Emotional Masochism is best served with a friend.

I am not a smoker, but I feel as if I understand the urge that must overcome one's senses when one is craving a cigarette. It manifests itself in the way I internally argue with myself, my thoughts volleying back and forth, pounding against the edges of my consciousness. My internal dialogue usually carries the undertones of an argument; I am seldom in agreement with myself.

Today, I had many an epiphany about my behaviors. I realized once and for all that I am an emotional masochist. The discovery that one of my dearest friends is exactly the same was one that provided a deep satisfaction. It felt good knowing that someone else has the same insane, unhealthy problem. Some might even call it twisted. I suppose it is, but mostly it's really... sadistic, I guess.

I set things up to watch them fall; I build the foundation knowing it will crumble, no matter how stable it seems. A tiny fracture, left exposed to the unforgiving air. I want to watch them hurt, I suppose. I guess it's not so much masochism as it is revenge; but it is. One tiny thing; a tiny flaw in the night, a stray thread. It sets off a chain reaction of sorts--first, the initial disappointment, the crippling feeling of helplessness that leaves the mouth dry and the throat ache with unshed frustration. Second, the resignation accompanied by a faint sense of defiance against the acceptance. Finally, the agitation and restlessness: the thought I can't wait to go home and be sad.

I can't open myself up because I haven't closed the door on my past yet. How dramatic, and yet, how genuinely, depressingly apropo. I know that I am not done, no matter how many times I swear to myself that I am, that I will not let this go on a second longer. I know that I will keep going, that I will keep allowing myself to feel this and that it will continue to be just as hopeless.

I enjoy the poking and prodding that leads to cuts and bruises of the figurative variety. I live to ask questions that I do not want to hear the answers to. I know them already: Do you like her? Of course you do. Is it because she's pretty or because you're in love with her personality? You'll say personality and I'll know you mean that you think she's really hot. Are you going to ask her out? Of course you are. Do you want me to help? You're not sure because you don't want to hurt me and you don't understand that I'm doing this on purpose. You do not, will not, and can not know why I do this.

Then you'd think I'm crazy, if you didn't already. I think I'm crazy for doing such a thing to myself on a regular (almost) basis. Every time, at least. I know when the signs are coming and I daresay, I welcome them. I savor them. I roll their bitter flavor around in my mouth, tasting the letdown on the tip of my tongue. It glides past my teeth, slipping down my throat and settling in the pit of my stomach, making me dizzy with a strange masochistic thrill.

I want to feel the rejection drive deeply into my mind, and then I want to pull it out fast. Like ripping off a bandaid. And then, the hole its left will heal itself. It heals quickly, breezing past the scabbing. All that's left is a shadow of a memory, something vague. Something that haunts but does not quite possess.

It doesn't really happen that way.
What happens is something akin to the above; I will probe him for words that I don't want to hear. I will continue to ask things that I have long since figured out the answer to.

I don't understand it, and I suppose I'm better off this way.

The situation will not suddenly remedy itself, nor will a miracle shoot from the sky and into my hands. If it does, I shall catch it with my palms wide open, cupped to ensure success. I will close my hands over it tightly, sealing away thoughts of escape.

I kind of feel like I'm stuck. I'm sandwiched between two glass walls and my inability to climb over is overwhelming and I can't seem to move anywhere except lower, trapping myself further. I look at him and all I see is my own inadequacy, though I hate to admit it anymore, though I despise the thought of it and abhor such assumptions on my part. I can not stop. I can not stop staring, and seeing only a taunting reminder before my eyes. I can't have him. I can try him, but I'll have to buy it if I want anymore than a demo. And I can't afford it. Insufficient funds.


Optimism is not my best friend tonight, or this morning. Whichever one prefers.