When I’m hurt I retreat and my outlook is sometimes vinegary. I turn down the controls on the filters and watch the world around me crash into itself and each other, bodies and situations implode. My world these days is fairly unchaotic, relatively noneventful, and generally peaceful, a little harmonious. So when the clashes happen I especially triumph. I roil in drama and excavate jeering sarcasm from some weird past life.
I get salty. Not really mean, but a little mean-spirited, a little hot sauce in an open wound. I lash out quietly, spitefully. I know I’ll pay for it but I do it anyway. My Higher Power gets it. God understands. Sometimes facing things head on (you shouldn’t have gone so far, you should never have invested your heart at all, good fucking God you KNEW BETTER and for fucks sake WHY…and I can drown myself in misery at my own personal request quite easily) is just stupid and sitting with it is too hard. Smiling patiently and serenely, accepting truisms kindly becomes difficult and I start to crack open. I try not to do it in the rooms. They all mean well. But after the fourth or fifth “let go and let God” is flung in my direction I get salty.
My Higher Power starts itching in my middle finger, or perhaps its adversary. I’m sure my Higher Power isn’t quirking up the corners of my mouth in sneer and quivering my eyebrows in smirk, lighting the fires in my eyes dancing because otherwise, otherwise they are too ashen, no matter how much makeup I smear on top of their heavy lids.
I get creative, but the creativity is juvenile, immature, lacking depth or flavor. Junior-high, day-glo Cheetos coloring being licked off of fingers. Insubstantial, to say the least. I’m not there. I’m not ready. I’m lashing out and some of it might go somewhere, but probably not. Mostly it’s exercises in adult delinquency. I need to go call my mother, bind myself in a warm blanket and maybe cry a little. Or maybe not.