Cordelia Cordelia

Tuesdays are tricky. Both my best and worst days in the last one month have been Tuesdays. I think Tuesdays like playing with me. So I’ve decided that they don’t have to like me but I am going to tolerate them. I had a pretty regular day – class, lunch, curses, tea- blah – blah. After my last class, I sat at my desk and wondered if should just cut my uterus out and hide it somewhere. But then it tired me to think of blood, especially since I haven’t seen any in god knows how long so I decided to nap and read and make chai – and in that order. Thankfully my habit of mindlessly doing shit on Facebook will never outgrow me and I found SR’s new piece up on the Finger. It’s on Margaret Atwood’s book – Cat’s Eye. SR’s opening lines made me blush. Like somebody teased me and I couldn’t help but blush and pout at the same time.

Margaret Atwood wrote my childhood before it happened. Or at least a very good approximation of it.

And as I continued reading, I realized that I have accumulated far too many Cordelias in my life that I’ll never have the balls to walk away from. Some of these Cordelias don’t even know that they were my Cordelias. SR quotes Elaine, who says:

But Cordelia doesn’t do these things or have this power over me because she’s my enemy. Far from it. I know about enemies. There are enemies in the schoolyard, they yell things at one another and if they’re boys they fight. In the war there were enemies. […] You throw snowballs at enemies and rejoice if they get hit. With enemies you can feel hatred, and anger. But Cordelia is my friend. She likes me, she wants to help me, they all do. They are my friends, my girl friends, my best friends. I have never had any before and I’m terrified of losing them. I want to please.

The basic problem with all my Cordelias has been that they have all been my really good friends. I am only now learning how to survive potential Cordelias – measured, cold, distance. Something I think I may be getting good at. SR’s essay saved my Tuesday and made me not want to do miserable things to my uterus.

I wanted to same-pinch the crap out of her when I read this:

For me, this was crying. I’d cry and run away. Crying slid me into another mental state; one in which I didn’t feel so trapped that I was paralyzed, and my legs would actually move. Cry and run, cry and run, that’s my go-to for whenever I feel trapped – even today.

Every time I read an old journal, I count the number of times I have written- I am not going to cry about this anymore! And the number manages to astonish me every time. Even today, nothing comforts me like crying does. After a long session of feeling sorry and crying, my mind is clear and I get awfully chirpy.

My goal for the next week is to read Cat’s Eye and read like a motherfucker.

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