Comment: After "Hollywood A.D." - mind, I *did* enjoy the episode, this is Mulder getting all angsty, not me!
2. Shame
I am so ashamed.
Shame is something I have never felt like other people do: shame of being different, of being mocked, not fitting in. Shame of defeat. I started out already defeated, I have never had the luxury of shame.
But this has brought it to me, searing, white hot shame, the shame that makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out again. Just what I needed now. To see myself, my feelings, this whole idea of *us* that I don't even know how to refer to, this fragile thing that I try to hold in my hands whenever I open this book, ridiculed on the big screen. With her sitting right beside me, hiding her face in her hands. I don't even dare to imagine what she was thinking.
Maybe she was thinking the same thing I was, sat there watching in horror, and couldn't fight the worst suspicion of them all: what if this were true? What if they managed a coarse, crude, but accurate portrayal of our relationship? After all, my first thought was: how did they know? And immediately after that: are they right? Is this it, is this the truth? Sexual attraction, and a kind of wicked, twisted emotional dependence, is that all there is between us, all there ever was?
I promised not to lie anymore, at least here, in this book. So this is my fear: what if that night we shared (*that night* that is attaining an almost mythical status in my mind) was just sex? Two lonely people alone in the night, joining their bodies, longing for a bit of warmth, the confirmation that there is someone else out there, wanting to touch and be touched before they forget how to do it, how it feels.
What about the love, then? What about the magic? What about this pain in my heart, that tugs and rips and clings and won't let go? What about this constant scream in my mind, the scream that only wants her? I have written before that I want her again, I want her naked, I want to make love to her again, and again, and again. And when I've done it again and again and again, will it be enough? Will I be satisfied?
Posession. Is that what it's all about? Oh I don't know, I don't know! Through a whole life of searching and uncertainty, I've never had so many questions. All the questions I used to have I could answer, by lying to myself, by making an article of faith out of them, and afterwards, with Scully's help, by looking for scientific proof. But never did I question myself. I didn't have time for myself, I was not important. And yet, what an egoist I was, shaping the world only through my eyes. Until she came into my world, but instead of letting her shape my world, I started to shape her, to fit her into the world I had built, the world of fear and paranoia and guilt I felt so secure in.
And she let herself. Why? She's strong, independent, she has beautiful mind and soul of her own, why did she let me take her over so completely? And that night she came to me, was that her way of claiming back what she had lost in giving it to me?
I don't believe in miracles anymore. I used to, all my life has been based on belief. But never have I believed in myself, in my own ability to make things happen, to shape events, to take influence in other people. I have sat there, passive, waiting for fate to fall into my hands. Now I have to get up, walk, talk, do things, and it scares the shit out of me.
Scared and confused and ashamed and angry and hurt, that's what I am. All because I saw the worst movie in the history of filmmaking.
Maybe, just maybe, that's a - beginning?
2. Shame
I am so ashamed.
Shame is something I have never felt like other people do: shame of being different, of being mocked, not fitting in. Shame of defeat. I started out already defeated, I have never had the luxury of shame.
But this has brought it to me, searing, white hot shame, the shame that makes you want to crawl into a hole and never come out again. Just what I needed now. To see myself, my feelings, this whole idea of *us* that I don't even know how to refer to, this fragile thing that I try to hold in my hands whenever I open this book, ridiculed on the big screen. With her sitting right beside me, hiding her face in her hands. I don't even dare to imagine what she was thinking.
Maybe she was thinking the same thing I was, sat there watching in horror, and couldn't fight the worst suspicion of them all: what if this were true? What if they managed a coarse, crude, but accurate portrayal of our relationship? After all, my first thought was: how did they know? And immediately after that: are they right? Is this it, is this the truth? Sexual attraction, and a kind of wicked, twisted emotional dependence, is that all there is between us, all there ever was?
I promised not to lie anymore, at least here, in this book. So this is my fear: what if that night we shared (*that night* that is attaining an almost mythical status in my mind) was just sex? Two lonely people alone in the night, joining their bodies, longing for a bit of warmth, the confirmation that there is someone else out there, wanting to touch and be touched before they forget how to do it, how it feels.
What about the love, then? What about the magic? What about this pain in my heart, that tugs and rips and clings and won't let go? What about this constant scream in my mind, the scream that only wants her? I have written before that I want her again, I want her naked, I want to make love to her again, and again, and again. And when I've done it again and again and again, will it be enough? Will I be satisfied?
Posession. Is that what it's all about? Oh I don't know, I don't know! Through a whole life of searching and uncertainty, I've never had so many questions. All the questions I used to have I could answer, by lying to myself, by making an article of faith out of them, and afterwards, with Scully's help, by looking for scientific proof. But never did I question myself. I didn't have time for myself, I was not important. And yet, what an egoist I was, shaping the world only through my eyes. Until she came into my world, but instead of letting her shape my world, I started to shape her, to fit her into the world I had built, the world of fear and paranoia and guilt I felt so secure in.
And she let herself. Why? She's strong, independent, she has beautiful mind and soul of her own, why did she let me take her over so completely? And that night she came to me, was that her way of claiming back what she had lost in giving it to me?
I don't believe in miracles anymore. I used to, all my life has been based on belief. But never have I believed in myself, in my own ability to make things happen, to shape events, to take influence in other people. I have sat there, passive, waiting for fate to fall into my hands. Now I have to get up, walk, talk, do things, and it scares the shit out of me.
Scared and confused and ashamed and angry and hurt, that's what I am. All because I saw the worst movie in the history of filmmaking.
Maybe, just maybe, that's a - beginning?