La méfiante s’ explique: An Inventory of Doubt

Let’s take stock of the situation.

I have spent the day in not-inconsiderable physical pain.

I spent the morning asleep and the evening in emotional distress. Yesterday was the same.

When I say distress I’m talking hardcore distress. I mean debilitating inertia: zero motivation to move. I mean giving up halfway across my apartment and lying the fuck down on the parquet floor. I mean defeat. I mean the phenomenon known as “ugly-crying”. Whimpering and gasping for breath and sobbing uncontrollably,  the whole bit.

The icing on the cake is, of course, that I don’t have a reason for any of this. I just find my lip trembling and before I know it I’m choking out a goddamn chorus of sobs. I just find my enthusiasm suddenly dead.

I think my Manic Pixie Dream Girl façade is coming apart.

I have been unnaturally happy these past few months, by my standards. Not perfect,  but largely responding to normal problems with normal negativity and then getting through. If there was a problem, yo I’d solve it I would react. But if there wasn’t,  I would be manic-level happy about life, full of caffeine and generally raring to go.

Now I’m at a loss for the issue. Let’s see if we can’t take stock.

I am scared of finding myself at odds with Tom Sloane. I am nervous about what I’ve gotten myself into so fast.

I’m worried that because he was there to catch me right away when I moved to this new city, maybe my whole “new” identity hinges on him.

My City Identity is very very important. It’s the departure from all the sadness and stagnation of my highly clichéed small town upbringing, my dysfunctional family dynamic and all the bad habits I used to stew in to distract myself from them. I changed a lot of things.  I let go of a lot. And for the most part it has made me astronomically happier than I’ve ever been.

And I like Tom Sloane. I find myself thinking about him pretty damn often. Mostly when we see each other it makes me happy.

But there are gaps.

He can’t be everything to me. I can’t expect him to match 100% of my tastes and understand every experience I’ve ever had. Not everything is going to get through all the time. That’s okay. I get that.

These things, like my raging concern for the environment and my growing intetest in understanding the cultures and conflicts of the Middle East, and my very personal investment in Canadian aboriginal rights. My love of going for all-season walks in the woods. My favourite band, for chrissakes.

It’s not that he can’t identify all the time. It’s the realization that allowing those parts of me up to the surface to breathe and develop is a new thing. This expectation for someone to understand these things is new, and there is no one to fill it.  My old friends never understood before;  why should they now?

It was this realization that made me feel so horribly alone, in a way I hadn’t felt since elementary school.

Does it all boil down to that? The eternal adolescent struggle of “Nobody understaaaands me!!”?

Well, not quite. It’s also a lot to do with Christmas, and coming to terms with the fact that the kinds of magical childhood Christmases I’m used to having are probably gone forever.  Because of the way my parents’ marriage has gone–that is, awry but not apart–my childhood home doesn’t exist in the same way it used to. And there’s barely any room left for me in the remains of it. I don’t even have a bed there anymore.

I guess I’m finally coming to terms with my exodus-as-emancipation arrangement with something other than celebration. The downside is hitting, and I am frightened and infantilized in the face of having cast off something I can never take back.

It’s in this less-than-lovely climate that I find myself looking for a support system (remember that support system I imagined I had back when I wrote Pretty Little Broken Dolls?) and finding out that there isn’t anything to hold onto.

There is no safe place to hide out behind the scenes. There is nobody who knows better. There is no stable home but the one I’m holding down. At the end of the day it’s down to me.

And, well, I have my doubts.

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