Morbid Romantic

Book Review & Personal Blog

It was hard for her to sacrifice happiness. She had so little of it throughout her life that she almost felt entitled to it, like it was owed to her after so long of emotional struggle. It made her feel selfish, but the thought of going back to that place was more miserable than she could bear. As time went on, she tried to stop feeling this way, told herself that she had to mature and get past the immature emotions and the stifling anger that contributed its own ample, significant share of misery.

Sometimes, you have to sacrifice, she told herself. Even then, though you’ve lost, you can be satisfied that you’ve given someone something else. Her brain attempted to rearrange priority. Each time she managed to push aside her selfish needs, she thought in her head, you’re doing what no one ever did for you.

That’s the way cycles are broken.

Everyone always speaks of their first memory. This memory can be something half realized or foggy, but certain elements stand out. That is, after all, what makes a memory a memory. Some people claim to remember being a baby, while others insist that they remember certain toddler or adolescent moments first. Yet no matter how hard she thought, she could not recall one memory that was her ‘first.’ Sure, there were tons of memories, but they had no dates or times attached to them. She could not recall when something happened or even relate memories to moments against which things could be put chronologically. Because, for her, time had never been of any importance. She was so utterly apathetic about time and its passage that it wasn’t worth remembering or attaching to parts of her life. Later on, as an adult, this causes all of her memories to jumble into nonsense that becomes not worth remembering either.

She hated when people would talk about Angels. It invoked in her a lonely sort of bitterness. The stories of Angel comfort and Angel visits seemed nice, warm and enveloping. People on television spoke of feeling these positive things and of feeling as if someone was watching over their shoulder to protect them, always there and always loving. It was this that made her the most jealous. Her jealousy was caused by the dual assault of confusion and abandonment; she knew that inside, deep inside, she felt isolated and lonely and nothing was there to watch or love her. It sounded so wonderful to think with earnest that someone was there watching, there to protect and love you. But no matter what she did, no matter how hard she asked and prayed, she never got that feeling. Though not to spite herself, she resolved that she really was all alone. When people talk of Angels, she is reminded of this.

At first, she was so desperately scared to be alone that it sent her into an instant panic. The thought of abandonment was so hurtful and so terrifying that she would do or say anything to keep people close to her. She would break down into tears and begs, plead, say frantic things no matter how pathetic or low it took her. That was a small price to pay next to the fear that she would be left all alone with nothing and no one, pointless. Existing without really being in existence.

There came a point, though, where she decided that nothing was preferable to this. In exchange, she would have to give up the desire and pleasure of human closeness. To want it would be to love it and vice versa. In order to never be hurt by it, she would have to devalue it, to lower it to the level of nothing.

After a while, this became second nature. It was no longer through any act of force or through necessary self-delusion that she had to mitigate closeness, being with someone. It got to where she preferred being alone to the tedious stress of having someone around. Being alone was no longer the worst possible end, but the best. She began to see having someone around her as a threat to her stability, to the calm and predictable world that she had built around herself.

The boy who sat behind her had turrets that manifested itself in minor twitches and jumps. Though a quiet guy, at first she just thought that he was just spastic or itchy until he confessed rather matter of factly that he had turrets. During their end of the year projects, he sat in front of the class with a guitar and played a Gregorian Chant that he had translated from voice to string. It was one of the prettiest things that she had ever heard. Even though, to this day, she can’t remember his face or his name, she remembers that song.

She was peculiar child.

Her uncle recommended to her mother once that she should go to speak to someone about her youngest daughters behavior. They thought it strange that at such a young age, the small child never liked to play with other children. Instead, she’d sit content on the couch and stare transfixed at the paintings and pictures on the walls, always quiet and still.