Still Mad at Me

I'd be happy if I never again had to:
- Have the woman stranger in the bathroom stare at me, then ask "Is this the ladies room?"
- Have the conversation afterwards where people think I need to hear about how pretty I am. That's not what it's about. THAT'S NOT WHAT IT'S ABOUT!
- Believing in her and having her hurt me.
- Letting her in.
- Hearing about how much pain she's in.
- Have the lemon v lemon-poppyseed argument. (Don't tell on me.)

It's been a week on contradicting insides. A week of that familiar feeling of secrets because I don't know how to talk about it. Any of it. A week of talking about one side with her, then them--even though I didn't really want to invite them in; and some other angle with the rest of them. I don't even know what I feel inside, so how can I try to express it to someone else and have her react honestly? I can't express it honestly. So then it just gets frustrating because they hate her for me or are worried for me or think I don't understand. Which, I guess I don't understand, but I understand more than anyone else does, even if I can't express it to them.

I'd be happy if I never again had to force myself to listen to a friend gently tell me what I'm missing because they think I'm the one without all of the information. It's my life and my experiences and regardless of how many stories, anecdotes, or conversations I've relayed on to friends for help, they're still not the ones who've lived it. I was there at all these times. I felt the pressure of our cheeks--and all pressed in between, and probably omitted that part from my story to you. Which is why I gently listen back and play grateful for the insulting interpretation, because I'm the one not offering up or expressing the entire situation, I'm the one not giving them enough info to work with... Maybe sometimes, I want to figure it out; I want to figure it out outloud while a loved one sits and listens and doesn't judge or feel the need to impart some great knowledge. Maybe the great knowledge is somewhere within me, and not inside you and your similar experiences or read and heard about stories.

Yeah, because of all the conflicts, I did omit our cheeks with everyone except her--and then them. I don't talk about her eyes under the moon on the balcony in the steep mountains. I don't talk about all the kisses on the forehead or cheeks or hair. I don't talk about how we don't hold back in language, just in action. I don't talk about how it feels like home--and the good kind--because it was the same with her, and with her, and almost with her, even though it was just the one code word that meant it all, over and over and over again.

So there's the party tonight and I want to go and I don't want to go; I want them to come with me and I don't want them to come with me; I want him to be there and I already hate him for being there and I want to talk to him and I want to punch him for the other unrelated reason--which is a lot of other reasons put together whose value is larger than the sum of it's parts.

I regret what happened with Paul and I'm almost to hating what happened under the moon, so I'm tired of fearing regretting this. All of this.