The Pain of People

Hello, Hello All,

            I haven’t abandoned you, I promise. This has been my first post in a long time because I have been dealing with seriously grey issues in the not so gray world around me. After much thought, I have decided that I should put it out there in this space, and see what comes back to me. Wracking my brains, stressing, hemming and hawing, nail biting, and worrying hasn’t helped, so I’m going to try something that is very unlike me, and I’m going to ask for help.

            The problem? People. Loving them, caring for them, caring about them, wanting them, and needing them. There have been a number of people in my life in the past month who have made me love them, made me worry, and left me hanging, and I don’t know why they do it. You probably don’t think that they’re doing it on purpose, right? That they are not causing me this much stress intentionally, because that would just be cruel. The thing is, I think some people like this kind of attention; I think they thrive on it. They text you to tell you that they’re drunk at a bar in a bad part of town, and then wait an hour to call you back when you’ve been calling them frantically, worried that they’ve been taken advantage of. They spiral out of control, beg you to help them pick up the pieces, and then go right back and do the thing that caused the spiral to begin with. They say they’re not in love with you, but then they flirt shamelessly, keep tabs on you, and get pissed when you don’t text them back for a few hours. They grieve loss in unhealthy ways and think that death gives them the right to act irresponsibly, and belittle and slam those around them. They say they understand the nature of your relationship to them, they say they’re clear on the lines, but then you make love to them and suddenly they want more than you ever agreed to give. Why?

            The bigger question is, what’s the solution? Should I just be done with people? Should I pack up my dog, move to the middle of nowhere and write brooding and profound novels for the rest of my life? The unfortunate thing that I have realized in all of this is that I can’t. I can’t leave people. People are my people. They make my heart ache with love and longing, they fill my chest with guilt, my throat with unheeded warnings—but I love them, people.

I love it when they are sorry for making me worry, and tell me jokes to put my mind at ease; I love it when they come wholly back together again, and we can sit and talk and be real with one another again; I love it when they poke me and kick me, I love knowing that that’s how they show they’re love, whatever kind of love it is. I love it when they come out on the other side of their pain, and when they are grateful for my having weathered the fog with them. I love it when I see their faces again, and, even though they’re sad that I couldn’t give more, they’re happy with what I can give.

I still want to pose this question, though. I may be doomed to a life of people, of love and pain, and joy and sadness, but perhaps if I could figure out why, it would bring some comfort. Why do people do these things? Why do they cause this kind of pain and turmoil? Do some people thrive on this kind of emotional stress, or is the root more innocent? What do you think?

People are my people. And I’ll never leave them. I’ll never stop loving them, and they will never stop causing me pain. That’s the gift and curse of being human. Welcome to life and the business of living, GreyGirl :)

You are my people too, though, and I won’t leave you. I’m sorry for neglecting the Grey Space. I’m back, and I hope you are all well.

Peace and love and bugs named Doug,

GreyGirl