Lost Love

But oh well I guess, what’s done is done, ya know.  I just miss you still, a lot.  Maybe I miss feeling how much you love me.  And I miss just getting to be around my best friend and getting to share so much with you and getting so close with you.  And I just wish we would have been the ones for each other.  That would have been really nice.  But I guess I realize now if things proceeded as they were, I would eventually have been very unhappy, and I think that that would have hurt you to see.  Sometimes I still wonder if at one point you had empathy, but then lost it.  It seems as a little boy you had a sensitive heart, which for it to be all about you could be possible, but just seems a little unlikely.  I still don’t completely understand why you want what you want in life, though I’ve tried to.  It almost seems as if work and comfort sometimes get prioritized over love.  But that happens.  And that’s your choice.  I want my life to be a great adventure with the love of my life.  I figure that the rest will probably fall into place once that’s there

I often wonder what will happen with your love for me when you find someone else and eventually settle down like you want to.  Will it fade?  Will it change?  Will you forget about it?  Will you forget about it through distractions like work and going out, maybe by having a child?  Will she know about me, ever be ok with me?  Or are some things better left unsaid?  It seems to me that it would be hard to harbor the kind of love you have for me along with another love for someone who supposedly is supposed to have your heart.  So either a part of you will always be in love with me and have to somehow reconcile that with having a different wife, or your love for me will change or dissipate, which is hard to process now given that you speak of your love for me as being so strong and so eternal, that you ended up loving me more than you thought you could, that you knew you loved me from that first day we met up after all those years for lunch.  I don’t really know why I wonder so much about these things, probably because they affect statements made to me now, like what it means for me to always have a place in your heart and for you to always love me.  I always say that time will tell if “forever” is true.

Maybe you’ll meet someone else and realize I wasn’t all that, or at least that I wasn’t everything you wanted, that there is someone better for you.  Maybe love will no longer blind you so much to all of my flaws—my sensitivity and changing emotions—and your love for me will be able to genuinely change, or maybe even go away.  Sometimes I wonder though—do people ever get married to someone else even though they know they also love someone else, even perhaps possibly more than the person they are marrying?  I mean, I wonder these things.  Do they happen in life?  Is life really that messy?  Is what’s supposed to be a fairy tale—does it ever really turn out that way?  In ways it’s very heart-breaking and sad for me to think about, but in others, it’s kind of amazing, that a secret true love could burn so purely and loyally in the heart of someone who, by unfortunate circumstance, has had to part from the one who had his or her heart.  I know that person can love again, I just wonder if it will be the same, or if a part of them will always long for that other person until their dying day, even if they can never act upon that, even if they can never fully, truly express that sentiment again. 

 
I’ll probably never know the answers to my questions.

One of These Days

One of these days I'm worried that my heart's just going to break open. And we're going to have a lot of blood on our hands. And that's going to be a problem.

Clarification

I want to say something that relates to the post before this one...
Please note, my emotions can change very rapidly, so I very well may not be feeling this way in a day or so, or even in an hour or two. I just worry that people might mistake the drama of what I'm saying for a crisis when it's really not. I just have some things I'm working through. I write these things (many of which I've never shown to others, including two posts which I started typing on here but couldn't bring myself to publish because I don't want them to hurt others to read) in large part because I've learned that when strong feelings strike and you have the urge to express them through writing, you should do so as soon as possible because later on your writing can lose its punch, and you may not even feel like writing about what you initially wanted to, or you could lose the startling clarity of your thoughts and feelings and exactly what they meant to you in that moment. Like, earlier today, I wanted to write about religion. And I should have done it then because I had a lot to get off my chest and the beginning of my words all impassioned and prettily lined up in my mind, but then later in the day, other things started to really bother me, and I didn't feel I could muster up the same amount of agitation I had felt over the subject just earlier in the day, or at least not enough to make me feel sincere and genuine in my writing, or that it was as good or true as it could have been. In some ways, I guess having strong, bothersome thoughts and feelings subside and not being able to remember them as clearly as before could be good, but I've always been kind of a sucker for the truth of things.

Again

I can feel it again, the depression starting to creep back into my veins. Maybe that's why I tried to cut them in the first place, to let all that sadness out. If only it were that simple.

I Understand Now

I understand now...
More than I ever thought I would.
More than I ever thought I could.
More than I wanted to.

I understand now how
people become obese
why people self harm
why people hurt other people on a regular basis (I could rarely understand this)
how people come to say, "I hate other people" (I could never understand this before)

I thought this for the first time last week. I cannot even begin to express the anxiety, fear, tension, loathing, disgust, and pain that preceded and followed this event.

experentially how people become apathetic and cynical (always understood that it happened, but never experientially how)
how people fail to help others when they need it most, even when they love them, even when they mean to
that people are sometimes pushed to the brink, and sometimes they snap


I don't yet know
what it's like to be
pushed all the way up to that edge
where you're no longer teetering
and you just fall.

I think I may be heading there though.
But perhaps I'm just fine
But then again
If I've learned anything
Maybe it's that
When I say that
I mean I'm really not.

Maybe though, it's all in my mind
But then again, that's where so much of this anguish is wrought
And the wars of the mind
Those are sometimes the scariest to be fought

I still have some time left
I don't know how much
Is there enough care to go around
To save us all?
If not, then maybe just let me fall.

Disclaimer: I don't want people to worry about me in terms of thinking that I'm about to do something really serious, because I'm not trying to threaten and/or imply that. I am calling out for help to those who've said they care about me, and I am trying to be pretty honest about that. I really am taking steps to try to address all of these things right now; it's just really helpful for me to be able to express some of the toxins that I carry around inside. Thanks for caring, if you do, and thanks for reading. Wishing for peace, happiness, and love for others.

Picture this Picture

I want you
to picture this.

A black and white picture of two hands holding each other. The contrast is turned up high. One hand is bigger than the other, more masculine, creased with more lines. It belongs to a man of about 50. However, it is not the hand of a hard laborer. It is though the hand of a man who has worked and seen a lot in his life. There are slight bumps, shadows of callouses long ago received. The hands, though square and a bit stout have smooth, soft skin. They are hands that have been weakened by an illness, hands of an indoor worker who washes frequently and needs to keep good hygiene for his job. Even though they look strong, like they could grip something firmly, there is also an element of fragility about them.

The other hand is smaller, more slender, and delicate. It is a surprising hand though. It looks small, but it is a hand that would reach out to grab yours right as you were about to fall. It would hold tight, and it wouldn't let you go. It would save your life, if only you would let it. The fingers are narrow, the nails are longer, the creases are fewer. The cuticles are pretty well maintained, the nails come just above the fingertips and look strong, even pretty.

The immediate focus of the photograph is on the contrast between the appearances of each hand, their different ages and lines and how the one that looks weaker seems to have hidden strength while the one that looks stronger looks like it might break unexpectedly. However, as you continue to view the picture, it strikes you not only different the hands are, but also that they are still holding on to one another.

And this is the only frame you get of the relationship. And outside of this tiny black and white square, so much more could be going on. Even though you only see the hands, somehow you know. You know that just outside the frame, these hands join two people who are simultaneously in agony while showing compassion. You know that even though the hands are together in this frame, the rest of the world is likely crumbling around this pair. Sometimes the grip falters, threatens to break, sweat threatening to loose the delicate fingers from the hand that appears sturdier.

You know, you know that these hands belong to people who are simultaneously keeping it together-their relationships, their hearts, their lives, while also falling apart. They are leaning on each other and running away from each other. They are confiding in one another, they are hiding from one another. They are sharing secrets, they are creating them. They are keeping them. They are manipulating them. They are bearing their sorrows together, they are traveling through life utterly alone. They are crying, they are laughing. They are smiling, they are frowning. They are being put back together, they are breaking down. They are searching for help, they have found it. They don't know if they will ever get better, this is all the strength they would ever need.

And now.
Now I want you to feel.
A heart that has beaten itself raw, an open blister, leaking, susceptible to painful touch.

I want you to sense,
I want you to sense a topic that is painful to discuss. A tv kept on to keep the dark place's of one's mind distracted. A fear of sitting down to write. Suppression and repression in an attempt to not deal with overwhelming emotions. An attempt to run but also to scream and express and heal and tackle and understand. Hot, flowing, coursing emotion, pounding like blood that threatens to spill out, or exhaust its owner in the process, take her out, knock her down, break her heart, and force her, trembling, to reaffirm the grip on that deceptively stronger looking hand.

I Am Wondering...

What is that point
Where that thread breaks?
And people change,
for the worse.

A little boy sits up in his room drawing a picture. Shading, coloring to get the image of a horse just right. He dreams of being an artist or a jockey, maybe both, some day. Actually, he already is an artist, in his own way, if you think about it. He eagerly waits to show his Dad when he gets home, pacing back and forth in his bedroom.

"Goddamn fool. Boys aren't supposed to do art. That's for sissies. Put that shit away."

A lowered face, a limp hand, a crumpled picture falls to the floor. 10 years later, this boy, now 20, seems typical, seems superficial. He goes to parties and tries to get laid. He's in the gym six days a week to improve his body to help him get laid. He talks cars and sex and loads on musky cologne. But no one knows, no one knows, that he once had great, exciting dreams, dreams of his own, and that once he was channeled into being typical, he just. couldn't. stop.

A girl. 16 years old. Her mother looks her over in the kitchen, makes a comment about how she might want to watch what she's eating. Later, she'll recommend that she wear make-up to help her look more her age, to fix her uneven skin, to correct her misshapen lips. The girl cries because she wishes that what's on the inside is enough, if not for the world, then at least for her own mother. But it's not, is what she's coming to learn.

4 years later, this will be the girl, this will be the girl looking into cosmetic surgery. This will be the girl who people say is beautiful but never believes it. She will spend 2 hours every day getting ready. People will say she's self-absorbed, but when the object of most intense scrutiny becomes yourself, how can this be viewed as an illogical next step?

This post is not deterministic, saying that we can never change things. But, it invites you to consider why, instead of just criticizing what is. Where is the point where we break, and how can we change this? How can we get back to re-focusing on the beauty we once were, the beauty that, I think, can still emerge again, once the hardened, icy layer around our hearts is melted? How can we reconnect the thread that once made us an entire being and get away from being just a seemingly superficial shell? Let's prove them wrong. Let's prove our negative internal demons wrong. Let's do this together.