Shilo Wallace (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
shilowallace) wrote2012-02-13 02:22 pm
shilowallace) wrote2012-02-13 02:22 pm
[archive] justprompts@lj: Write about a time when you were blinded by love. - 06.08.09
from the diary of Shilo Wallace
So STOP READING NOW...that means you, DAD. It's not like I can't tell when the LOCK has been broken!!!
I'm not sure if it's something I can actually put words to, but there's this person I know. And there's this problem I have where I get really silly when he holds my hand or looks at me or even just walks into a room. It's like there's this knot. No, okay, not really a knot. It's more like a pit, like someone's gone in and scooped something out of the very, very, very bottom of my stomach. But whatever it is they used, it doesn't hurt. And it feels like there's this big...I don't know, I guess a bubble of...warm or something. Not always warm, I guess. Just a bubble of something pressing against the absolute bottom of my stomach. At least, I think it's my stomach. Maybe it's more like where my stomach meets all those other things down there.
Between my hips, kind of. You know. There, but not quite there.
It almost never goes away, even though I'm starting to get used to him. Which is a weird thing to think I'm capable of doing. Getting used to him, I mean. Because he doesn't seem like something I should be allowed to be used to. You know? Like he's a reward, not something I'm entitled to. Like he's a treat that I should only get when I'm really, really good. It's not like I'm being bad in the meantime, but.
Daddy only brought me treats when I was extra good. I mean, if I'm not doing something outstanding, why should I get something outstanding in return for the outstanding things I'm not doing?
And more than that, I don't know what to do with that scooped out, bubbly, hollow, warm, gooey feeling that I keep having. I never really understood what people meant, in books, when they said their hearts fluttered. My heart stops and it starts and it pounds and it just beats, but until I met him, it never really fluttered. It's like not being able to breathe, but in a way that I could live forever with, if that's what I had to do. I don't pass out, I don't even get dizzy. Just a little wobbly in the knees sometimes, but he's been explaining to me that that's completely normal. It's a physical reaction to...
Um.
Okay. See, here's the thing. I know what the feeling is. I've already been over that and over that and over it again. It's in the family of good feelings. Class of love, obviously. Subclass of...very much not familial love. And I know that. But it's still a problem! Because what do I do with it? How do I handle it and what am I supposed to do? I'm not even good any good at loving my parents the way you're supposed to and that's hardly anything like how you're supposed to love someone who you want to kiss all the time, more than you would just a normal old friend (if you had one, to spend time with), but not in the way that you kissed your dad goodnight or goodbye or thank you.
Daddy taught me about love, whether he meant to or not. What he taught me - and here's the part where I'm right about how I don't even know how to love my parents because I love him, but I also hate him because, look - is that love is never letting go. It's trapping the people you love, tying them down, not laying them to rest or letting them fly. It's keeping them until they rot, but at least you'll always have them. Love is possession. It's keeping. It's being selfish and not listening to anyone else because you think only you know what's best for someone who isn't you, just because you care about them so much.
I know what I've read and seen and heard and I know how Juliet and how Yvaine and how Satine and Katrina and Sally do it, but that's them. And I'm just me, I'm not fancy and I don't have someone else who knows what they're talking about writing my words for me. Do normal girls have an easier time learning how to behave when this sort of thing happens to them? I guess they have to because they get to know more than seven whole people in the time of their lives before they're teenagers who are actually almost not teenagers any more, when you think about it, and are probably running out of time to figure things out before they're adults and are just supposed to know exactly how to do everything, like all adults do.
I don't want to love like my dad did. What if that's all there is, what if love stories are really just faerie tales that people make up, so that everything seems better than it really is? What was the word? Propaganda. Like all the fake good that GeneCo puts out, all the masks and fancinesses that the Largos wear so that people can't tell what awful creatures they are. Lies that we have to pretend are true so that we don't have to think about how ugly everything really is. Because if we think about that, well, what would ever get done? We'd be too sad, I think, to function.
If it's true, if that's what it is and those are the things I'm supposed to do with these feelings that feel so good that I can't even give you real sentences that describe what they are, then I don't love him. I never loved my dad or my mom or Mag. I never loved my bugs or Rabbit or Wolf or Mister Bear.
That's not all there is. That can't be all there is. But. I don't know. How would I know? I don't know anything.
No. I do know some things. I know things that get grouped in the order of bad feelings, like Sick and Hate and Death and Sad. I know things that border on bad and good, like Respect and Duty. And I know good, like Worship and Freedom. I'm just afraid that I won't be able to figure this out and that by the time I say, "I love you," and know what it means, he won't care anymore. He'll be sick of me and he'll go back to his real life, away from me, with all the other people who worship and need and adore him. I do all those things, too. I do all those things all the time but I don't know how to tell him and I don't know what to do for him or what to say to make him want to feel the same way back. I don't know how to tell him that every time he kisses my shoulder or my hand or touches my wig or the small of my back that every part of me starts to tickle and that no one's ever left that imprint of ticklishness on me ever or ever will, ever again, no matter how many new people I meet and make friends with.
Ugh. I'd say I'm making myself nauseous and sick and ill and light-headed, but I think that's the...what's-it-called. The withdrawals.
I'd use my bathroom but I think my toilet is haunted. It keeps flushing by itself, when no one's even near it.
I need someone to hold my hand so I'm going to go find him now and tell him that I love him always and that I'm sorry for it because I don't know for sure that it's a good thing for either of us. I want him to tell me that it is. I think he will. But I don't know anything for sure.
I'm not sure if it's something I can actually put words to, but there's this person I know. And there's this problem I have where I get really silly when he holds my hand or looks at me or even just walks into a room. It's like there's this knot. No, okay, not really a knot. It's more like a pit, like someone's gone in and scooped something out of the very, very, very bottom of my stomach. But whatever it is they used, it doesn't hurt. And it feels like there's this big...I don't know, I guess a bubble of...warm or something. Not always warm, I guess. Just a bubble of something pressing against the absolute bottom of my stomach. At least, I think it's my stomach. Maybe it's more like where my stomach meets all those other things down there.
Between my hips, kind of. You know. There, but not quite there.
It almost never goes away, even though I'm starting to get used to him. Which is a weird thing to think I'm capable of doing. Getting used to him, I mean. Because he doesn't seem like something I should be allowed to be used to. You know? Like he's a reward, not something I'm entitled to. Like he's a treat that I should only get when I'm really, really good. It's not like I'm being bad in the meantime, but.
Daddy only brought me treats when I was extra good. I mean, if I'm not doing something outstanding, why should I get something outstanding in return for the outstanding things I'm not doing?
And more than that, I don't know what to do with that scooped out, bubbly, hollow, warm, gooey feeling that I keep having. I never really understood what people meant, in books, when they said their hearts fluttered. My heart stops and it starts and it pounds and it just beats, but until I met him, it never really fluttered. It's like not being able to breathe, but in a way that I could live forever with, if that's what I had to do. I don't pass out, I don't even get dizzy. Just a little wobbly in the knees sometimes, but he's been explaining to me that that's completely normal. It's a physical reaction to...
Um.
Okay. See, here's the thing. I know what the feeling is. I've already been over that and over that and over it again. It's in the family of good feelings. Class of love, obviously. Subclass of...very much not familial love. And I know that. But it's still a problem! Because what do I do with it? How do I handle it and what am I supposed to do? I'm not even good any good at loving my parents the way you're supposed to and that's hardly anything like how you're supposed to love someone who you want to kiss all the time, more than you would just a normal old friend (if you had one, to spend time with), but not in the way that you kissed your dad goodnight or goodbye or thank you.
Daddy taught me about love, whether he meant to or not. What he taught me - and here's the part where I'm right about how I don't even know how to love my parents because I love him, but I also hate him because, look - is that love is never letting go. It's trapping the people you love, tying them down, not laying them to rest or letting them fly. It's keeping them until they rot, but at least you'll always have them. Love is possession. It's keeping. It's being selfish and not listening to anyone else because you think only you know what's best for someone who isn't you, just because you care about them so much.
I know what I've read and seen and heard and I know how Juliet and how Yvaine and how Satine and Katrina and Sally do it, but that's them. And I'm just me, I'm not fancy and I don't have someone else who knows what they're talking about writing my words for me. Do normal girls have an easier time learning how to behave when this sort of thing happens to them? I guess they have to because they get to know more than seven whole people in the time of their lives before they're teenagers who are actually almost not teenagers any more, when you think about it, and are probably running out of time to figure things out before they're adults and are just supposed to know exactly how to do everything, like all adults do.
I don't want to love like my dad did. What if that's all there is, what if love stories are really just faerie tales that people make up, so that everything seems better than it really is? What was the word? Propaganda. Like all the fake good that GeneCo puts out, all the masks and fancinesses that the Largos wear so that people can't tell what awful creatures they are. Lies that we have to pretend are true so that we don't have to think about how ugly everything really is. Because if we think about that, well, what would ever get done? We'd be too sad, I think, to function.
If it's true, if that's what it is and those are the things I'm supposed to do with these feelings that feel so good that I can't even give you real sentences that describe what they are, then I don't love him. I never loved my dad or my mom or Mag. I never loved my bugs or Rabbit or Wolf or Mister Bear.
That's not all there is. That can't be all there is. But. I don't know. How would I know? I don't know anything.
No. I do know some things. I know things that get grouped in the order of bad feelings, like Sick and Hate and Death and Sad. I know things that border on bad and good, like Respect and Duty. And I know good, like Worship and Freedom. I'm just afraid that I won't be able to figure this out and that by the time I say, "I love you," and know what it means, he won't care anymore. He'll be sick of me and he'll go back to his real life, away from me, with all the other people who worship and need and adore him. I do all those things, too. I do all those things all the time but I don't know how to tell him and I don't know what to do for him or what to say to make him want to feel the same way back. I don't know how to tell him that every time he kisses my shoulder or my hand or touches my wig or the small of my back that every part of me starts to tickle and that no one's ever left that imprint of ticklishness on me ever or ever will, ever again, no matter how many new people I meet and make friends with.
Ugh. I'd say I'm making myself nauseous and sick and ill and light-headed, but I think that's the...what's-it-called. The withdrawals.
I'd use my bathroom but I think my toilet is haunted. It keeps flushing by itself, when no one's even near it.
I need someone to hold my hand so I'm going to go find him now and tell him that I love him always and that I'm sorry for it because I don't know for sure that it's a good thing for either of us. I want him to tell me that it is. I think he will. But I don't know anything for sure.