I don't know why but whenever my emotions are overwhelmed and it would otherwise be prime time to write, I just think and think and usually cry, and then arrive at some such conclusion so as to feel calm, and then the urge to write is suppressed once again.
Which is what happened last night, talking to my sisters and dissecting the miscommunication, trying to prevent it from happening again, all of us feeling worse (for the moment anyway). I resent that I have to model healthier behaviors, in the sense that my capacity is so limited -
and then it spirals into why my capacity is diminished (for the wrong relationship that I allowed to drain me of, well, everything) -
and why I can't let myself fall into another soulsuck of a relationship (sad, sad, sad, sad, sad)
- and the spirals lead back to where it all started, in the formative family of helplessness we were born into, all of us maxing out our own capacities just to self-soothe, nevermind have anything left for each other.
So we withdraw, we don't talk, we comfort with the bare minimums of "it's okay, it's okay", overwhelmed as we are with our own trauma.
My independence has always been the savior, of me anyway. I keep trying to get at something more. That can't be all there is, I think. We don't just try to save ourselves, and that's it. What's the point, of just saving yourself. What is a life lived alone.
I read a FB quote that said something like we are all willing to die a little for the chance to be loved.
So, that's the cross to bear, the little more patience (not to yell), little more explaining (not to shut down), little more making room for the other person's reality (not to anger), and a little holding on (not too tightly) despite the house of cards collapsing thing going on inside.
The struggle to understand and be understood, the need to love and be loved.
Because to give in to the collapsing, to not expand our capacity, is to die a lot, and in the no-chance of being loved, I've discovered, is where one comes to blame (a shame).