That feeling, wretched, black. The deep pit in your stomach sucking you down, the abyss calling, demanding surrender.
Not mine. Sympathetic, a reflex, a memory to connect myself to someone else’s pain.
Does this make me a masochist? I savor the flavor, rich and dark and deep.
I want this, because it connects me to what’s real. I want this, because it makes the best parts of me necessary.
My childhood was an emotional warzone, my whole life was built to the demanding specifications of constant battle. Mistakes were punished quickly and viciously. And things that weren’t mistakes.
For a while I thought there was a pattern, that it was my fault, but then I realized there wasn’t. I just had to build myself better, be ready for it whenever or however it came.
Years ago, my uncle’s diagnosed of cancer, dying. So we fly back to Oz, where all the relatives live. My mother’s a wreck, her sisters have all reverted to who they were when they were young. My grandpa’s trying to keep his shit together and stay strong for the family, but his only son is wasting away in front of him.
And there I was, relaxed and at ease, because this is where I lived, this was my home turf. My grandpa pulls me aside to tell me about death and pain and how it’s all going to be alright, and I smile and tell him I know.
Definitely my best memories of visiting the family. He was my favorite uncle, his not-quite-wife is still my favorite aunt and the only family member I’m still in touch with. Miss you loads, uncle Joe.
I’m just not built for contentment, complacency.
I want things to get bad, I want it worse. I want it to rain and storm and thunder so I can remember what the fuck I’m for.
Peace is just so fucking boring.
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