Wings
There's really nothing more humbling than holding someone's head as they wretch out their guts for the tenth time in a night. Especially when the pain of being there is so personal that empathy cuts to the bone. Especially if you're there sincerly and voluntarily, even if you didn't intend to be.

I had wings.

The evening started out almost hysterically, a frenzy of shopping for the party ($100 in liquor and $70 in party supplies) before dropping Justin off to roleplay and bursting into Alex's house unannounced. I got a good deal of work done on my cloak and...surprise... I can actually sew. The leaf clasp I won on ebay seems to suit the dark wool very well. And god damn, I'm proud of what I've done... it actually looks like a cloak! (I somehow thought I'd be like the Akane of sewing or something, but apparently I don't give myself enough credit.) After a few hours of calming down with repetetive, domestic tasks, I picked up Justin and we went over to Sara and Brad's for Brad's 21er, hence the drunken bullshit post from Saturday night.

I'm amazed how well I can handle alcohol; coming into a party and downing three shots to match pace with everyone else there seemed not to even shock my system. I think, for the most part, we were blessed with an amazing sense of cameraderie, especially when all the girls were piled onto the couch and schmoozing about chick stuff. Again, not something I'm used to but I think I can learn to love it. Scratch that, I do love it and I think I'd like more of it. I even thoroughly enjoyed myself when all the boozed up boys got loud, took off their shirts, and cheered for us to do the same. That was a little reminiscent of a frat party... but I do get a rise out of exhibitionism. Not the same tone as one of OUR naked parties but eh, what the hell.The payoff was sincere joviality... and being piled into a 3 x 10 kitchen with 15 people shirtless, cheering people is a rolicking good time.

But the night wound down (as these things do) and ran the gamut from joy to pain. No, I didn't get sick. I was far from it, but several other people did. When that happens, I'm always glad that I've never had the experience of dealing with it in my house.

But I ended up in the bathroom and quite sober, if just from the bulk of the emotion eminating from the person inside. I'm not a weepy drunk, but I'm not a strong, stoic or giddy, careless drunk, either. I'm just empath enough to recognize a need for consolance when I hear it... and just close enough to my own past to know the kind of wound that need stems from.

It's one thing to empathize... but to try to heal and to explain is another thing entirely, especially if you're speaking from the outside and from the OTHER side.

But I tried to explain and came suddenly face to face with one shard of memory that I'd been avoiding-- having to see what heartbreak really does to someone.

Some things just dont make sense, I said. Sometimes you just have to wait on it. And I didn't think I was immune to that familiar pain but I was still surprised to be crying too. It wasn't a bad cry, or a guilty cry, it was just REAL. I was never blind; I'd just never had to look at it from that angle before. It takes moments like that to make you face those things you push into the shadows and hide in the corners and forget about.

So what do you do when you can't answer the questions and you can only say "wait" and give comfort in empty words about the things people do for their own sake? What do you do when you remember yourself what it was like to be alone in a room full of people and surrounded by friends, when you tried to kill yourself a little more every day because you felt that alone? You bare down and take it and let that blackness flow through and out of you; you gather the little things you find along the way into silver strands and knot them into a silver cord and sling that cord around the edges of the blackness until you can strangle it and tear it apart. You step out and you know:
It doesn't have to make sense; it just is.

And that's all I could say, because I was facing myself and it's hard to be objective when you're facing yourself... even thought I'm on the outside and even though I'm on the other side. I really don't know how to explain myself. But it hurts me, too, because I know I'm lucky and I could be lying when I say it will be OK. Not everyone comes out whole. I know what I've got.

I don't know if I helped much, saying what I did or even using up a week's energy on opening up, but I felt better afterwards even if I was raw. Facing demons. Talking it out. Being honest. I'm glad especially for that conversation afterwards, because I think I'd still be wasted if I hadn't had it.

These wings stay on me still, like a mantle of silver. Under the silver path, my darkest roads are still beneath me.

I went to bed at five in the morning and got up again less than five hours later. So yes, I'm more than a little delerious. I don't expect this to make sense to most anyone unless, maybe, I'm not giving you all enough credit.

Still, it's almost enough to make me hesitant about holding another party this coming weekend. It's an old truth that alcohol makes people crazy (because we're all crazy underneath), and when you put it together with a mixed company and a history of drama, the atmosphere is a fulcrum for change.