Kalamity K

The Daily Chaos of Kalamity K
2005-03-13 06:00:08 (UTC)

The Positive Force of Negativity

[Picture it, if you will.

There's a young woman, youngish anyway, sitting at her
keyboard, in the dark of the just-before-midnight room,
the computer monitor showing mainly black and white,
making her vision star and blur quite rapidly as she
stares at it, unfocused. Her hair is clipped up in her
favourite triangular claw clip, this one black, she
thinks. Because it's grown longer than usual, her hair at
the back is sticking up out over the top of her head,
giving her a slightly punky look, two strands falling out
and framing her face nicely in the front. It's always
nicest when the hair falls in her face just so without it
being by design, she thinks, it's always when she looks
her best. She's in the five dollar grey Britches sweater
she bought from a crazy outlet store sale in Michigan at
least five years earlier, a slight v-neck to it, the neck
and cuffs set off in navy blue. It's a sweater she always
gets complimented on, even though it's almost as plain as
plain can be. The necklace she wears, an open celtic
triad on a black cord, is also grey, and many people also
comment on how well it goes with the sweater - another
thing she thinks odd but tries to smile and say thank you
and not go into a long diatribe about how she doesn't get
it, since no one's ever interested in that sort of stuff,
anyway. Her hands and wrists are devoid of decoration,
save the self-inflicted scars thereupon, though she is
still looking for her white gold grad ring from her first
university. Her silver and blue watch is lying on its
side on a stack of CDs off to her left. She thinks her
khaki-ish/brownygreen pants don't match well but didn't
care this morning when she put them on, since she was in a
rush. Nothing clashed, so it was okay. Her boyfriend, on
the other hand, thinks she looks quite stylish in her get
up that day. Of course, he also described her outfit as
tealy blue, of which sort it was not even close. Her
socks are mismatched because she not too long ago said
that if the socks were clean and mismatched, she didn't
care, as long as they were the same sort of colour,
because she can't afford to be washing her clothes all the
time, what with the price of laundry downstairs.
Underneath the sweater is the ubiquitious t-shirt, the
something-under that she always has to wear under a
sweater or something similar to a sweater, without fail.
A nice black bra and decidedly unflattering skivvies
complete the mix. She is fairly glad no one will be
seeing her in her underthings as they are right now, but
that is the last she thinks of it. It is, without a
doubt, unimportant. To complete the picture, Vanilla
Fields perfume, on the front and back of her neck, lightly
spritzed and faded.

The lights from outside the large picture window twinkle
and flitter as they are wont to do in the night, mostly
shades of yellow with the occasional flash of green or
red. It is a pretty view, she thinks, as she so often
does, staring at the familiar scene just out of reach. It
feels, as it so often does, like she is looking through a
looking glass, out at world she no longer feels any
connection to, know longer knows - though if she ever
really knew it is debatable in and of itself.

She's just finished watching a show on tv with her
boyfriend and logged on to the computer to check her e-
mail and see what was going on with people she knew. With
one person she knew, if truth be told. There is only one
person she ever really wants to hear from, misses hearing
from, needs to hear from. She checks her mail. Nothing.
Disappointment sets in. It is odd that there wouldn't
even be a one-liner saying, "Sorry, can't write, but
wanted to say hi." Odd, she thinks, until she remembers
her primary e-mail wasn't working that morning and so had
sent from her backup account instead. She goes to check
it. There are five messages and as she scans the subject
lines, depression sinks in, but not the kind anyone would
necessarily expect. They are the usual e-mails between
friends and those who care for each other, answering
questions (though nothing on whether Snoopy would find a
happy home at his place or whether the glasses are good on
their own merits or only because of Elly!), advising as to
the state of plans, and other such chatter.

From the times on the e-mails she knows he was there just
during the time she hadn't been at the computer that
day. "Just the way it goes for us," he'd say if she
stewed about it. He would. He'd taken to saying that
during a time when things were being particuarly difficult
in terms of ever getting to say hello in person. She can
feel her anger rising. She'd be out watching another
show, earlier that evening, one which she really doesn't
like but her boyfriend does and she thought it would be
nice to watch it with him even if he didn't ask and she
didn't care. The entire time she watched, though, she was
thinking of him. Now she wonders if it was some sort of
cosmic link. More likely just the fact that she
constantly thinks of him but she considers the possibility
anyway.

She'd already been thinking about going to bed before she
read his e-mails, and then it suddenly hits her, as it so
often does, so unexpectedly, the sharp pain that sears
through her as she reads his words. His son has come up
with one of his wife's sisters from the nearest city for a
visit. They will be going for dinner. He's happy his son
is there and for good reason, she thinks as she struggles
with her breathing, fights to keep the tears at bay. Out
of his four kids, he is the one that takes most closely
after dad, who most closely managed to get out with most
of dad's good traits and the least of dad's bad ones, or
so it seems to her, though in truthfulness, she thinks his
youngest will turn out the same way but she's too young to
know for sure about yet. He hasn't yet acquired the hard
edge his father has, though she thought for a time it was
forming, though now thinks perhaps he'd fended it off for
another little while. She thinks all this without ever
having met the son, but because she knows him so well
through his father. She sees the absolute joy all of his
kids bring to him, but lately it's especially been this
son who has been shining, and she really is truly glad
they get to see each other for a while. It is, she
thinks, the first time they've seen each other since the
last round of good news.

But stupidly, it's all of that that makes her choke up and
fighting tears. She feels the hate for herself slide back
firmly into what it thinks to be its rightful place in her
soul and the incessant, nagging voices in her mind get
louder again. You can't even be happy for him when he's
happy, they say, without turning it around making it out
to be something bad on you. You can't be happy for
someone, can you, without somehow bringing it back to
focus on you. You can't. You're selfish. He doesn't
deserve this. You know he doesn't.

She looks away from the screen, trying to catch her breath
and fight the turmoil that is rising. She tries to take
herself out of the equation but it's impossible. The pain
sears through her, between the ribs, up through her heart
and out through the other side before repeating its
trajectory. She closes her eyes and thinks of her
counselor telling her to breathe when things start to go
to hell, so she breathes, and admittedly, as long as all
she thinks about it breathing, things are okay. But she
loses the battle after a while. She wants to rush out and
write something, but she forces herself to wait. She
stirs the soup her boyfriend had brought her, despite her
wish for nothing at all (it was very nice of him, she just
didn't feel like eating and it's making her feel worse
about the way she looks and feels and presents, nothing he
could be expected to know at all). Her spoon strokes
through the broth and noodles methodically, and even
though it is hot, she forces herself to begin to eat it,
slowly. She's trying to buy herself some time. She feels
the tears coming and puts the soup down. One tear falls
down her cheek, then another from the other eye, then two
more. The last one that falls she concentrates on,
concentrates on feeling it run slowly down her face,
sliding more quickly over the places where it meets the
path of the previous tear, slowing down on the dry places
it touches. She feels it find her jaw and continue down
onto her neck before it runs out of steam and dries up.
She finishes her soup, glad her boyfriend didn't hear her
shaky voice when he brought it to her, then sets the bowl
down again and thinks about just getting up and away from
the computer and writing nothing in reply, writing nothing
at all, but perhaps going to go and work on her story, the
one that is going nowhere fast, she decides, because
everyone has taken to calling it a BOOK and not a story,
which might as well be a thousand year cursed jynx to her
way of thinking, as messed up as it might be.

But she can't go, not just then, not without understanding
what it is that is so painful for her in those innocent
sentences.

She's kidding herself. She knows exactly what it is. She
has known for months, longer than that, even. She knows
without thinking that it's the fact that she can't share
these moments with him. That she can't see the pride in
his eyes over his kids or see his kids light up when they
see him or know he's proud of them. It's the fact that
she can't meet them or go to dinner with them or be in any
way in their lives. It's the fact that she knows for a
fact she'd get along great with the son who is up
visiting, especially given the proximity in their ages.
(She's often teased him that it's good they couldn't meet,
because perhaps she'd find his son even more enticing,
even if he is younger than she...) It's the fact that she
can't reach for his hand under the table to give it a
gentle squeeze to say any number of things - look how
happy he is! Look how happy you are! Keep that temper in
check, he's just poking fun at you and you know it. I
love you. I'm thrilled to be here. Thank you. It's the
fact that she knows that there are those who have this
chance to be with him, to smile and laugh with him at
dinner, to just hang out, that there are those who could
reach for his hand and express themselves, that there are
those who know what he'd have for dessert (if he so chose
to partake) or what drink he'd order with his meal and if
he crunches his ice when he's done. Or, even, if he's as
serious and non-laughing as he'd make himself out to be
(which she seriously doubts, not with the cast of
characters he is out with on this night). It's the fact
that she would give anything to be able to look across the
table and see him there, catch his eye and smile at him,
loving to watch him, loving to be with him, loving to be
with them. Maybe more to the point, it's the fact that it
reminds her of the insurmountable obstacles they face and
the fact that they will never, ever be together and that
no amount of wishing and hoping and scheming will ever
begin to be able to change that. Maybe even more to the
point, it's the fact that the doubts start to come into
her mind, louder than ever, about why she has chosen this
for herself. Why she would willingly do this. Why she
just can't be happy with what she has which is pretty good
to begin with and getting better or so it would seem.

She and her boyfriend are getting along better. There
have been less fights (thought markedly less time spent
together). There have been nice gestures (a flower on
Friday, making sure to ask if things are okay instead of
just assuming, etc.). She thinks it might partially be
coming about because of his efforts and also because of
hers, at letting go the romantic notions and ideals
ingrained from earlier on in their relationship and
deciding that it's okay to just be friends. The thought
makes her so sad, even as she thinks it, but she thinks
that that might be one of the reasons. After all, she has
always said that they get along like gold when the
romantic love is taken out of the equation, they always
have. But, bizarrely enough if one is to believe her
theory, there has also been a bit more physical intimacy
(though she notices in irritation that the latex seems to
be going missing at a faster rate than it is being used
with her). It's not the greatest sex in the world and
when it happens without warning it makes her furious, but
she tries to enjoy it. It's been months since she's had
sex and not thought about him anyway, so part of her just
forces the other part of her to deal with the conflicting
emotions and anger issues she has on this one.

But she can't let go of him. Despite the fact that she
knows she's a terrible woman for doing this to her
boyfriend; a terrible woman for doing this to his wife; a
terrible woman for doing this to his kids, especially
after seeing what such a situation did to her mother and
how it affected her herself (though, granted, that was an
indiscretion of a drawn-out physical nature) - even if the
latter two were unaware - she can't let him go. She needs
him. Loves him. Wants him in any way she can have him in
her life despite the tremendous pain it sometimes brings,
the ability to only partially have him. He inspires her
and helps her and loves her in return like no one ever
had, probably like no one ever could. She's not naive
enough to think that the intensity and immediacy of things
wouldn't wear off if the situation were drastically
changed and they suddenly were together but she's also
fairly certain he's right when he says there'd be no nasty
fights over personalities, no nasty name calling, no jibs
and jibes and putdowns, no telling her to hurry up and
kill herself, none of the other small daily things that
are grinding her down badly at the moment, no lack of
independence, no latching on and clinging for dear life.

She knows he'd be upset for her if he knew her thoughts on
the subject. He hates it when she feels guilty over them
because he sees nothing to be guilty over. She's finally
made her peace with his outlook, more or less, and
reconciles it because she thinks that for his life, he's
probably right. She's rarely really taken him away from
his life. Yes, he's changed some habits because of her,
but she's rarely directly interfered in his life, at least
as far as she can see (there may be a couple of notable
exceptions). He treats his family the same as he always
would, which is great, and his behaviour hasn't changed,
so she thinks. She used to worry that he was confiding
more in her than others in his life but she's come to
realise that if he weren't talking to her, he'd likely be
talking to no one, not even those closest to him. In that
respect, she feels they are good for each other because
knowing that he wants to tell her when he would normally
just say nothing makes her feel good about herself, and
she is convinced it's better for him to get things off his
chest and share the load a little bit. Absolutely
convinced. But she's not convinced it works that way for
her. She thinks it's affecting her every day life and her
relationship. She's acting meaner and more uninterested,
more stretched out and on the edge, more easily breaking
into tears and screams, snappier, more willing to spend
money she doesn't have, to stay up too late or to spend
even more time in the fantasy worlds she's ceated so many
times for herself before once again putting them to rest
for a while. She's a terrible person in many respects,
dishonourable and dishonest and cruel and she knows it and
no amount of telling her otherwise will change her mind
when she's sunk so far already.

She realises though that the negativity she's feeling is
the only thing that ever spurs her on. Nothing speaks to
her as much as criticism and harshness do. Nothing -
unless they are things such as what he says to her, so
full of tenderness and love and the desire to make things
better that they make her break down every time for the
genuine confusion and conflict they create in her mind.
Half the time she is turning around to see the brilliant
person about whom he speaks, only to have him say, "It's
you..." She can't understand it, can't understand why
someone would love her so much, would want to love her so
much, could love her so much, would want to be so nice to
her, and so she cries, the goddamn tears she used to be so
good at hiding that she now couldn't stop if all of her
would be at stake over whether or not she could control
them. The negativity is the only thing that makes her
want to do better, achieve more, be thinner, be prettier,
be smarter, be more like someone else, someone better,
someone more perfect. She knows he'll be upset if he
finds out how she's thinking so she resolves not to tell
him anything in the end, resolves not to write it in an e-
mail and comes, tearfully, to write in her journal
instead, before going to crash asleep or write on her
story (crasing being the most likely) And so she opens to
a new page in her journal and begins to write...]

Lasgair, mo croidhe,

It hurts, far more than it should by all rights. All of
this, hurtling through me just because a friend is going
to dinner with his family...I am utterly exhausted and I
need to crawl into bed and forget, sleep it off, but I had
to come to you first. I wanted to write tonight, but it
isn't going to happen. I'm a wreck. Exhausted.
Literally exhausted. Frustrated. Sad. Confused.
Angry. Irritated. I may have mentioned exhausted. Just
a short one tonight before I go. Everything is irritating
and upsetting me right now. Me. My boyfriend. His talk
about this guy in Georgia who went psycho and killed a
judge and others in a courthouse and took a woman hostage
in her apartment. The same judge that was Danny Heatley's
judge. And then talking about me - he thinks something is
wrong. I hate it when he does this, finally says, what's
wrong, after I conclude he could give a shit. Fuck, pay
attention, you'd know what is wrong, the same fucking
thing I've said for months. That and I can't believe you
turned me down for sex because of your back, even though
it was okay this morning. After I did my best to be nice
all day, laughing, trying to keep a good mood going, for
you, for me, for us...hard for me. Even watched all the
shows togehter and played video games. Bite me. Oh,
sorry, no chance of that happening. We've got to save the
latex for your personal pleasure when I'm not here...
Fuck, I have to go. I'm in such a fucking bad mood right
now. Screw it. I'll talk to you later. I'm sorry...

Do sleep well.

Yours,

K2

P.S.: MI5 was great tonight, but why do they keep on
getting rid of all of my favourite characters??? Tom, Zoe
and now Danny... :( Although, the replacements are
good... :) Great, actually... :) But I miss Tom! :(
Anyway...Goodnight! K2




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