Sometimes, I wonder how we carry on at all.  When life feels like a battlefield, and no one knows which side they're on.  When everything is falling to pieces, and we're struggling for breath.  For a quiet moment.  For time to think.

Everyone wants to believe that we just put on foot in front of the other.  That it's as simple as faking it until you're making it.  But it's not really as simple as all that.  It's still a choice.  No matter how small the effort is, that's brave.

Life is a series of interconnected bits of chaos.  Right turns, left turns, short cuts, and standing still--all of these things amount to existing.  What we choose to do, and what we choose not to do.  Each little thing is a miracle in and of itself, but we tend to brush that aside.  If you really stop and think about how meaningful everything is, you'd probably never get out of bed.  And I'm using "you" in the general sense.

I'm not always clearheaded.  I don't act reasonably a lot of the time.  I'm 99% heart.  I make choices based on emotions.  That's not because I'm more evolved, or less evolved, than anyone else.  No, it's just because that's who I am, and how I am.  I feel. 

I'm too nice.  I consider possibilities and motivations.  I make excuses when I think it's necessary.  And I give people chances.  Because I can see things from more than just my own perspective.  So, maybe I'm the person who takes a lot of shit.  Maybe I'm that woman who bends over backwards for someone when she shouldn't.  Maybe I fall in love too hard, and I let that be the reigning Reason.  Perhaps it's all just folly.

But at the end of the day, I'd rather put myself out there.  I'd rather do the possibly ridiculous thing, and say what I'm feeling.  I don't leave doubts for others to parse through.  And if I can find it in my heart to care for you, I'll do everything in my power to be there for you.  Even if you don't deserve it.  Even if you think, in your darkest moments, that you don't deserve it. 

Sometimes, knowing that someone else believes in you in enough to get you through.  But, hey, don't take my word for it.  Maybe you need to experience it for yourself.

It's impossible to tell a tale that circles itself, as mine does.  Those outside, peering in, only see the venom.  The thing that eats itself for no other reason but desire.  The questionable completion of a faulty need.  But infinity is a myth, as perfection is, and it seems that a thousand glass houses would shatter the same as one.

Put down the boulder.  Walk away.  It's just a matter of pride.

But you judge as you do, because you are afraid.  Because you don't understand.  Because something is different.  It's grey.  This is why the witches were burned: out of fear.  Out of greed.  Out of revenge.  A little Practical Magic of politics and holier-than-thou superiority.  These things don't just lurk in the shadows, or tiptoe easily into being.  They cling to your indrawn breath.  They slide into the chambers of your heart, freeing themselves, penetrating your body and your soul.

In that moment, many things are lost.  Destroyed almost without thought.  There is no going back from such a moments--a backwards Eden, where all the lies are coated in lust.  You may not forgive or forget.  You may not see or hear.  You assume.  You take in half the facts, corrupting each letter.

That it what separates us: your lack of compassion.

I wear my heart easily enough.  Or it wears me.  And you sneer at it.  I have no charm against that.  There is no incantation for it, no stone to cast, and no knife to cut through such pain.  I am bare.  I am standing in the middle of the flames; you lit the pyre.  I simply grace it.  I simply face it, because I have no choice.  You've trapped me here.  And if this is my destiny, so be it.  But love is not love in your eyes.  Not in the middle of such ruin.  Broken as it may be, you call it 'unworthy.' 

That is not your choice to make.  It never was.

So, from the outside looking in, you cannot see what I see.  But even if you did, you might love wisely, but not to well.  And that--that is the difference.

You know that saying, “With friends like you, who needs enemies?”  I’ve always hated that phrase.  I’ve always hated it, because it shouldn’t be like that.  Friends should be kind.  They should have your back.  They should listen.  They should try to understand.  Or, if understanding is impossible, acceptance is a good consolation prize.

But I’ve found that when the chips are down, when the last bell is ringing, the vicious side of humanity often shows its ugly face.  And there’s a knife your back.  There’s a paper cut filled with lemon juice AND salt.  As Rachel said, “Is that kick-you-in-the-crotch, spit-on-your-neck fantastic?”

It’s no secret that people can be mean, cruel, and vindictive.  It’s bad enough when a stranger does it, or if it’s someone you don’t get along with.  But when someone you care about unleashes a volcanic tirade of molten crap in your direction, it’s rather difficult to process.  Even if you see it coming, and often times you can.

When someone doesn’t get what they want, how they handle it shows their true character.  If you put anyone in a difficult situation, or an awkward one, you’ll see how he/she functions under pressure.  It’s easy to be nice when the situation is smooth and when every face is smiling.  But when push comes to shove, and something shifts, the teeth come out—and that bubbly person becomes a vampire.  It’s not pretty.

There’s a measure of relief in it, though—in finally discovering who someone really is, underneath all the lace and trim.  It makes it easier to disentangle yourself from the situation, especially if it turns out the other person has the emotional maturity of infantile dirt, crossed with an angry toddler.  Mud pie word-bombs aren’t attractive, necessary, or realistic above the age of three.

But some people never progress beyond that level of maturity.  It doesn’t matter if they get married, have a job, or hold a position of authority.  They're still throwing tantrums, lying about circumstances, and twisting the world to suit their needs.  That’s one step about from psychosis, by the way. 

In dealing with people, how much we overlook amazes me.  Too often, someone focuses, selfishly, on how he/she is feeling--or what he/she is experiencing.  Never mind what the other person MIGHT be going through.  Because you just don’t know.  I’ve never been one to parade my tragedies around, looking for sympathy, or some kind of Oscar for holding it all together.  And on my worst day, you might not even see the cracks. 

Recently, I’ve had someone accuse me awful things—untrue things.  Things I wouldn’t expect to come out of the mouth of an enemy.  Instead, they exploded out of the mouth of someone I once considered a friend.  Spitefulness to such a degree that could teach a dictator a thing or two.  It was appalling.  There was absolutely no regard for me, my life, or whatever might be happening.  It was cruelty, plain and simple, dressed up in self-righteous fury. 

I’ve always considered other people, perhaps to a fault.  It doesn’t surprise me when other people fail to do that, but it doesn’t please me, either.  It’s in moments like that where I realize, “Shit, someone’s been drinking the Crazy Kool-Aid, and is one step away from dancing naked in public.”

I don’t have time for vengeance, small minds, or assholes.  What don’t you have time for?