I realize now that my D&D character’s story is basically mine. I didn’t intend this, but I realize it now.
She’s a young sage, driven out of her home, her privileged youth by voices and visions. She follows the one lead she has and ends up with someone older, tragic, entirely not right for her. But she stays because this is the first time she’s felt these feelings and she pities him, worries for him, wants to help him. But she can’t help him, he’s too broken and locked in his pain and for her trouble, he sells her out to a man who wants to take her brain apart and understand her gifts. She escapes, but she can’t go backwards and all she wants to do is go backwards.
He said…thank you for being a good friend to me. He actually said that.
I said, with a weighted pause, a pause that surely you would get if you wanted to hear what I was communicating…thank *you* for being a good friend.
What a crock of…
But that’s not true, either. I’m mad about it. I’m mad that 2 years down the line, this is the best he can muster, not that I am not grateful for his friendship, his attention and care. Of course, I know what we said. I know the painful clarification came down and we are essentially just…passing time with one another. Not dating. So it’s not like this is an unfair statement…but it still so totally fucking is.
I am exhausted by the true facts of the case. I am exhausted by always being just wrong enough to understand why everything is the way it is. The unending tedium of “getting it” a thousand years running. I am exhausted that I have to dance for scraps. I am exhausted that his pain just puts everything in stasis and I am exhausted to realize that there is nothing about me that is worth rocking the boat. I am exhausted that I can’t let go of any of it. I can’t choose me versus choosing the avoidance of confrontation. I have no ability to try.
My therapist wants me to, on my own, in my own time, come to the realization – just as my wise friends, my sister…that I have to let it go. I have to leave it alone. And I’m trying. I’m trying to get some air and space. But it just so happens that all of this is taking place when my mother is ill and I hate myself with an extraordinary passion and my skin is painfully dry and I want to tear it off myself and hit myself with mostly metaphoric hammers and sit in my office being silent and fucking things up and go home and be silent and go to work and be silent and go home and be silent and go to work and be silent because everything else feels like my head in the guillotine. But maybe that’s where it belongs.