Bullshit, indeed.
I wish I knew how to articulate this. I wish I had the proper words, I wish I knew how, or why.
If wishes were fishes, I would suffocate under the weight of them.
I was told that my refusal to discuss personal traumas with the others Inside has made it so there is a type of tension, and a rule that no one, in turn, can speak with me about their issues. This "rule" was understood, apparently, but never spoken aloud. These small ones I was supposed to protect, supposed to nurture, they felt unable to come to me. I caused more damage than I knew possible: I heard of late night disscussions they have had, worrying about me and hurting because I would not allow them to help.
Help with what? The specifics mention that when I "go to the Deadbox" I am "messed up for hours"--well, I should think so. The Deadbox is not fun; no one meets there for martinis and a game of poker. It is nauseating, dreadful. Another incident mentioned is my night-terrors. That is obvious. Does anyone wonder why it is I sleep so rarely? Of course to keep vigil, but come now: there is no point in sleeping if it only worsens the quality of life.
Why should I open up to them? It is not as if I were not speaking to them at all. I always spend time with my small ones, watching them play, reading to them, settling disputes. And now I am required to speak to them of the past? Not theirs, but mine? Absolutely daft. There is no rhyme or reason to any of this.
Of course, I do not show my discourse in this; I smile and treat them gently. Part of me knows that an end to such secrets is necessary. However, I do not want to relive them as I put them to the forefront.Why do they have to fuckign know? Why is it that I try to protect them, I fail? And when I do something--the rare time I do something that is against every fiber of my being--all turns out well? What kind of bullshit is that?
If wishes were fishes, I would suffocate under the weight of them.
I was told that my refusal to discuss personal traumas with the others Inside has made it so there is a type of tension, and a rule that no one, in turn, can speak with me about their issues. This "rule" was understood, apparently, but never spoken aloud. These small ones I was supposed to protect, supposed to nurture, they felt unable to come to me. I caused more damage than I knew possible: I heard of late night disscussions they have had, worrying about me and hurting because I would not allow them to help.
Help with what? The specifics mention that when I "go to the Deadbox" I am "messed up for hours"--well, I should think so. The Deadbox is not fun; no one meets there for martinis and a game of poker. It is nauseating, dreadful. Another incident mentioned is my night-terrors. That is obvious. Does anyone wonder why it is I sleep so rarely? Of course to keep vigil, but come now: there is no point in sleeping if it only worsens the quality of life.
Why should I open up to them? It is not as if I were not speaking to them at all. I always spend time with my small ones, watching them play, reading to them, settling disputes. And now I am required to speak to them of the past? Not theirs, but mine? Absolutely daft. There is no rhyme or reason to any of this.
Of course, I do not show my discourse in this; I smile and treat them gently. Part of me knows that an end to such secrets is necessary. However, I do not want to relive them as I put them to the forefront.Why do they have to fuckign know? Why is it that I try to protect them, I fail? And when I do something--the rare time I do something that is against every fiber of my being--all turns out well? What kind of bullshit is that?
posted by Logan Nambiet at
8:19 PM
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