|I used to live alone...
||[Sep. 9th, 2009|05:52 pm]
|||||Hontanares de Eresma||]|
|||||Bright Eyes, etc.||]|
It occurs to me how baffling it really ought to be that I'm reclining on a more or less comfortable bed in the suburbs of Segovia. I ought to have died almost four years ago in a slightly more comfortable bed in eastern Pennsylvania. I figure by now I ought to be over it. Four years is a fucking long time, and a lot has happened, but apparently depression is a lot like cancer in that it sticks around, lurking just out of sight, waiting for its opening. Living here, so far from home and so close to myself, I'm starting to slip. It's strange to feel the old sinking feeling in new surroundings. There's something almost thrilling about the novelty of having my guts sucked out in a castle or in a gothic cathedral - some sense of romance, of history that I didn't have the first time around. It feels about a million times worse, which makes it infinitely worse than I ever thought possible.
That said, the change in scenery hasn't caused much of a change in me. I still have the same coping mechanisms I used to: lying to all the people who care enough to worry while reaching out to people who don't give a fuck. I've been thinking all day about trying to get in touch with Luke or Sean or...gods forbid...Andrea. I don't really want to talk to any of them particularly; it's just how I dealt with these things before. It's funny how all these years of learning to live again have left me entirely unprepared (and possibly unable) to deal with the very illness that caused me to need the re-education in the first place. Fucked up, no?
Since I can't resort to any of the defense mechanisms that worked in the past, I've been thinking about the intervening years and trying to figure out why I'm even able to feel like this. Was it spending freshman year more or less alone? Was it the "defining my sexual orientation, falling in love, getting cheated on and lied to, and then denied" fiasco of that summer? Was it sleeping with Luke winter of sophomore year (was that sophomore year?)? Was it the disastrous results of dabbling in slavery last year? The divorce? Anxiety about the future? The essential Spanishness of my current surroundings? The sneaking suspicion that I might get my happy ending? Perhaps it's the disconcerting certainty that I'm not good, just lucky. Unlike skill, luck eventually runs out.
Speaking of luck, I have a Zack, so the bottom of the bottomless pit is ever so slightly less absent than it might otherwise be. Still...ouch.