Learning that heartbreak is much like recovering from addiction has given me rays of hope. As with the mis-wired centers of reward and pleasure-seeking which led me to my relationship with Rocky the Salty Shard, understanding something of the process – that I need more love, attention, hugs, and support; rather than pain, what-ifs, obsessive routines, and self-flagellation has helped me start towards feeling whole again. I’ve lost something incredibly precious, and I’m still nursing hopes it will come back to me like a forgotten Tori Amos song, a portmanteau of yesterday and tomorrow, something new which describes both. But I’m not standing still waiting for that. He said our love was a fantasy and that he no longer had love for me, there simply isn’t anywhere to go now with that. In all likelihood there never will be, but we met in the first place didn’t we? Stranger things have happened. Should the accretion of cause and effect triggers in the progression of the time-based universal interaction eventually push us back together, then, maybe we can move forward from there. If not, I will always hold a piece of myself for him, an unwritten poem in the shadows of my left ventricle, crouching, ready to pounce, completely hidden by its surroundings.
My fears that no one else will look at me with that storybook twinkle, that if someone does I will be unable, unwilling, or incapable of responding in kind have not been assuaged. Unlike my meth-tastrophe, this monkey is not going to go away. Not because it can’t, but because I’m not going to let it. See above metaphor about a the crouching thing in my heart. My own private, bloody Idaho. An Easter egg I’ll have to look very hard to find. A secret everyone knows.
In the meantime, more love. Please.
These things all mean so much
it is all about the climb
a search for words
within the hash of tags
and I go away to Westeros,
to the Neck,
dorky, chunky, aggressive, and needy
of such things a knight is made
a man of jealous rage given a weapon
against my words
he asks him to climb
These lances are resolutions
to be splintered by force
pushing against the door
“I am not a smart man”
but I know he doesn’t know
it is all about the climb
he will reach out
hold the ones and zeroes
in his hands
they will comfort… so
is your place in heaven
worth giving up
such a clever exchange rate
love for hashtags.
something in me broke yesterday. i shifted through the last stage of grief during a run perhaps, I am not quite sure. What I realized is the truth behind what everyone (even him) told me: I’m incredible. I’m worth more than being broken because he is. It doesn’t change how I feel, I still love him. But I’ve let him go. Remarkably fast, if I say so myself. He didn’t put me first, and he should have. I hope he learns how to do that in the future. Being destructively beautiful doesn’t last, and cats only warm you so much. Surely in the months to come I’ll find another flip, where I decide he really was doing the best thing for me, because wonderful things will happen and being a sentient ape I will search for patterns in that noise. “Wow, he must have known X, Y, & Z were coming and realized that he was standing in the way! He’s so considerate.” *not impressed either, McKayla*
The world is opening up (it would have anyway, which is, of course the rub) and moments are flying towards me at a speed I will have to work to maintain. I’ve gotten very used, over the past 9 years, to a privation of choice. Limits, Frank. You may have A or B, nothing else. How I will manage the depth of what I need to face is an open question. But I’m not afraid. It’s one of the reasons I can’t understand why he did what he did. It seems a reflexive action done out of fear and I’m prison-tested against letting fear push me down.
Good luck, monito.
It’s something I don’t need. I’ll make my own.
Let’s do this. 😛
*blink* smile *blink*
finally slept well (thanks benadryl). woke up smiling. trying to game the length of time i’m supposed to allow myself to mourn, to honor what I’m being forced to walk away from, is such a thorny question. time to deal with other things.
to go to grad school or not? what to study if I do? surely I should have an answer by now. but after majoring (in order) in History, Creative Writing, TV & Movie Writing, and finally getting my degree in Information Technology:Cybersecurity – well. I don’t have a fucking clue. I think I might like to work for social change somewhere, but I have no idea how to do this.
move to NYC? chase that old dream? but will I end up working a job a hate so I can have the right to wander streets that made me feel alive at 22?
or be near formative people?
stay in Louisiana? keep working at a job I’ve mastered which gives me the leeway to travel the world a couple times a year? buy a little house, keep a cat and garden?
i. don’t. fucking. know.
but my head is above water today and I’m smiling.
another sleepless night. more gnashing of teeth and tossing in the bed. more protestations to an uncaring Internet. the ebb and flow of clarity, I suppose. all my talk of not believing in regret, seems rather like boasting now. at 130am. Alone.
i keep trying to stoke this anger inside me, to develop this cinder of hate. let it burn until i’m numb and have moved on. #anotherfailure
i don’t hate him. i just miss him.
Monday waits on no one, perhaps this time I’ll dream.
seventeen plus years ago I moved to NYC. with a North American nothing: $200, 3 weeks of clothes, and 1 friend. I slept on benches, squatted with strangers, sold my body, did drugs, went dancing, and met some people who are still with me today. I did eventually make NYC work, if in a roundabout, discombobulated sort of manner. I worked. A lot. I got paid. A lot. And I built a second life for myself. A secret me, steeped in the pleasant muck of the burgeoning Internet and hiding from the light on the horizon.
I loved NYC. Still do. But anyone who knows me well understands how I love. It doesn’t really die.
When I moved there I had a portable CD player, and two CDs. One of which was To Venus and Back. I played the song “Lust” over and over again, letting the staccato of the drums over Tori’s soft soprano merge with the sensations of movement around me. Two things which on the surface, the song and the place, had no relation. Yet somehow, I found something in them. A resonance. NYC became that some for me. It was my own ghost-lie, my own whispered reality. And I waited.
Seventeen years and a lot has changed. But not that.
NYC, I am coming back to you.
Soul-trading, as it were.
From one love to another.
We’ll see how brave you are. 🙂