Re: ‘i love you’

Words, to me, are precious. I value them. I value communication, even tho I’m not all that wonderful at it. Although, J would raise an eyebrow to that comment. She values words as well, but also she values – appreciates – silences. She insists that even in my silence, I am ‘speaking’ to her. And even tho it doesn’t feel as such, part of me knows that she is right…afterall, I spend as much time deciphering/interpreting nonverbal communication as I do the verbal. I can tell by the way Jay walks in to a room if he’s happy or sad. I can see in AJ’s eyes when she’s upset. I can discern by the way M goes about her tasks if she’s mad or frustrated. Granted, I’m not 100% accurate. But I do think I notice more of the nuances than alot of other people generally do.

So it’s interesting how so many of my friends are online, where I can’t see their faces when they speak. Can’t guage by how their body tenses when I need to drop something or when I can push a little further. P’raps because I spend a great deal of time masking how I’m feeling, and it’s easier to do that online. Ironically, because of that, I tend to mask less online than I do in “real life.” Odd, that.

AJ and I have discussed the use of “I love you” and the fear that saying it too often may decrease its sincerity. But she insists that it doesn’t, and that she means it every time she says it. And, I believe her. Because, although I don’t say it as frequently as she, I also mean it each time. With her, and with others.

And because I genuinely mean it when I say it, I think that…I think that when other people say it to me, that they genuinely mean it, for the most part. And. It’s hard for me to hear, if I know it’s real. A friend commented that it hurts when I tell her I love her. And I understand that. Generally at the times I need to hear it the most, it hurts the worst. It’s difficult to hear people say kind things about you when you’re in the middle of a self-loathing, disgusted at yourself, feeling worthless period. Why is that? It’s probably different for everyone….

For me, when people are kind and loving to me when I feel wretched and am hating myself, it hurts because it makes me feel like I am making them lie. Like, they are saying these nice things but..but they don’t really know what’s underneath the surface. If they knew, they wouldn’t say those words. They’re giving the wrong answers because I’m giving them the wrong truths.

Another reason perhaps that it hurts is because…it makes me angry or jealous. That I can’t see the things that they love about me. That I can’t enjoy them or feel them and understand what they are. Like telling a recently blind person how beautiful their new dress is…they can explain the dress and perhaps the blind person can “see” it to an extent…but she can’t See it with her OWN eyes. She can’t enjoy the visually aestheticness of it. And that’s not fair.

Sometimes it’s painful because all I can think when someone says they love me or care about me is…how much I’m going to end up hurting them or disappointing them eventually. And I think that they’re wasting their precious love and valuable time on me, and they shouldn’t be doing that. They should be doing other things instead.

So. Why do I continue saying ‘i love you’ to my friend, even when I know it stings and hurts her? Because…because she deserves it. (The love, not the hurt.) Because she needs to hear it. Because she doesn’t hear it enough from others. Because part of me knows and realizes that the points when I’m at my lowest and unable to reach out to anyone are the times when I need someone to reach out to me, to take the time to see that I’m falling, slipping away. Because even tho it makes me angry to hear it at those times, perhaps the anger makes me fight. And even if I’m fighting the wrong thing, I’m still fighting. Babies scream so loud when their lungs are stung by that first gulp of oxygenated air. It is unfamiliar to them, and they do not know that it is the very thing that allows them to scream, allows them to kick their fists and feet in all of their tiny blue fury. The louder they scream, even tho they’re screaming at something that’s keeping them alive, the healthier they tend to be. It hurts, but it’s essential to their well-being. And it continues to invade their lungs whether they want it to or not. And eventually…eventually they get used to it, and it doesn’t hurt so bad and they learn to appreciate it…

Unfortunately, it takes some people a great deal longer to get used to love than it takes for babies to get used to air in their lungs.

I was searching thru old email the other day, looking for a comic that I wanted to send to AJ, and I came across an email from J (not surprising, as I was searching on the disc that contained all of my old emails from J…eheh…) and came across her response to one of my OD entries, regarding comfort and how comfort made me uncomfortable. It was an entry discussing the session I had recently had, and she had put lotion on the cuts (or, the…still-healing marks?) on my arm. I had said:

But she asked if lotion would make it feel better and I snorted “probably” and so she got lotion and I had my hand out for her to put it in my hand so I could put it on my arm, but she didn’t, she put it on my arm. And rubbed it in and then said ‘gimmie your hand..’ and rubbed lotion on them too. And she asked if she was upsetting me, cuz I seemed to be getting more upset. And I couldn’t explain to her that…it wasn’t her that was upsetting me. It was just. I really like being hugged. I’m a very tactile person. That’s why I love kids so much, cuz they’ll just climb all over ya and touch your face and put their noses right to yours. But. I get kind of…freaked out?…when people who *know* about all the slimey icky shit about me touch me. Cuz. Like. They should know better. Anyhow. So. She was just sitting there, nonchalantly rubbing lotion on my hands as if…I dunno even how to explain it. It made me anxious because…it felt nice. How messed up is that? So messed up I couldn’t possibly have verbalized it. Cuz gawd forbid I admit to my fear of comfort. And she kept asking for words…and I wanted to speak them. But couldn’t, not to the extent I wanted. How do you tell someone that the very fact that they are being so gentle hurts somehow? Ugh.

To which she responded:

Yes, I knew, I know, which is why I did it. Comfort is ok — and also something you crave, right?
—————

And I c&p this because one of the things my friend said about me saying I loved her was that I was the only one who does without making it seem like some huge feat that deserves mountains of gratitude. Which reminded me of J’s response to my issues of being comforted.

Ironically, or rather apopros-ly…I had been talking about how my silence bothered me during our sessions and another thing J said in this email was I just forget, because even when you’re silent, you’re talking to me — sometimes more than when you are babbling, because when you’re silent you’re not hiding behind a mask.

hehe. Well, apparently her response was quite important to me then, as I reposted the entry with her response!

heh. I’m not sure if I made whatever point I was aiming to make here. Just that….I Understand.

And. Randomlywell, not really. But it will seem random to everyone, save 2 people. I think that while it may be morbid to want someone who really did (does) love you at your funeral…I also think that…it’s a pretty common thought. At least among those of us who spend days dreaming of ways to…uh…”make it look like an accident” if ya know what I mean. eheh. and babydoll….if what you said- if that’s all that keeps you hanging on, then I’m never gonna work a day in my life again, cuz I never want to be able to afford to fly to your funeral. So there. pltzzzzz.

mmm. I’ll stop being somewhat cryptic now. Sometimes these things just need to be done. 🙂

Oi. Pandora is so clingy lately. She jumps in to the chair every 5 minutes and tries to curl up on my lap. Then she gets bored with that and walks on the desk, which prompts me to shove her off the desk. Five minutes later, she jumps into my lap again. Currently, I wouldn’t let her lay in my lap, so she’s laying on my leg (I’m sitting kind of…uh…my legs are one way and then my upper body is turned towards the computer. Silly swivel chair. The seat doesn’t stay where it should, and it turns around until something stops it, like my leg against the desk. eheh.) I do have to admit, her solid cotton body does feel nice. She’s leaning against my one arm and she’s quite warm and fuzzy.

I’m betting that tonite they don’t call me off work. So I should either go be productive, or go back to bed. Gee, I wonder which option will win out….*rolls eyes*

A word is not the same with one writer as with another. One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket. -Charles Peguy

And the words won’t come and be the magic we need
If it was only as easy as something you say or read
If only I felt I had the time to spare anymore
Or the blood to bleed, patience I need looking for words
strength to give, hours to live looking for words -P. Griffin

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