Wednesday, February 20, 2013

(The forever unfinished draft of my goodbye letter to you... because I can't imagine loving anywhere else)

Sometimes it only takes a very small, even inconsequential event to shatter this fragile joke of an existence that I call my life.  The counselor in training that surprise surprise, needs a fucking counselor.  How I'm feeling is something that I'm not even sure I can explain, or that I want to, but the feelings that are beginning to boil up within me are quite dangerous, and unfortunately the path of the destruction is infinite, putting all those I cherish in the crosshairs of a rifle that they don't even know exists to begin with.  The more I type the less I make sense, the less I make sense the more I worry, and the more I worry the worse this is going to get. 

This is what I do.  No matter the circumstances, I end up exactly here.  Torn between the fact that I love (him), and the fact that it's just not enough.  For me?  For him?  For...ever?  I don't know.  The feeling is the same though, the same as it was in the past, and just as inconvenient.  Has he finally lost my attention, as I feared he would from day one, or am I just being dramatic?  Is there truly something wrong here or am I creating this... need for something more?

I love him.  I can't even sleep without him next to me.  I love the way that he caresses my arm while we're sleeping and drags me closer to him.  He nuzzles me.  I didn't even know what that word meant until he came into my life.  He laughs at my jokes and calls me on my bullshit.  He's perfect.  In a way that I never will be.  Because as much as I love this man, as much as I want to spend the rest of my life with something deep inside of me has already decided that he will not be that guy.  That he can't be.

So am I running because the psych(ot)ic in me knows that I'll eventually get hurt?  Am I running to save myself from whatever heartache I will meet in the future?  Or am I running to save him from... this?

I've never been more scared or felt more alone in my life.

To describe what is going on inside of me is not only frightening but ill advised.  It's like someone is choking me, pushing on my chest in such a threatening way that my immediate response is to push back... hard and quick so whoever is there will be caught off guard and unaware of my retaliation.  My mind wanders to find someone to listen, someone that will understand, but t(he)y doesn't care.  I'm not a cheater; I'm not a liar; I wouldn't dare.  And who am I trying to convince?  The pull to escape figuratively, turns physical, and the need just intensifies.  Where does a girl go when everyone has given up on her, and the only one that still cares doesn't have a clue who you are, what you're feeling, or how crazy this is about to get?

How can he love me if I haven't even let him get to know me?

And this is why I have yet to find real love, intense, ever-lasting no questions asked love.  I just want to be safe, and it's hard to admit but the only arms that I want around me right now are the ones that I know will not hurt me, because I don't have to care.  He can't hurt me if I don't care.

The utterly human response to truth

I guess there comes in a time in life when you need to just be honest with yourself for a minute, cut through all the lies and all the bullshit and just lay it all on the line.  Because if you don't, you're going to lose.  And you're going to lose more than just respect, and attention, you're going to lose him.  Maybe it's not even about him, maybe it's the part of you that you'll lose too that matters the most here.  The truth is that you won't even know what's at stake until it's already gone.  And the risk is overwhelming, breathtaking, heart-wrenching.  And the question is simple, but simple only in the structured sense because so much goes in to the answer.

What do you want?

It's simple.  In structure.  And you're still speechless as a result.  You want it all.  You want him and you want you both together and you want this life that you see lived everyday.  You want the house and the white picket fence and the pair of dogs playing behind it.  You want the little girl... and boy... and maybe even one more to be playing in the treehouse that he builds for them.  The treehouse that you built together.  And you want to climb in to bed each night next to him, holding him and listening to his heartbeat.  You want to tackle the world together with him, and you want to build this life that you have been conditioned to dream of.  And you wanna scream all of this at him as he stands there trying to convince you for some reason that he isn't enough, that you don't want him, that you deserve more.  And it dawns on you that you know the answer to his question, even if it isn't the question that he originally posed.

You want this to be enough.

He stops talking and looks confused, like you're telling him that you've had enough, that you really are done.  And his face falls in a way that you have not yet seen.  The look of disappointment is shattering, breaking the moment into a thousand pieces at your feet.  And for the first time you realize something.  Words are not enough.  This is hard for you.  Almost impossible to understand.  How can there not be words, how can the poet not even make sense of this world for him?  But you're not a poet anymore.  You're not a writer anymore.  You aren't me anymore.  We are separate.  I am dying.  Because I realize it too.  The words will never be enough.

"I want this.  I want you.  And I want it to be enough.  Forever.  And always." ... and then silently...again.

And these words frighten and terrify, not because you remember, but because you mean it.  You love him.  He is the man in your dreams, he's at the end of the aisle, he's holding your precious child, he's singing to you in the car, and asking you to dance.  He's... everything.  He is your world now. 

With this comes consequence.  The truth is never quite as easy as one would hope, because humans are not immune to fear.  Writers are, thank god, but not humans.  I can see it in your eyes, and reflected unknowingly in your heart.  You love him so much that it could kill you, and you know this.  The lightbulb just brightened and I could see it in your eyes.  You're calculating... the distance it will take, the amount of miles that will be sufficient to escape. 

How far will you have to run?

And will he have the courage to follow?

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Do you ever catch yourself imagining a different life?  Maybe even one that was impossible, utterly the fictional sense, as well as the amazing sense i suppose.  I realize that i do this every time i travel in the Midwest, and it's generally much the same.

As the trees speed by outside my window, i imagine that i can see deeper into the forest.  And it becomes magical there, beckoning to be in an ethereal sense.  The animals all convene in an unlikely almost uncomfortable way.  Waiting.  And it dawns on me that they are expecting no one but me.  Sometimes the story darkens, and they don't just wait, they lie in wait.  Intentions much different, much more animalistic.

And i realize again that I'm just staring out my window, but i still feel the intense pull to look further through the trees.  To see if they're there, if they still wait, and if their eyes are the murderous color red i was expecting.