one of the commonalities between classical Noh and Greek tragedy

Catharsis.

It's been nearly three months since I've cried. It's been nearly three months since I've cried over you. I was curious, so I counted. It feels like a long time.

Tom's right. I am closed off. During most of my emotional "crises," I turn here--I can write, I can express, and there is no judgment, if any reading of my words at all. There are very few people in my life to whom I turn when I can no longer hold anything back.

And even here, I put crises in quotes, because I know that others have experienced far worse, but because I haven't, that's what each event feels like. I don't know what to do except curl up and wait for the firing to stop. I'm even courteous during most of my outbursts: I cry silently because I don't want to wake anyone up; I sleep away my anger so no one within earshot will feel awkward.

Yes, I could have handled this more like an adult. I could have made it easy (or hard, depending) on you by simply replying "Oh. Okay. You kids have fun" to your final message to me. I could've carried on, wavering all the time, hovering somewhere between a facade and total numbness, if that makes any sense. I could've been closed off about it. But I wasn't. Childish and prattish words worked their way free from a place of contained anger and you happened to have said the wrong thing at the wrong time and I decided that I just didn't want to deal with that shit anymore. Like I've said before, though, I'm not sorry.

We were talking about this, one late night after he'd had three whiskeys and I was curled up under a blanket on the opposite couch, boring a hole into the wall with my sad eyes. "He really did a number on you, huh?" Of course. By all accounts, I should've seen it coming, I told him. I should've been careful. And so I'll never know if I was in love with him. It's stupid.

He said that yes, everything hurts. But we should still do it.

But I don't want to. I don't want to throw myself into this kind of thing. Not yet. Maybe not ever. I have regarded feelings that have arisen in a similar guise under similar circumstances as every single time before as nothing more than lustful, these days.

Maybe it was because I had hope. Hope that you would be the first man to finally see me for my worth, and as more than just a friend, as more than just an encounter.

But no. I have always been the transition girl, the girl in between. Or just the girl who was there--your friend. Valued as nothing more. It took a painful, fleeting crush the summer before; two separate nights culminating in one night that I'll never forget (I didn't say it was amazing); months apart; and whatever connection we might've had--all lost--to make me realize what I'm worth to you, and that is nothing.

Why I hadn't seen it before, I don't know; why it had to be you--you weren't a jerk--I had no reservations about you until towards the end. You were the straw that broke my back, which will not be broken so easily again. (Steel ribcage, iron skin, rusting heart. I've gone industrial; it's the new black.)

Something compelled me to look at pictures. I've done this before, and found myself staring at a speckled computer screen, indifferent. "Oh well." Thirty minutes ago was no different until I found all the pictures of you and her, and you look so happy. And what killed me the most is that no one in your world will ever know that I was there; that I existed in your world for a brief period of time, and you used to smile at me like that, and hold me that tight as we danced, as we danced. No one ever remembers me; no one ever knows that I was part of someone's history, no matter how briefly.

I meant to cry to purge me of these feelings and thoughts, but writing them down seems to be recycling them back through my eyes and into my mind. I expected catharsis when I stopped crying (silently, of course, everyone else is sleeping). I didn't expect it to feel so violent, but my sheets are more askew than normal because I wanted to curl up into that familiar little ball, but my mind told me to hang on and not go there. Anger and frustration at myself for being so stupid--that's all I said, "So stupid." I should've known, I should've known. None of this is anyone's fault but my own.

Dark dark dark dark dark. By the time I get to Suzuki in less than ten hours, I will either have one, strong image to connect to for every exercise, or I will be left with no image at all. At least, no image of you--I can't keep going back to you, because I was done (I thought) crying over you.

Dark signals night. Silence on the usually busy street outside signals sleep. If I cry myself to sleep tonight over you, it may be the last time, and I may wake up feeling just fine.

I will feel just fine.

I am fine.