There is no reason for me to be overly sentimental, biologically speaking... but these last two days have been me either crying my eyes out, or me biting my bottom lip in public in order to keep from bursting into tears.
I didn't think I'd be this messed up over what happened in Paris, but boy, I have found myself crying at random times of the day since receiving the news yesterday afternoon.
I didn't think I was this attached to the city... but my heart is seriously broken.
My mind juxtaposes the serenity and love I feel when in Paris, with thoughts of the sheer horror they must have been feeling yesterday... and then I think back to being the incredibly ostracized, lonely 9th grader, sitting in my French class instead of being in the school cafeteria, and how I'd just sit in class, doing homework, or writing letters I was never going to send... feeling so infinitely lonely and anxious, only to be soothed by my teachers stories of his childhood in france, all while listening to his favorite French oldies music... those 20 minutes being both my day's reprieve, while also the most anxious part of my day ("here comes the same loser to sit in a classroom for 20 minutes without eating anything because she can't handle the thought of the ostracism she'll face in the giant cafeteria... faaaantastic... I hope he's in the room...").
--The serenity I feel when present in the city
--The thought of the horror and panic of the victims of yesterday's horrible acts
--The nostalgia/dread/sadness of some of the worst moments of my adolescence
ALL swirling in my mind.
These conflicting thoughts and feelings mindfucking the shit out of me... and it just makes me cry quite inconsolably.
I don't know if it makes sense, but I don't care if it does. It's too much feeling... too much thinking... too much reminiscing.
Not only am I hypersensitive thanks to the attacks... but today I had to put a brave face at the baby shower of my childhood crush's girl.
He was the first guy to give me butterflies in my stomach.
My summers in Mexico were spent day-dreaming about him... finding any excuse to walk past his house in the mornings... then talking the night away at the infamous alamo of Hometown.
I remember being eight, helping my maternal grandmother peel charred green chilies... looking up one of the times, only to make eye-contact with this kid who looked my age... his green eyes looking into mine, his smile revealing braces... then both of us shyly looking down at our busy hands.
That's my first memory of him-- the moment my heart first skipped a beat for a dude.
My youth spent wishing, hoping for the day he'd ask me to... be his girlfriend... and then practically running away when he was inches away from saying something.
"Oh, no... now with this Europe trip, she'll be even more unreachable for... the guys," he told my parents after my first Europe trip.
Unreachable... ?
Never unreachable-- quite the contrary, actually-- just within grasp, patiently waiting, watching you choose everyone BUT me... watching you watching ME wither away.
And so... I went to his Baby Shower today. I... put on that same fucking stupid brave face I put on for the goddamn motherfucking world... and congratulated him, and assured him I was stoked for him... all the while feeling my childhood dreams fade into oblivion. Memories which helped get me through the difficult days of my teens, completely disintegrating with every minute I passed sitting at my pink round table... the only single, childless girl in the vicinity.
He is always so nice to me, so genuinely happy to see me... and it breaks my heart. I smile in return, hug him tightly... but feel something inside of me break loudly, irreparably. Each time.
If you always found me so interesting and rad... why did you let me slip away without a single word? Why didn't you even TRY? ... You didn't even TRY...
I often find myself wondering if they, these guys who have known of my feelings (they always know. I always tell them. I told THIS guy... everyone told this guy... EVERYONE KNEW), ever observe me at events and feel sorry for me. It's always the same story-- I am alone, quiet... and smiling when listening to others or answering their questions... but I am alone. Nothing ever changes. Does that make them feel sorry for me?
Before I make myself cry, I remind myself that I should never ask questions whose answers I'm not ready to hear.
... Having a hardcore Brave Little Toaster moment. I hope I get better soon.
I didn't think I'd be this messed up over what happened in Paris, but boy, I have found myself crying at random times of the day since receiving the news yesterday afternoon.
I didn't think I was this attached to the city... but my heart is seriously broken.
My mind juxtaposes the serenity and love I feel when in Paris, with thoughts of the sheer horror they must have been feeling yesterday... and then I think back to being the incredibly ostracized, lonely 9th grader, sitting in my French class instead of being in the school cafeteria, and how I'd just sit in class, doing homework, or writing letters I was never going to send... feeling so infinitely lonely and anxious, only to be soothed by my teachers stories of his childhood in france, all while listening to his favorite French oldies music... those 20 minutes being both my day's reprieve, while also the most anxious part of my day ("here comes the same loser to sit in a classroom for 20 minutes without eating anything because she can't handle the thought of the ostracism she'll face in the giant cafeteria... faaaantastic... I hope he's in the room...").
--The serenity I feel when present in the city
--The thought of the horror and panic of the victims of yesterday's horrible acts
--The nostalgia/dread/sadness of some of the worst moments of my adolescence
ALL swirling in my mind.
These conflicting thoughts and feelings mindfucking the shit out of me... and it just makes me cry quite inconsolably.
I don't know if it makes sense, but I don't care if it does. It's too much feeling... too much thinking... too much reminiscing.
Not only am I hypersensitive thanks to the attacks... but today I had to put a brave face at the baby shower of my childhood crush's girl.
He was the first guy to give me butterflies in my stomach.
My summers in Mexico were spent day-dreaming about him... finding any excuse to walk past his house in the mornings... then talking the night away at the infamous alamo of Hometown.
I remember being eight, helping my maternal grandmother peel charred green chilies... looking up one of the times, only to make eye-contact with this kid who looked my age... his green eyes looking into mine, his smile revealing braces... then both of us shyly looking down at our busy hands.
That's my first memory of him-- the moment my heart first skipped a beat for a dude.
My youth spent wishing, hoping for the day he'd ask me to... be his girlfriend... and then practically running away when he was inches away from saying something.
"Oh, no... now with this Europe trip, she'll be even more unreachable for... the guys," he told my parents after my first Europe trip.
Unreachable... ?
Never unreachable-- quite the contrary, actually-- just within grasp, patiently waiting, watching you choose everyone BUT me... watching you watching ME wither away.
And so... I went to his Baby Shower today. I... put on that same fucking stupid brave face I put on for the goddamn motherfucking world... and congratulated him, and assured him I was stoked for him... all the while feeling my childhood dreams fade into oblivion. Memories which helped get me through the difficult days of my teens, completely disintegrating with every minute I passed sitting at my pink round table... the only single, childless girl in the vicinity.
He is always so nice to me, so genuinely happy to see me... and it breaks my heart. I smile in return, hug him tightly... but feel something inside of me break loudly, irreparably. Each time.
If you always found me so interesting and rad... why did you let me slip away without a single word? Why didn't you even TRY? ... You didn't even TRY...
I often find myself wondering if they, these guys who have known of my feelings (they always know. I always tell them. I told THIS guy... everyone told this guy... EVERYONE KNEW), ever observe me at events and feel sorry for me. It's always the same story-- I am alone, quiet... and smiling when listening to others or answering their questions... but I am alone. Nothing ever changes. Does that make them feel sorry for me?
Before I make myself cry, I remind myself that I should never ask questions whose answers I'm not ready to hear.
... Having a hardcore Brave Little Toaster moment. I hope I get better soon.
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