les bluets
will He buy?
Les belles bottes--oh hear
, pas chères")
and my love slowly answered I think so. But
I think I see someone else
there is a lady, whose name is Afterwards
she is sitting beside young death, is slender;
Atari's making a comeback.
Like ice cream? Ever tried smoked trout flavour?