Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Allow Me to Explain

If you’re reading this, and I can only assume having read that, that you’re reading this, I want to say “thank you”. Thank you for being bored enough to check back even when I haven’t posted my links when I write a new blog. And, why, pray tell, haven’t I been posting links to shamelessly promote my intrepid tepid dabbling into the world of written word? Because 1. It’s been kind of personal lately and 2. Does anyone really want to read about failure and “relationships” and … oh, you do? Well, hell, I fail EVERY. DAY. In fact, I'm probably failing right now.

This blog I keep mostly for me. For me and to follow others; initially I was more interested in the latter. But since *then, this is basically a journal to serve as my therapy, choosing to write and bother no one, instead of **him. I know; I’m 15 all over again just now. Are you still reading? Then I’ll explain:

I had this *thing with a **boy that was barely a thing and only physical but turned into something more when I started falling, unsure of what to do so I got honest and wrote a note that ended sweetly and said “Have dinner with me?” But something seemingly so strange, and yet so simple is never that simple. This is me, after all. So I went kind of crazy, because I need that super secure feeling from a guy cause – if you don’t know my history, trust me you’d go OH YES, I SEE WHY THAT IS IMPORTANT – if you did, and I wasn't getting it. In fact, I got the opposite of super secure and the vulnerability created stories in my mind which is easy for me to do based on real-life past events – RE: HISTORY – and instead of bringing it up and being forward (cause I did that one time but I certainly didn’t explain it correctly and then I clamed up like a turkey in November when he was like WTH and all I could think was, “That was a mistake. I’m going to shut up now before I ruin this thing I want so much.”) and everything went less than easily fantastic. Then I got dinner and roses and cookies at Christmas (expressing incorrectly this is what I need), and then we skied, and then we played Trivial Pursuit while listening to Radiohead in bed on a school night. (This is my dream scenario of life ever after. Sadly, I’m not kidding.)

There were enchanting, easy, wonderful moments, but the insecurities ate at EVERYTHING. And while I expected him to just understand and FIX IT, he expected me to just mellow out on my own. Mind you, I wasn’t that bad: Just imagine yourself at 14, and you just got your first boyfriend, who you never actually discussed it was "official coupledom" and you’re all “what might he be doing cause he never texts me first”…if  text messages existed 13 years ago. Plus I was kind of always making the effort. So there's that: Burgeoning relationship workhorse, plus I need reassurance I'm not getting. But everything else: Pretty damn great.

And then something awful happened. A family member of mine passed away. I went home and on an awful note with him; over something so stupid he made me feel terrible on top of bad and I cried and felt awful about what he said to me when I needed people to be nice the most. No texts, nothing while I’m home for a funeral. And then I find out he went to a movie with friends and out to a bar with one girl to each guy. After stewing for three days, I was upset that 1. I had no support there, no texts, calls, nothing to say “Hope you’re okay; I’m thinking of you" and 2. He went out with a girl friend (and we’d never gone out like that) and drunk me misinterpreted it. I had written down a list of items to discuss in a rational, sober, normal state. 'Cause lists and writing shit down helps, yo; it helps to relieve stress and make sure all your words and thoughts are in a proactive order.

And then you drink vodka; still-grieving vodka. Proactivity turns sour. This is why I only drink when I’m happy, folks.  You’d be wise to follow suit.

Now, normally I would encourage a person I’m seeing to hang out with their friends. I want my ample time too though. And I don’t want to be doing all the work. But in my state, in vodka hell, with my organized words on paper (sitting in the car with the words still in my head) that had been thought about for days and written down during my 4 hour drive back earlier that night, it all came out in an extremely hurt, frustrated, sad, grieving, stressed, awful, vulnerable, exaggerated puddle of mess.

I awoke the next morning next to him, but didn’t remember exactly what I’d said the night before. (Vodka, you dick.) I did, however, remember it was a bad conversation. My months of frustration and stress of trying to deal with the increasing amount of insecurities, coupled with my increasing amount of attachment to him, all on my own, bubble the fuck over. I knew that. I didn’t know to what extent, but I would soon find out. The Post Puddle of Mess day, we spent together, like a couple – a couple that maybe had a fight or something and we needed to talk it out, but talking things out is good, especially so early on. Good things are worth fighting for.

It wasn’t until three days later when I went over to talk things through that I learned what I said: Obviously words of a drunk person with something clearly bothering them. Words that otherwise, in sober life, make no sense. At all. But that was it, it was done. He had made his decision. Even though we sat there and talked it through and it just made me more sad (and honestly, a little hopeful this would just lead us to a better place) to discuss what issues we had – which all turned out to be stupid, FUCKING STUPID, miscommunications. That was it.

So now I sit here wondering, four mother fucking months later, why something that sort of lasted a year and mostly lasted four months is still consuming my mind. And tugging at my heart.

As you can see from my April post, I made a conscience effort to let the fuck go. Cause, honestly, what else can you do? And I took my time running a half-marathon, spending a week in California for work, and celebrating being an aunt again twice over, with my 13 hour car ride and 6 different take offs and landings, to run the eff away. And I did. And when I came back he wanted to know why I didn’t wish him a happy birthday and he wanted to make plans to hang out. …And he wanted to pull me back in.

I missed him. I do. I miss that time and I miss that connection and I miss it being so easy. (But it wasn’t, really, was it?) I miss him kissing my forehead. I miss what could have been. (How dumb is that?) And I wish I just would have been honest that whole time and I wish it would have been easier for him to understand me and my not-so-easy-to-love quirks. I wish I would have been unafraid enough to be forward. And not afraid that if I spoke my life and my mind, that he would run away. But you can wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which fills up faster.

I don’t miss the crippling feelings of insecurity, vulnerability and what-ifs. I don’t miss being so terrified to lose him, that I lost myself. I don’t miss those things. But I do miss us and I hate that I’m still sad and angry that he didn’t give “us” the chance that "we" deserved.

Is it for the best? Sure, I guess, why not? Am I still hurt? Yea, I fucking am. Have I learned something from it? Yes, I have. Has he? Probably not. But, damnit, when does all of this go away? When do I get to stop thinking about it? When do I go back to normal? Where is the closure and how to I make this feeling of it being just so unfinished go away?

What’s the fucking point in missing something that’s not coming back? It just hurts. A lot. And even more to recognize that I’m the only one hurting. I want my heart back whole and mine and forgiving. I want to know how to make that happen. And I want it now.

Monday, May 23, 2011

Pure Adulterated Crap

It strikes in a moment. And I’m spinning with chaos. Intermittently bothered; intermittently content.

And here she sits and wonders, arrested with unrest, it festers. She ponders the state of her life and her love and her evermore. 

And there.
What is it that one day separates the static from the extraordinary? The old present with absence of novelty, I feel stuck in the mud up to my knees. Otherwise free, bare-boned -- while planning is futile, I revile the lost.

I punish(ed) myself for unveiling and keeping secrets; always veracious, but hardly accurate -- never the right catch and release. I feel still so unfinished. Mud and muddled.

Here. Here I am:
I want to be and I don’t. I’m happy and I’m not. I’ll move and I won’t. My heart pulls and my brain ponders - my time plunders - and I wonder what to do as I sit at a crossroads – waiting and confused.

Where are you?