it was just past seven on a sunday evening and i almost burst into tears because i thought this past week’s horrible houseguest had broken my espresso machine. luckily i was just being a idiot and didn’t realize that it was switched to the steam wand instead of the coffee part; otherwise i wouldn’t even be sitting here at the computer, because i’d be curled up in the fetal position on my bed, trying to convince the cat to cuddle me while i sobbed.
… for once.
this has been a shitty week. or rather a shitty several weeks, but the drama of this week kinda outweigh a lot of the general stress and depression of the previous ones.
hey, did ya know that the true definition of a tragedy is a failing due to a character flaw? i’ve got so many character flaws (an incomplete list: my meanness, lack of trust, cynical mind, habit of criticism, lack of patience, and general insecurity), i can’t even pick one to pin this on. but it’s all a growth experience, let’s remember that…
i don’t like to be vulnerable, even among friends, so the bulk of the writing i’ve been doing over the past month has been squirreled away in my usually-neglected journal. i thought of transcribing a few passages on this page, but it just seemed a bit… i dunno… i mean, it’s all pretty intense sadness, but there’s been different varieties of it depending on circumstances. each time i’ve written, i’ve felt like i was in a very different place compared to other entries; it’s only when i go back and read them all at once that i can categorize them safely under the heading “warning: sad as fuck!”.
i’m drinking my coffee from my very favourite mug, the one i bought at value village right when i first arrived in this city. i was shopping with the boy i’d moved out here with, who was already mad at me cuz i’d changed my mind about living with him. i’d found myself a room in a shared house, but he needed kitchen stuff for the tiny one bedroom he’d rented in esquimalt.
so we were at value pillage and i was thrilled by the mug’s handle, the holes for two fingers (was this an indication of my latent queerness? egads!). the boy said it was impractical and hideous, the turquoise and black glaze an ugly throwback to the seventies. he and i’d been together for a year and three quarters, nine months of which i’d spent working and traveling in the uk on my own. he didn’t know me at all.
the mug costed 49 cents, and i bought it. the boy lasted 3 weeks in this city before he returned east, and five years later i drink too much coffee, but at least it’s from a nice mug. he just didn’t know me at all.
which brings me to my real point, which is that i currently have a zillion questions running around my head (and heart):
what does it mean to have someone really know you?
how do you know if they actually get it, or if they’re just playing along and hoping you don’t notice?
how much does it matter if they are?
and what can you do to fix that, anyway?