December 19, 2007
When I’m not self-medicating with a chocolate-hazelnut substance, I’m self-medicating with retail, as my bank balance and credit cards can attest. This particular reward system was ingrained at a very young age, and that’s a behavior I’m trying to undo.
But really, what I’m greedy for isn’t really the material stuff. It can be expressed that way, sure – but what I am, is an affection junkie.
And like so many other affection junkies I know, not just any source will do. Nope. There are certain people from whom I (not always unreasonably) expect affection on a regular basis – and if I’m not getting it, I get very, very cranky. Conversely, if I don’t want affection from a particular source, I really, really don’t want it.
The people I consider closest to me, oddly enough, are the ones from whom I require the least. If you’re one of my people, I can go for months without hearing from you and still think of you as one of the people I can count on no matter what. If I don’t trust you yet, on some level, I get greedy for constant reassurance.
And trust me – I know how annoying that is. I’ve been on the other side of that, know how it feels to have someone demand more from you all the time, to where it’s never enough. And the only thing I can really do is change the way I handle that – to either focus the energy that fuels the greed elsewhere, or cut ties with someone I can’t seem to trust. Fortunately, I have several very patient and understanding friends who do a good job of helping me deflect.
But maybe I just need to accept that the heightened excitement that comes with an anxiety, angst-laden relationship of any kind – familial, friend, other – isn’t worth becoming the kind of person I seem to, under those circumstances, and work on surrounding myself with the kind of people who let me be generous, rather than greedy.
December 12, 2007
While I may not be comfortable with the concept of when to get angry, I am more than capable of it. There’s been a little of it here, but the things that I don’t say are often far worse than the things I do – which, I think, is to my credit.
Moby: Fuckin’ whore.
Slams door as he leaves for the last time.
Me: Take care.
Thinks, “Not that you’d know since you couldn’t lock it up for the last half of our relationship.”
I didn’t say it out loud. Which is an improvement from my relationship with the ex-fiancé, wherein he and I spent more time honing our expressions of fury than being in the relationship. The things that I think of saying, sometimes, scare me.
I don’t, which is good. But what kind of person automatically thinks of the most vicious & cruel retort possible? What kind of person subconciously sifts through everything she knows about a person until the sentences formed in her mind are perfectly designed and aimed to do the most amount of damage in the fewest syllables?
This is one of the reasons why, when I do get mad, I get very quiet. I may even seem stupid, unable to hold my own in the ongoing debate/discussion. It’s because I’m afraid that, if I open my mouth, the worst will come out.
I’ve come close, here. And some of those things, I’ve re-saved as drafts. Because I was angry, and rightly so, and I don’t necessarily regret expressing that anger. But to let it sit there as a reminder, every day… that seemed like the cruelest sin of all.
And I know, better than a lot of people, just how damaging and hurtful and lasting those kinds of words can be. I don’t ever want my voice to be the one rattling around someone’s brain, to be the one heard with startling clarity over and over every time a painful memory resurfaces. That’s not the legacy I want to leave, deadly sin or no.
December 4, 2007
It was cured, or at least temporarily banished, by a snowflake. An impertinent, pushy, miniscule thwap of sogginess as I stepped out into this morning’s crisp air.
An impertinent, pushy, miniscule thwap of sogginess… on the tip of my nose.
If there’s a better way to be greeted by winter, I don’t know what it is. This calls for a celebration, I think – tonight will involve hazelnut hot chocolate¹, an obscene² number of mini-marshmallows, and some time perfecting my holiday playlist on iTunes.
Cheesy? Mayhaps. But it’s the first time I’ve felt cheery in quite a while, and by the PTB, I’m going to take full advantage.
¹Would it be overkill, d’ya think, to have maybe just ONE shortbread cookie with a schmear of Nutella to go with?
² “Just how obscene an amount of [marshmallows] are we talking about here? Profane or really offensive?” “Really offensive.”
December 3, 2007
Is it that time already?
If I don’t want to do something, I’ll find a way or a reason not to. Sometimes I wonder if the main function of my attendance at law school was to learn new ways to justify a more slug-like existence.
I can’t go 24 hours without at least one shower, though. No compromises there. And my apartment, though cluttered (especially with my shoes – they have a nomadic existence, preferring to roam the apartment rather than reside in my closet), isn’t dirty.
So I’m messily slothful, if not filthily so. When properly motivated, I can get things done like nobody’s business. When properly motivated, I can also come up with a billion reasons to not get something done. Like, this movie’s on! And I know I own it, but it’s on TV, so I wouldn’t even have to take it out of the case and turn the DVD player on!
Yes. I am that slothful. The television has been known to determine my schedule.