I was (internally) screaming at my screen just now because there is this actor guy (who shall remain unidentified thank you) and he's just so fucking beautiful that it causes me fucking physical pain when I accidentally see him whilst lurking on the internets. (I'm the one doing the lurking; whether he does so too or not, I can't say)
There's this Agatha Christie novel I read when I was little (I don't remember which one it was, only that it's a Poirot one) and there's this character, a woman, who is stunningly beautiful and someone thinks? says? that beauty like that is bound to cause trouble - it does obviously, it's an Agatha Christie book, c'mon.
The point is that now I understand that sentiment.
And I also get where the whole 'beauty must die', the thought process of a mentally disturbed stalker turned killer/rapist comes from. That there is such a beauty that you can't just let be. You have to react to it. And sure, for me, a random squeaky person on the internet it's just OMG OMG he's so hot uhhhh, but for some it is HOW DARE YOU be so fucking perfect you asshole and then there are the if I can't have you types.
I'm incredibly lucky for not being beautiful. To have that stare back at you every morning? It must be pretty scary. I'm so very fine with being pretty on a good day, and nothing more. My genes, thanks.
The thing that scares me the most about depression is that when you look at people who lived with it their whole long lives you see that yeah, there are highs and lows and there are mountains and fucking pits so deep you fall right into the inner-most circle of hell. And they do fall. Even if there's therapy and coping and even if they learn how to be useful members of society, even if - on paper - they have a good life, a strong support system, they still do fall. The lucky ones only once or twice. Be it substance abuse or a sudden attempt at taking their own lives, or even just general apathy, it is hell.
It's really hard to keep going, to keep fighting to get better if the only thing I can possibly gain is to resurface, have a few okay years, maybe a couple of really good moments only to fall right back to where I am now, to where I've been before. It would be so much easier to just let go, to drift away to a safe place and never to come out again. To be numb.
They say (I say so too) that when you experience trauma (say, rape for instance) the best way to get through it is to let your muscles relax because then it will hurt less, to let your mind escape what your body can't because only then will you be able to get up after and get help. You can't do that when you're a sobbing mess having a panic attack going fetal in a corner of a dark room.
After experiencing something like that, after realizing that this method works not only in such dire situations but with anything unpleasant whatsoever, it's really hard to be present and deal with things in the moment, as they happen. It's so much easier to just let your mind slip back to a safe place and pretend.
And then you fight because you still have some will to live, or maybe you just can't stand the look on your loved ones' face anymore, and you work hard and it's such a slow build but finally you breathe freely again and are just fine, really, truly fine, only to have life beat the crap out of you the next week. To be able to resist slipping, all your life, that's not humane. It's really similar to an addiction. You never truly heal.
So it's fucking hard to see why the hell I should go through all of it again and again.
Don't worry, I'm not suicidal, my therapist said so. I just have to get these things out sometimes because if I keep them in it gets too hard and you see the pattern.
You know the saying about hell and the going. Well, I'm not sure if that going is fueled by that much alcohol it still counts as going and not just crawling, but hey, at least it sounds profound and powerful.
The little things suddenly make me incredibly mad again, and some of those little things are even worth getting mad about.
Does the saying 'treat others as you'd like to be treated' mean nothing anymore? To anyone? Or maybe I should just take a fucking hint and treat you like shit, walk all over you and care only about what I need in that particular moment? I blame my parents obviously, they taught me to be respectful and considerate and all that shit but what do they know, right?
So everyone can just go and suck themselves. Don't have a penis? Why yes, here's my vibrator, I'll lend it to you, you know, just to be fucking accommodating.
I only met
you once. You were all easy smiles and infectious laughter, you were really
there, in the moment, up on the stage, you gave everything and you just loved
every second of it.
You
represented everything I love about music; the hard work and dedication, the
joy, the emotion, the appreciation.
And you genuinely
cared. Even months after that show you still remembered all that we talked
about, you asked about our projects, our little lives that so briefly
intertwined with yours.
I hate that
I only met you once. I hate that we did not talk more often. I hate that I did
not get around teaching you all the Hungarian swearwords, that I did not get to
see you perform with your own band. I hate that now I never will.
At twenty-nine
you have more of a legacy than most people I know will have at eighty-eight.
If you, dear reader, speak my lovely mother tongue - Hungarian that is - kindly get yo ass over here. My other blog. That from now on I shall continue. And I'll write here too. I'm that awesome and interesting.
