Why Creed Makes Me Cry

Hello my friend, we meet again.
It’s been a while, where should we begin?
Feels like forever.
— Creed, “My Sacrifice” ((Ibid. next six blocks of lyrics.))

I suppose I might as well write this down.

Amongst the many things I and my bartender discussed in the last session (which I ought to write up… but… it’s hard, there are so many ideas to work through), we discussed avoidance and how that, for me at least, breeds triggers.

Basically, this means that side hobbies or interests I take up will, sooner or later, turn into triggers—they become associated with something I do to attempt to displace the fear and attempt to postpone the coming attack, in the hopes that both will just go away. And one day, my PTSD turns them against me. ((Yes, I’m aware how personalizing and externalizing my PTSD might have bad results, but it’s how I grasp the idea of it, and if I can grasp something, I can plan for it better than if I just leave it at a nebulous definition. No definitions are permanent in this area anyways.))

Thus far, however, there are three things my PTSD can’t take away from me, no matter how many times I support myself with them while it rages at me. They are:

  • Sunlight and natural spectrum light. That seems a pretty intrinsic human instinct, and thus the PTSD can’t uproot it. It might as well try to uproot an ancient oak.

  • Cows. For reasons I don’t understand, but has something to do with being able to hold onto something, and thus the PTSD can’t take it away. I’m not sure why a similar immunity doesn’t apply to things like crafts and other kinds of hobbies. Oh well.

  • Friends. Although they can certainly do things that hurt me, having them—a support network—is better than without.

Within my heart are memories
Of perfect love that you gave to me.
Oh, I remember…

And now I suppose I must expose you to the Creed song, “My Sacrifice”, that makes me cry (although all of Creed sounds far too similar to me…). But don’t worry, it’s got Hiro Nakamura, my absolute favorite Heroes character, in it (and only the first season of his best moments, at that).

You’ll have to go to YouTube to watch it. Pops up in new window. Heroes Season 1 spoilers, obviously.

My favorite part is at the 3:00 mark, but I can’t bear to watch past 3:30.

When you are with me,
I’m free
        I’m careless
                I believe
Above all the others, we’ll fly—
This brings tears to my eyes…

I have said before that I don’t know what love is. I think I’m wrong; I think I did know, at least what a certain kind of love is. I think I loved somebody before. I tend to call him my Crimnee, because in many ways he’s quite like that Sinfest character. Or at least was. I don’t know where he is anymore, and he doesn’t know where I am anymore, and this is good, because my parents traced my number through him once during the Years of Zorn and Tharn, and that was more than enough.

Although I can’t really call him “My Sacrifice”, because that somehow implies he’s “mine”, but he was always his own person, just like anybody else. I guess you could argue I sacrificed my connection with him. ((Yes, I know, it’s probably only just a one-way thing. I know that deeply, and people don’t have to bang that into me in the hopes of either helping and/or hurting me, because others can’t hurt me more than I already do over this aspect.))

But despite knowing him through the beginning and the first part of the Years of Zorn and Tharn, being with him somehow made everything better. Even when it really, really wasn’t. Even when my parents were actively tracking me down, and I just didn’t—no, I was in denial about—how dangerous they were.

We’ve seen our share of ups and downs,
Oh, how quickly life can turn around
In an instant

In the end, it was not to be. Life is a bitch, sometimes.

It hurts, years later, now that I have enough mental space to think about it.

Everybody goes through this. It’s a normal kind of grief. And while it hurts, it does push away the PTSD. It’s something else the PTSD can’t touch. At least for now. And I think… it’s never been able to.

It feels so good to reunite,
Within yourself and within your mind,
Let’s find peace there

I dreamed about him last night (well, I guess, now the night before last night).

Which is why I cursed about Creed this morning on Twitter. When I think about my Crimnee, I pretty much have to listen to “My Sacrifice” on a loop. And watch this YouTube in the morning after, to try to ground myself. And to grieve.

That’s why the PTSD didn’t hit that morning, even though it’s grabbed just about every other morning since December 2nd or 3rd.

Also, I think I’ve found out who “he” is when I listen to this particular song, below. I kept hoping it wasn’t my abusive father. And I think it’s not.

Ah, faith. My friend, even though he was very much a devout Christian, never forced those ideals on me. He never asked me or told me to forgive my parents; he never told me to have faith in God’s plan; he never told me that God meant this to happen to me. I don’t think he ever thought these, even though many people around us did.

I just want to say hello again,
I just want to say hello again—

Anyways, I won’t seek him out. I do wish I could, but at the same time, I know it’s not practical, and we’ve both moved on with our lives. These memories of those times are precious to me, and I don’t want them destroyed right now. And so I don’t wish I could. Kind of confusing, and yet true.

You know, I’ve fallen in love twice more after my Crimnee (and not always with guys, which is when I realized I was neither straight nor homosexual, but bisexual, although an awful lot of people will try to tell me there is no such thing). Never worked out, and they never could.

Maybe someday I’ll be ready. Not necessarily with him, but with somebody else. Or heck, maybe somebodies else. I’m not restricting myself here. Life has taught me not to do that, though I still resist the lesson.

Okay. Now to wash all that out with a segment about cows. And also Zorro-masked cello players. No, really. See 1:30 to the end. Especially 2:15. And someone who probably has the same gender identity as I do, which is… complicated, I think.

Sweet dreams are made of these,
Who am I to disagree?
I travel the world and the seven seas,
Everybody’s looking for something.

Hold your head—moving on
Keep your head—moving on
Hold your head—moving on
Keep your head—moving on…
— Eurhythmics, “Sweet Dreams (Are Made of These)”