When we hurt, for whatever reason we hurt, strange things happen. First we try to blame the world, because lets-face-it there is no reason why anyone else should be happy if we are not. At times we do more than attach blame, we try to hurt others just to get some sort of sadistic affirmation that pain - once shared - is diluted. Finally, we stop trying to lash out and pain becomes intrinsic, so when there is no one else left to blame, there is always oneself. It's masochistic, to say the least, but some of us enjoy it. Enjoy looking at the scars every now and then and congratulating oneself on surviving the pain. A lot of us take comfort in knowing that if we've made it through once, we will make it through again, and we think that it makes us stronger. Which it does, for a while. Except each scar is a barrier. A reason not to let someone else inside. A justification to act in a particular way. And gradually a warm strong person becomes cold and brittle. And before we know it, its one crack is too many and then they break.
So here I am: realizing that I'm standing at a place where I may have given myself no options but to fall apart. Which is fine (say I) because I've done it before. Except each time I've fallen apart, I've rather randomly put it all together with scotch-tape and easy pick-me-ups that do nothing but hang on to the pain, shelve it and throw it back on the inside.
This time, I need a new strategy. Atlantic City, my loves, will just not do.