I told myself, as you may recall, that I would wait to pseudo-dump the Creature (pseudo-dump insofar as we have a pseudo-relationship) until he got a new job and could move away from his horrible little town. He was dangerously depressed, I told myself.

Whether that was my motivation or I held off because it was so flattering and potentiating to be wanted (see above), I honestly can’t say.

***

Not knowing this does not please me, but having no way of knowing which of the two sides of something dread important seems to be quite the leitmotif, or even the backbone, of adulthood. For example, is there no God, or is all the blankness and occasional spurts of startling horror in the world just part of a larger scheme I can’t comprehend because I am not omniscient? Does God not answer my pleas to tell me what is the right thing, the truth, because there is no right thing, or because I was raised Protestant and thus he has already shown me? If I ask for a sign, and I perceive one, is that a combination of circumstance and confirmation bias, or is it genuinely a sign? If I achieve certainty, or believe something truly, is that because I am having a genuinely supernatural experience of what is true, or is it because the human brain is designed for belief and credulity and pattern-imposition because having those things makes it easier for a sapient creature to survive?

There is no way to tell. Absolutely none. That’s scary as hell.

***

I digress from my main point.  Creature has been hired to a new job, which starts at the beginning of the year (less than a month away!) and is in a proper Big City and pays nearly $90,000 a year, an utterly ridiculous amount of money. I am still waiting with bated breath, watching, because I want him secure in his new disaster (a pretty turn of phrase, not an impugnance [is that a word? must look this up; surely it must be related to repugnance, in which case repugnance should have a verb form repugn] of his life) with his feet under him before I take myself away. It’s not time just yet, but the time is close enough that I need to start preparing.

And close enough to begin reviewing. There is a part of me—not overwhelmingly big, but certainly overwhelmingly loud, if you understand my meaning, not the majority opinion, perhaps, but one given volume by panic and guilt and all those things that lie under me, under the antidepressants, and are in some matters my first resort—that is thinking, strongly, “What have I done?” Because it is of course true that, by expressing interest in him for a few months and then not retracting that, but letting it lie, I have been stringing him along, deliberately and consciously, with no intention of ever giving him a damned thing of me.

Tonight he told me in our phone conversation, apropos of nothing, that although he very much wants to fly me out to Big City to see him (God, it was one of the first things he mentioned in rhapsodizing about having enough money to live on and some to spare), the offer of that plane ticket is not contingent upon my sleeping with him while I’m out there. “I’d very much like that to happen,” he said, “but I don’t want you to think that you have to. That’s not the only reason I want to see you.”

Knowing him as I do, I recognize this as a rather profound statement. I know him to be . . . a dude. He doesn’t like to think about emotions, doesn’t like to think (his acknowledgement, not my aspersion), doesn’t like verbally to show affection. He likes comedy, likes to laugh, likes crudeness and destroying and killing things. He’s thoughtless and careless and an utter barbarian, and wants to do absolutely nothing to improve or even maintain himself, though he does not like the self in question. He is incredibly, deeply sexist, and he spends a lot of time talking about my tits.

There are thus two aspects to his announcement, both alarming. The first is that he might be a better person than I give him credit for being. The second, less disputable, is that he likes me a great deal more, and more sincerely, than I thought he did.

Has this affection increased with time and my indulgence (or at least lack of discouragement)? Am I responsible for this, as well? I don’t know. I don’t know, either, whether I wouldn’t still think that the decision I made—not to reject him timely—was the best one in the circumstances even if that were the case.

So. The time for . . . putting him down draws near. God, how am I to do that? What is there to say? (I must admit that there is a part of me, an awful, craven, prideful part of me, that interprets that question more “What can I say so that I don’t look cruel and capricious?”—caring about my image in his eyes even knowing full well that cruel and capricious is exactly what I have been.)

Ugh. As I say, I’m not sure that the decision I made to string him along wasn’t the right one, but several of my motivations for it are utterly disgusting.

I have never gotten around to setting this down formally, but it is undeniably true, and worth documenting: I spent a great deal of time in my late teens and early twenties trading sex for the illusion of affection. I knew it even then, consciously thought, “I’m trading sex for the feeling of being wanted,” but didn’t want to admit it for the longest time because that’s typical of women, and I didn’t want to believe, or feed into, the stereotype.

Now I feel as though it had very little to do with my being female and quite a lot to do with my being me.

[corollary to the previous post]

On a side note, I once thought that being aware that you are losing your mind, that part of yourself is slipping away from you, must be the one of the worst feelings in the world. I can say now for certain that it is—and yet it is not crushing, not like depression. It is sad, but I lived through it and am still here and still human. I think there is so much to experience as a human that even after infinite loss there will still be more. We need never run out of humanity—of wonder, really.

Yesterday I had an orgasm and felt love, like I always do, because that it what orgasms do to you, and the love I felt was for God. I missed him. I was happy and humbled and awed to know him and to be in his presence, the way I am with a person I quite like. 

There was a moment even then when I felt it fading, felt pride and doubt reassert themselves, very slowly, seeping back in, but in that moment I could feel love (I rarely do; usually I feel it as guilt or duty or concern), and I missed him. Now I can’t even access even the recall of that feeling, even its image. It is foreign to me—or, if not foreign, experienced the way one experiences a conversation held softly in another room across the house.

BUT FOR NOW WE ARE YOUNG, LET US LIE IN THE SUN AND DOUBT EVERY BEAUTIFUL THING

I take part of a sleeping pill every night, and sometimes ibuprofen, too, and often I want to take the whole bottle, one or both, not because I want to commit suicide but because I want to be sure they do the job. The job of making me not hurt anymore. They never do. Marvellously inefficient things, OTC analgesics, I'm not sure why we have the things.

***

But there is this, as well: I make myself tired. I make myself guilty, too, starve myself of sleep and stuff myself with cheap and greasy food, and I think the reason I do it is so that I will feel like this, like I feel now, exhausted and on the verge of tears and so that I can finally think clearly, without all that bloody hope fogging up the system and confusing things.

Have you ever tried to live with hope in you, live like a healthy, normal person? It's like learning to breathe underwater, learning to breathe the water itself, or carbon dioxide; my mind can't process the world in this form, can't get anything useful from things when they're all bonded together into forms that have nothing to do with me.

***

And by the way, just so we're clear, I think hope is a bloody menace, and I do mean bloody, a clawed hand wrapped around and into your heart, and God help you if you try to dislodge it. It's got to be some kind of parasite; it feeds off you, that much is clear.

I wonder what hope's internal life is like, then, if it's an organism. Where does it go and what does it turn into when it's done with us?

[corollary to the post-script of the preceding post]

A hypothesis on a definition of sacrifice (perfect, yes, but not complete):

"I hate this," he whispers.

Sherlock cocks his head inquisitively.

"I think it's just flu, but I.  Well.  You know what happened, probably.  After I was shot.  I nearly died."

Nodding, Sherlock holds out the teacup.  With a rueful twist to his mouth, John takes it and sips.

"You aren't meant to break in when I'm throwing up everything I've ever ingested, you berk," John points out after he swallows the spiked tea.

"Why not?"

"Because I said so."

"Not good enough."

"It's the principle of the thing.  You could give a man a little privacy if you liked."

"No," Sherlock says, deeply annoyed.

"I fucking deserve privacy, Sherlock."

"But I don't understand the point of it."

"Well, what if I don't want you to see me like this, perfect, elegant you, seeing me all twisted and weak and broken and fucked-up and helpless?" John snaps savagely.

On the word helpless, he sends the teacup flying cruelly into the bathtub.  It hits the porcelain and shatters in a spectacular explosion of china.  It's the most brilliant thing Sherlock has ever seen.  Now the tub is spattered with brandy and hot chamomile, and there are little pieces of disfigured pink blossoms everywhere, sharp enough to draw blood.  Shrapnel from a distant war zone brought vividly home and painted with cabbage roses, scattered all around their drain.  John winces, hard, and then covers his face with one shaking hand.

Get your bloody hand out of my way, you're completely ruining my line of sight.

"I'm such a mess," John says hoarsely through his fingers.  "I hate being this way.  I hate me this way."

"I don't."  And god, Sherlock doesn't.  "But don't hurt anymore.  I brought Boots night liquid and anti-nausea tablets from your kit."

The hand slides off his face again.  John looks at Sherlock with a resigned and embarrassed and exasperated expression, as if he half wants to punch Sherlock and half wants to sink through the floor.

"You really can't be enjoying this," John observes.  "I could spare you the discomfort."

"If you tell me to leave now, I will do," Sherlock offers.  "I will.  But I don't want to be spared.  Do you think I like listening at doors, wondering how miserable you are?  Does that seem like something I would enjoy, guessing at your condition?  Where I'm concerned, do guesswork and John make a happy pair in your brain?"

John thinks it over.

"May I have a biscuit, please," he murmurs.

Tearing the packet open, Sherlock passes one along.  John chews it experimentally, then winces again and drops the remainder in the bin.

Sherlock lifts the pair of flannel trousers and the soft cotton shirt experimentally. 

"Right, hand them over."

"No.  Come here."

John scowls. 

"Problem?"

"Sherlock, I'll only get you sick."

All it takes is the raising of one very eloquent eyebrow to convey to John that the previous remark was either very stupid, or else failed to take into account anything he has ever learned about Sherlock Holmes.

Finally, at last, at last, at last, something in John softens visibly.  He rolls his eyes heavenward and then crawls within easy reach.  Being exquisitely careful, Sherlock reaches out and begins unbuttoning his shirt.  When it's open, he slips it over John's arms, pulls his undershirt up and off, and continues, with John's occasional shaky assistance, until he has John nearly dressed for bed, tugging the flannels up his lean hips and pulling the drawstring to tie the knot.  Dressing and undressing John is always a pleasure, but this time there is something to it beyond the revealing what's veiled, something deeper than the heady rush he always gets when a previously covered patch of John's skin is exposed.  It feels almost worshipful doing this, like draping a Buddha or a saint.  It's breathtaking. 

If Sherlock could undress John to his bones, painlessly peel off the skin and then dress him back up in his own soft flesh again, that would be wonderful.  More than wonderful.  But it would hardly feel any more sacred than this does.

"You'd better go to bed," John says, watching Sherlock's fingers move.  "I live here for the moment."

"Then I live here too."

"This is ridiculous, I'm perfectly capable of--"

"No."

Sliding the tea tray away a bit, Sherlock rises to a crouch and spreads the blanket over the floor.  It's soft and thick and quilted, and he puts the pillow against the wall, lying back with his head sinking into goose feathers.  John looks down at him as if Sherlock is a creature never before seen with human eyes, as if he'd encountered a unicorn sleeping in the middle of the forest.

"This is the part where you come here," Sherlock observes.

John's lids slide wearily over his eyes, and he grips the edge of the bathtub in frustration.  "God in heaven, I--listen, Sherlock, you remember when I used to limp around like a mongrel run down by a truck?  I was ashamed of it.  Angry.  I didn't...I didn't want to meet anyone who knew me, didn't want them to see how damaged I was.  Running into Mike Stamford was horrifying.  I'm a fucking doctor, I knew the leg pain was imaginary, I saw the tests and the scans myself."

"You're not limping an imaginary limp.  You've a case of very real flu."

"Yes, and right now I feel as wrecked as I did when there was a hole in my shoulder and the nurses were being extra kind to me despite the fact I was screaming bloody murder at them, because the fever was rising and they all thought I was going to die.  That was awful.  Knowing.  That they were coddling me, that they...  And you're not just someone.  And you don't just know me." 

"Correct.  And so?"

"I don't want an audience."

Sherlock, despite knowing that John is simply being honest, can't help feeling outraged.

"Wrong.  Wrong.  I am not an audience.  Of all the mindless--you love me, and so I am going to sleep here with you on this floor, and bring you water and more tea in a new teacup and whatever else you like, for as long as this lasts.  I cannot be coddling you, as I am emotionally and intellectually incapable of coddling anyone.  I don't think you are twisted or weak or broken or fucked-up or helpless.  But you are mine, in case you had momentarily forgotten."

He's listening intently, but nevertheless John doesn't say anything.

"Do you want it to be for me?  Fine, that's fine.  It would be better for me," Sherlock requests in desperation.  "Please come here."

John absorbs this.  His mouth twists, hesitant, and he swallows something bitter down.  Sherlock would greatly prefer to have swallowed it himself and saved John the suffering, but some things aren't workable no matter how badly you want them, no matter how thoroughly your blood is mixed up in each other's veins.

When John does crawl onto Sherlock's lean chest, he's shivering badly again.

--wordstrings, "A Thousand Threads of What Might Have Been," part 1

Sacrifice, then, is much like thanks: accepting a a gift, which is the hardest thing. What I find most intriguing about this excerpt is what it suggests about the feelings and motivations of the sacrificed-unto.

All of this demands further consideration. I recognize that sacrifice is what's going on here, but I don't understand it--there is nothing in it that connects to my own life. I have never willingly appeared helpless to anyone--I don't even like appearing vulnerable--I have only very rarely wanted to show someone mercy when she or he appeared vulnerable or helpless before me.

There is one other part of this story that relates to sacrifice, helplessness, and mercy, and it is this:

Before this incident--and it's now much more than an incident in Sherlock's mind--John had always been endlessly affectionate and yet completely in control of himself.  Deadly, in fact.  A force to be reckoned with.  John loses his mind during sex because he wants to, not because he can't help it.  Now he's completely vulnerable, just a shivering little pile of bones.  To Sherlock's shock, that makes the detective feel unspeakably kind.  As if, now that John is actually at his mercy, mercy is the only thing he wants to provide.

No, not mercy.  Mercy implies a crime.  Just what John deserves.  

--ibid.

Ha. "Deserves." The idea of anyone thinking that I deserve anything but evisceration is utterly bizarre and somewhat risible to me. The idea of my ever feeling about anyone else that she or he deserves anything better is likewise.

Mmm . . . maybe not my mother. My mother is very much like John, in that sense: good. But I am not much like my mother, and neither is anyone with whom I have ever fallen in love. Those like her are a different species; I don't know if miscegenation is possible--or advisable even if it is. I never know what to make of her, and I'm not sure what use her worldview could be to me if I were to take some of it. (I'm not even sure taking some of it is possible--it's that strange.)

[from an old book-of-shadows entry]

Here is the truth: like we it or no, asking for forgiveness is important. There is no energy-channeling that can be done properly without purification first: if power rushes into a flawed crystal, the crystal breaks apart rather than becoming stronger.

I have never before understood why we ask forgiveness, why we must apologize, until this. We are not apologizing to God because we have failed her; we are apologizing to God the same way we apologize to Earth.

We work to improve Earth, yes, or to protect and foster her, but we also give her waste. And we waste what she gives us--on packaging, and greed, in torturing animals and treating ourselves and each other badly. And then we come to her with all our waste and all our wastefulness and ask her to take the poison upon herself, take it away from us, so that we can continue living. We give it to her and ask her to transform it, like Kali, from garbage into food, from something evil into life, from poison back into something of which we can make use.

And all this is natural. But firstly, natural doesn't mean not regrettable; and secondly, we ask too much in any case, more than we should. It hurts Earth, the things we do: it costs her something to take them and transform them. That is why we apologize to earth, and similarly we apologize to God (as above, so below)--not because we are "being bad," but because we are hurting her, that is, doing her harm. And it's nothing God can't handle (though as to Earth, I have my doubts), but it iswhy apology and forgiveness, in one form or another, are necessary in a religion.

And they are necessary for us, too. There is no focus to be had while guilts whisper to you that you cannot do exactly what you're trying to do: touch God, improve yourself.

Post-scriptum: What entirely sacrifice is, I can't say, but surely there must be an element of waste-disposal to it.