Every now and then I get trapped behind something I need to write, as opposed to being able to work on what I want to write.

Apparently this is one of those times.

Maybe a half-dozen people would understand the meaning of this post’s title, and at least one of them is dead.  But it fits the sentiment behind the piece, so I’m running with it.

Sue me.  If you’ve no interest in seeing someone wallow in self pity for a thousand words or less, this is your chance to back out before I get incredibly maudlin.

You have been warned.

 

I have no problem letting things go, for the most part.  Take a deep breath, realize that people in general are awful, and move on rather than fight the fundamental nature of humanity.  If there are two people in the world that I’d lash out at over something they’ve done to me, I’d be rather surprised.

What I suck at is getting over things.  Because I don’t.

Ever.

So every day is St. Patrick’s Day.

I’d rather not be this way, but it’s part of me on some fundamental level that I simply can’t change.  Every awful thing that’s ever happened to me is on instant replay at the moment I stop consciously controlling what I think, and it’s… about as horrible as it sounds.  Imagine interacting with people on a daily basis who have, at one point or another, said something immensely hurtful to you, and even if they know and have apologized and you’ve officially forgiven them, it’s always there, playing in the background every time you see them.  There’s no real animosity, no anger or hatred or anything really, just the icepick straight to the heart.

There’s a threshold fortunately, some arbitrary level of pain that I remember.  It’s a lot like injuries I suppose; I can remember all the times I got hurt badly enough to require medical attention, but paper cuts just aren’t very memorable.

Even when you get lemon juice in them.  And yes, I’ve had that happen.  Tons of fun, but I don’t remember it.

Breaking my back, of course, is something I remember.  Every time I’ve had to get sewn up is pretty clear in my memory.  Riding my Big Wheel into the neighbor’s rose bush.

Physical pain is trivial though.  I’m the kind of idiot who tries to walk off just about anything that doesn’t involve copious amounts of blood, and while you might regret waiting an hour before you go to the hospital with a dislocated shoulder, it’s a phantom pain in the long run, the memory of pain rather than pain itself.

Emotional pain is different.  The memory is the pain, and they don’t dull with time.  They lose immediacy, but that’s it.

So every day is St. Patrick’s Day.

So yeah.  Loss of control sucks.  Because it’s not just the issue that cause the breakdown in the first place, it’s everything else, all at once, and sometimes I just can’t keep it locked down and under wraps.  On the up side, I can at least make the effort to have a bit of scheduled catharsis from time to time to burn off the accumulated tension, which is helpful, but it doesn’t really change anything.  Venting pressure from a steam boiler doesn’t change the fact that the water inside is boiling.

And it’s always boiling.  A little hotter every year, a little harder to keep contained, and I do find myself concerned at that, given the metaphor I just used, because eventually you boil away all the water and you’ve got nothing left.

Then again, I didn’t think I’d make it this far to be honest, so it’s entirely possible I’m just a lousy judge of my own character.

Anyhoo.

I don’t like posting these pieces but I do find that putting them up helps my mood significantly more than just writing one and leaving it in the drafts folder.  But I don’t particularly want to discuss them when it’s just me ranting about me, so comments are disabled and for the love of god don’t try to actually talk to me about it.  That’s a level of awkward neither one of us needs.

Ideally I should return to my regularly scheduled programming of incredulous condescension at the stupidity of my fellow humans in fairly short order.

It’s almost Election Day, after all.

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