Accepting the love we don’t deserve

If we accept the obvious truth inside the quote from “Perks of being a wallflower”, the one which says “We accept the love we think we deserve”, then why does it sometimes feel like I don’t deserve all this?

Yesterday was a great day. In that see-saw, whiplash way my life can be sometimes, today wasn’t so great. Like I have said, I can make Utopia seem a depressing place, and I can make Dystopia bubble with exuberance. My emotional highs and lows can move mountains, or fill entire valleys with tears. It is just the way things are, though Mark tends to constrain the altitude or the depths of my valleys and peaks.

Stephen has often commented that he’s jealous of us, and that he wants the same thing. So, he goes out and tries. He’s cute and intelligent and funny, and shouldn’t have any trouble. If he wasn’t heterosexual, there are bars here in town who would shower him with attention. I’ve told him he should open a gay bar somewhere; then he wouldn’t try things with the patrons, and could work his special social magic. It would be awesome.

Except he always seem to choose the wrong type of person for himself. He hooks up with the vacuous and physically endowed, as if he’s afraid to meet some of the many intelligent girls who thinks he’d be quite the catch. After a while, when the celebrity gossip and X Factor speculations start to repeat he becomes bored, and his eyes wander, and things become messy for him. And for us, because we tend to end up in the middle of his relationship disasters.

Like… Yesterday was a fantastic day, and we went out and just drove around, and talked about the moon and the stars and the nature of love and life and liberty and death. Just me, Mark, and Stephen being like the mates we’ve always been. And today, this morning, we had a very sorry and quite drunk Stephen on our door-step because after, he had looked at his current attempt at a girl-friend, and had called things off.

Of course, he’s stayed with that woman for several days now, and he didn’t want to go home to his parents once again, and listen to their insistent demands about schools and life and education and money. Where else to go but to the mates? And what else to do but to go to a bar, drink one’s sorrows, and then go to the mates?

Sometimes, when I’m in that mood, there’s that little negative voice in my head which whisper lies to me. ‘One day he’ll leave you, you know? One day he’ll recognise, finally, what a sad little shit you are‘. He married me! ‘Yeah, nice job you did on him. How did you do it? Was it the sex? Got a little tip for me? What does it say about him that he goes for the likes of you? One day his eyes will open. One day he’ll leave you, you know?

That voice is my enemy, the bad part of me, the cynical and broken part which I’ve buried in a cage. But maybe, just maybe, everyone has that voice, and maybe Stephen listens to it? Maybe that’s the difference between us? Maybe all those years of writing my black journals allowed me to recognise the enemy; that the enemy is, truly as that other quote says, ourselves.

Yesterday was a fantastic day, today is not so great so far. Tomorrow? Who knows. I think it will be a good one if I don’t listen to that voice. And I think it will be better for Stephen to stop listening to his voice too. That voice is a liar, a sick and twisted little fuck who deserve a life in a cage.

On this day of infamy

This day shall live on in infamy as I stayed up until five in the morning, and then had my beauty sleep interrupted by two dogs, a husband, an aunt and a visiting cousin. At eight thirty I had to get up again, and I had to become sociable in two minutes flat from the moment I opened my eyes.

If you knew me well in real life, you would understand what a challenge this was. I usually need at least half an hour to get going, if I am lubricated well with strong tea. But in two minutes? That’s asking too much.

A very grumpy Colin came down to the kitchen to be nice to people who could have rung days in advance to announce their visit and not conspire with my so-called husband, who is supposed to understand and support me and let me sleep, by ringing him an hour before arrival.

Did I get that understanding and support? Of course not. I got a pat on the head, and an admonition to go to bed at normal hours. He also said it was my fault. And no sympathy from Auntie and her daughter either. I swear, I’m living with a bunch of Colin-haters who probably plan these things in advance for the most impact.

Sometimes I think that I should crawl under the bed and hide, and when people come close I would growl and bite. And whip any groping hand with a shoe. The only problem with this plan is that Watson would likely think it was a fun game, and he’d join me and lick my face. Not even the dogs respect me.

Okay, I exaggerate, a little bit. I admit it. But like Bilbo said to Frodo, right now I feel like too little butter spread out over too large a sandwich. And Auntie and the cousin left only an hour ago, and I had to be nice and pleasant and social the whole time, and pretend that I didn’t want to run back up to bed and sleep.