Several years ago I subscribed to a list that sent me a daily email reminding me of important historical events in the world of literature. On February 25, 2007, the feature was about the first meeting of poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. I printed out the story of how she bit his lip so hard she drew blood and scribbled a note on the back: "If only we could all have this level of passion in our lives." Then I passed it on to my dear friend, Nadia, who laughed. I just remember wishing I could experience that level of intensity in my life...an uncontrollable urge...an irresistible craving.
Unfortunately, it's not possible to experience that type of passion when you restrain your emotions with the equivalent of a Victorian-era corset. For some reason completely known to me after years of therapy, I feel the need to present the facade of the cool girl at all times. She's my superhero who never flinches in the face of flying insults, calmly waits for others to figure out how they mistreat her, and who fully believes you should never let them see you sweat.
Basically, my emotional side follows the piss poor playground advice parents give to their children when they deal with bullies. It has its own personal shaming device honed by years of experience and supported by a world that incredibly cannot figure out the difference between drama and normal emotional responses.
For a girl with heightened sensitivity growing up in a super religious home, that piss poor advice was a burial shroud. It doomed nearly every relationship I've ever attempted. Superficial interaction makes it impossible to bond with others, leaving only financial dependence or social pressure a flimsy adhesive holding you together.
Oh, I've tried talking about my--gasp--feelings. I've screamed. I've thrown objects. I've locked doors. I've stormed out the front door. But in the past, these reactions were intentional...designed to elicit a response or an apology or a proclamation of undying love that never seemed to appear in the ether. All it did was send me into a spiral of self-loathing at the notion of letting myself lose control.
My darling man told me not long ago that he likes the "ups and downs" between us. Truth be told, so do I. It makes me feel alive. It's that intensity...that uncontrollable urge...that irresistible craving that I wanted so long ago. When we fight, we descend into a mad flurry of insults and rage that rivals the most brutal Roman gladiators and morphs into days of silence and apocalyptic isolation.
Then we have moments like last night, so tender and just as powerful...when we are able to expose the real feelings of fear simmering beneath the boil. From the outside, I'm sure we look like a couple of crazy people. There are days when this relationship resembles one better captured in the pages of a high school year book than in the days of our lives. My dear Shana quipped the other day, "Maybe that's just real love." I think it is...at least for us.
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| How often have I denied the level of depth so blatantly obvious in these eyes? |
Basically, my emotional side follows the piss poor playground advice parents give to their children when they deal with bullies. It has its own personal shaming device honed by years of experience and supported by a world that incredibly cannot figure out the difference between drama and normal emotional responses.
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| That's bliss! |
Oh, I've tried talking about my--gasp--feelings. I've screamed. I've thrown objects. I've locked doors. I've stormed out the front door. But in the past, these reactions were intentional...designed to elicit a response or an apology or a proclamation of undying love that never seemed to appear in the ether. All it did was send me into a spiral of self-loathing at the notion of letting myself lose control.
My darling man told me not long ago that he likes the "ups and downs" between us. Truth be told, so do I. It makes me feel alive. It's that intensity...that uncontrollable urge...that irresistible craving that I wanted so long ago. When we fight, we descend into a mad flurry of insults and rage that rivals the most brutal Roman gladiators and morphs into days of silence and apocalyptic isolation.
Then we have moments like last night, so tender and just as powerful...when we are able to expose the real feelings of fear simmering beneath the boil. From the outside, I'm sure we look like a couple of crazy people. There are days when this relationship resembles one better captured in the pages of a high school year book than in the days of our lives. My dear Shana quipped the other day, "Maybe that's just real love." I think it is...at least for us.
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