On Weighing The Pros And Cons Of Denial.

It has always been a given, that denial is bad for the situation. And it does nothing to heal only to make things worse. And as a general rule, yes I do agree. It's true and it makes sense.

But there comes a time, when you see denial in quite a different light. It's a subtle experience, this. The time when you feel the fear creeping in and you don't wanna admit it. When you get the silly notion that somehow admitting to it will only confirm it and make it all the more real. Maybe if I ignore it, it'll just go away or it'll never actually fully form and materialize.

I refer to it here in particular to thoughts and feelings. Does writing it down and/or saying it out make it all the more real and encourage it to shape and take form? Does acknowledging it means closing the door behind you and creating a point of no return per se? Does it make a difference not to then?

This of course, is denial. You fear feeling it so much that you just don't wanna admit it to yourself. So does not actually talking about it or really acknowledging it keep the door open for you step back to the safe zone before you started getting these pesky thoughts and feelings? Or is the door closed anyway the moment you realized or suspected that this is what you're thinking or feeling?

I guess it depends on who you are then. On how you function. It seems this way that denial, effective denial might actually be a skill. That if you're really good enough at it, then you might just be able to make it as if you never even thought about it in the first place and sidestep all the possible inconveniences that might occur.

Very useful skill to have, I must say. Hmmm... Interesting. *shrugs* I had hoped to be able to come to a conclusion on this, but I suppose all I have right now is a hypothesis.

The hypothesis being, if you're really that good at the art of denial then, yeah it might actually be beneficial because it'll actually serve the purpose it was meant to serve in the first place. But if you're not quite so adept at it, then the hell, it makes no difference. See, this is where it gets complicated. The moment you realized it was when you stepped past the point of no return, and no amount of supressing it or talking about it is gonna really make it go away. BUT, talking about it, discussing it freely and announcing it to the world and to yourself might give you the feeling that you're free now to expand on this feeling that you wanted nothing to do with in the first place. And that might lead to actually encouraging it. So... Acknowledgement is ok, in moderation? Oh shit.

Now that didn't really make things any simpler now did it? *smiles*

Why Do You Make Me Feel, Like I've Got To Be Made of Steel?

I sat with Mademoiselle the other day and together, we sat in silence. She stared into the distance vaguely, only dazedly, out the sunlit window and the light fell on her face. A long tendril of smoke curled slowly upwards from her stick which she held away from her body, her arm draped over the side of the armchair.

“Why does he got to say that?” Mademoiselle demanded of me savagely, her attention fully turned on me.

“Why does he got to say that! It’s not true I tell you! I have got no emotions and that’s a fact. Why does he got to say all those lies about me?”

“It’s true, Mademoiselle,” I said slowly and evenly at her.

“It’s not true I tell you! It’s all lies! I’ve got no feelings and no one can say otherwise!” she spat in disgust.

I kept silent and held my gaze upon her.

She could see it in my eyes, in the melancholic weariness with which I surveyed her. It was a heavy glance, she didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Mademoiselle bristled with indignance. “I’ve not got it! I don’t!” she shouted at me with anger. “Why does he got to say that I do!” I could see her eyes glassing over with moisture as she shrieked at me.

“Why does he have to dig up all these things. I don’t got it, I’ve nothing to be dug up!” the tears welled up in her eyes, angry and possibly, heartbroken.

“Why does he gotta say that?” she slumped defeatedly back into the chair.

I sat in silence throughout her outburst, keeping my gaze lowered somewhere around her waist. She looked by far the most ruffled I had ever seen her. Indeed, I have never seen her with a hair out place before. She was always immaculate, impeccable, arrogance and steel. But today, she was just a little bit disconnected.

The silence lay heavy upon us and I watched a solitary tear slid down the corner of one eye, making a single passage down.

Still I held my silence. And we remained there, with the both of us sitting opposite each other across a small, round coffee table. I sat upright on my armchair, my fingers crossed in a steeple in front of my face, my elbows braced on the armrests, and she, slumped low and curled up slightly sideways in hers. Light stirs of smoke drifted upwards, almost immediately dissipating into thin air from the burnt through stick which lay forgotten on the floor.

Still I held my silence.