I went to the DRIVE IN with my mask and boyfriend in July.
We saw RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK. Impeccable casting.
I had forgotten how resentful Karen Allen/Marion is at Indiana Jones/Harrison Ford in the bar scene.
“What you did to me! To my life!” she wails.
That surprised me. Marion was written as such a warrior and then, after 10 years of living a new life for her to say that? To blame him after 10 years?
There is no Expiration date on Resentment. It’ll keep.
Resentment, Victimhood, Grudge, Aversion.
Immediately Delivers the sweet burn. And then its gone and you need some more kindling to keep your resent-a fire burnin.
I’m not going to write the poison metaphor; you already know it.
I was dope sick on resentment against her and him and that and them. Then I graduated from that/thems and just resented MYSELF. Its seemed somehow a higher Art.
So I dove into the resentment of self since 2016 or so. I’ve done some writing, some facing, some weeping. I’ve done work. I gave myself a very small ration of compassion. Wouldn’t do it that way again.
But behold! Today in August 2020, most of the sweet shock of Resentment has fizzled. Not the same snap or high. Its not as catch-my-breath adrenalized as it once was. Some days I can still get roided up on R but its less and less because I’m onto myself. And you cant un-know once you know.
This is what I know: My Resentment (not my discernment -thats a different post) seems to be a False Flag. Sometimes. Not always. But a lot. This still surprises me.
Example: I have a writing deadline or I have to study something. Or Maybe before it was a social thing. Its a dry ,un-fun seeming, scary task. I don’t want to do it. I want to go home.
No problem. I can convert that “don’t wanna ” into a scraggly resentment to distract from the drudge. So SNAP! And now I’m in a spin about how old I am and how many years I wasted on: compulsive eating, being hung-over, in fear, giving fucks, over spending etc, etc. What a waste of years. I really resent myself hard. It’s over for me. Nothing charming will ever happen to me again.
Uh huh. I’m not buying it. On a clear day I (aha!) catch myself in the fake spin and realize: this ick feeling is perhaps not what I think. Is it possible I am wasting more time right now thinking about how much time I wasted?
To myself I ask: “What if I give you a full 30 minutes to ruminate on how awful you are after you do this task before you.”
Audible exhale. “Fine.”
I still relish in the Resentment DuJour. I just don’t marinate. I don’t live to swim the waters. I live on land but occasionally need to jump in once in a while to give a nostalgic shock to my system.
photo from “The Only Lovers Left Alive”
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