Release.
I am on my knees and begging for release.
There is a claw clutching at my chest, and through every smile and unexpected telephone call, it pulls tighter and my suddenly frail little arms flail uselessly.
This feeling was once all too familiar, born of despair or an hormonal angst-ridden sense of injustice, years later I had decided that it was my father's diagnosed manic depression rearing its genetic curse in me.
I don't know what it is, just that my teeth are screaming for hot fresh liver, my fingers trembling in their shaky restraint from the jugulars of the city.
Yesterday, I told cf that I wanted to do a terrible thing.
I woke this morning to the jarring realization that I had even considered the thought.
I am wondering now, what it is that has snapped in me for my heart to turn so charred so swiftly.
Part of it was the impossible weight of disappointment when Peter skipped his therapy session.
The betrayal hurt, for sure, the hours spent talking to him, opening the floodgates and listening, the hours spent screaming obscenities to make him listen, the hours spent laying awake at night hoping he wouldn't try mixing chemicals again.
The betrayal hurt immensely.
But worse than that...
I am suddenly doubting that I can help anyone at all, I am suddenly questioning the futility of my efforts, actions, the sheer purposelessness of giving a flying fuck about anyone.
The metaphysical debates of the last few days, Nonservium and Mr. Pyke's impressive belief in the balance of the universe, there is a reason I haven't answered that rant about hope versus enlightenment.
My hope is a weak colt shivering on uncertain legs.
(it hurts)
Maybe I overdid it, that's all.
Maybe last week was a little rougher than my preoccupied little body could take.
Maybe the sheer daunting mass of paperasses and furniture, building a home and a life and at the same time not cracking under the pressure at work, in Montreal, from friends...
Maybe it was too much. Maybe the thought that everyone else I have reached out to, tried to help, tried to send some reinforcement, some faint glimmer of hope, some sign that I believe in them, maybe the thought that they're going to take the concern I've shed for them and discard it like so many rotten fruit, while returning to their problems, preferring to complain and wallow in self-pity than expend so extravagant an effort as to change the direction of their lives.
At the same time, though...
...whatever my excuse, whatever my own sentiments of betrayal, my own whining and self-pity
the fact that I even considered such a horrible thing as I had yesterday, to even consider stooping to something a lucid monstre would never dream of doing, for that fact, there are no excuses.
Pennance, maybe, but no excuses.