future less vivid
I'm a mess when I cry. I drool. I cough into my pillow. I choke because I can't breathe well on my stomach. I snort. I cough. There's nothing pretty about it. Parts of my pillow cases are stained yellow with snot and tears. I told you. Disgusting.
The worst thing is that when I am crying, when I am this disgusting and drooling and spitting and snorting mess, I want someone. There are points when it is bad and I'd settle for a hamster to sit in front of me and listen to me. But I'm not usually that easy. I don't just want someone to listen to me, I want comfort. I want sympathy and hugs and all the nice things that people feel obligated to do for you when you are a wretched mess.
It doesn't matter how genuine they are. I don't care.
But see. In order to get those things, you have to tell someone what is wrong. Otherwise they sit and look at you, befuddled, stretched on the carpeted stairs, as you turn around to them with red and aching eyes. You have to tell them what is wrong.
I've never been good at doing this. Since I was young, I learned that the reasons I cried for were silly. And worse, when I could volunteer no reason to cry my mother would threaten to give me a reason to cry. I learned quick. I used to make up stories about being sad for my dog's death, years after she had died. I used to lie. I've lied in recent years. I can't open up like that. When I'm that upset, a drooling and spitting and snorting mess.
I've always been ashamed of the reasons I cry. They're silly. They're not what people usually cry about. You're not supposed to cry about these things.
You're not supposed to cry about the internet. And you're not supposed to cry about people you only know over the internet. The whole thing is suspect from the start. And crying about it, well!
It's all a quick and easy way to make me feel like a freak.
As I was writing this, a girl came in with marshmallows and chocolate and graham crackers tucked under her arm. She was looking for the paper towels. "Oooh. You're crying." It wasn't the Digusting Tears, thankfully. She leaned close to me and wiped at my wet cheek. It was very sweet. She sat on the floor and I tried, haltingly, to explain what was wrong with me. I actually told someone what was wrong. She actually listened.
The people here are good. I like them. I care about them. It's only been three weeks. But I can tell.
2000-09-19, Future less vivid
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