Ancient Klingon Proverbs
- Kathryn
- Jul 10, 2015
- 3 min read
I woke up today at 3:00 AM to thunder, lightning, and rain. It's calmed down now, meaning that I have happier guinea pigs no longer hiding in their corners. But I spent this stormy interim between "Why am I awake?" and "I might as well give up on sleep and make some tea" by revisiting things from my past inside my head, flashback-style. Thanks for the terminology, TV.

I have problems with my emotions. Sometimes they come slowly, sometimes they don't come at all, sometimes they come but are immediately forgotten and cannot be summoned again for further inspection, and sometimes they come and hang out in the corner of my brain and refuse to leave. I'm good with physiological emotions, the kind that have a definable bodily component: anger, fear, the sinking suspicion that the cupboard might be completely out of tea. But I've spent my entire life hearing about the other feelings I should know about. It's made me into an amateur neuropsychological detective, someone whose life involves looking the definitions of emotions up in dictionaries or interrogating the people around me for clues about their mysterious origins. I did it in elementary school, I did it in college, and I still do it now. It's left me with the distinct impression that everyone else was invited to a secret meeting to learn a strange new language and that I, for whatever reason, missed the memo.
I couldn't tell you whether I'm actually angry or what I really feel, but I spent this stormy morning lying in bed while my brain reviewed past slights and unresolved conflicts. The girl who mocked me for being inhuman and the mutual friends who, in one way or another, supported her in that. The ex-datemate who ignored me when his friends where violent towards me and then insisted that I deserved it. My psychology professors, who cracked jokes about people with mental illnesses and then told me that they were disappointed in my academic performance while I was struggling 24/7 to think non-suicidal thoughts and to get myself consistent meals and baths. My first round of school psychologists, who did nothing about my obvious and terrible depression and who were precisely 0% helpful. And then further back, to high school tormentors, to the boy who spat on me, and to men who have shouted rape threats at me from cars at an all-women's college where I was supposed to have been safe from them.
I watched ParaNorman again recently. It's a movie about a young boy who confronts the vengeful ghost of a murdered girl who has cursed the people who hurt her to rise as the undead. The boy, Norman, saves his town from these zombies by soothing the little girl's ghost and laying her to rest. It's not an easy task: the little girl's rage and grief has kept her in that town for a long time.

It's a movie that struck a chord with me. Agatha's accusers and executioners did what all bullies do: they moved on and lived out the rest of their lives. And when they died, to rub extra salt in the wound, their descendants profited off of their victim's death. The little girl remained behind, stuck in that awful moment that happened to her, unable to go on.

If it wasn't for her rage and her curse, no one would have remembered her, or cared that they had harmed her. Norman gets through to her because he researched her past and goes to her to comfort her with the knowledge that he cares about her death and that she's not alone.

I don't know what to do about what I feel or don't feel about these things. Part of me wants to kick down doors and punch people in their smug, self-righteous faces. The other part of me just doesn't care.
I have a cup of sage, citrus, and lavender tea. With sugar it's sweet and hot. There's a broken lamp on the floor from where I tripped over its cord earlier: the glass is scattered about in one swooping curl. The sky is lightening and the birds are chirping.
I guess a reason that I hold on to things is because it seems to me that I'm the only one who cares that they happened to me. And if I give up, no one will care.
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