"update your entry"
"I was very much asnooze, mister."
It doesn't take much for us to catch on to what the other is thinking or doing lately. This morning I left a message.
"I hope you're not dead...because I'm going to kill you."
Humorously warning, I knew it had been a long night for him, but when the call didn't come, I fell back in time. Where is he? What's happened? Don't say you're going to do something and then not do it! Anger rising, trust falling...
It's a tall order, not impossible, but also bi-directional. I'd had a busy, unsettling morning already and couldn't talk when he messaged back. We'd talk later and I knew I was okay already just because we'd made contact again. Does love mean you have to be in constant communication? Hardly. Sometimes love is that persistent worry that no matter how positively you may think, the universe is a big place, full of pitfalls and unexpected turns and raises the volume of experience in your brain's ear to insufferable decibels.
We speak again. This time I feel something completely different. I am more aware now of my own shortcomings and failures than ever before, but this isn't self-loathing. This is the brightest moment in my understanding of self. This is who I am. This is who we are and we, for all independence sake, are not independent. I am the standard I wish to have upheld. He is the standard I wish to live by. We toil, we pave, we agree or disagree, but in the desire to be our mutual compliment, we believe.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
IT TAKES MORE THAN TIME...
I've been on the phone with him again. After a few days waiting, aching inside and knowing something was utterly wrong, I had to just do it.
We spoke. He listened. I cried. We cried. We spoke some more. So much going on inside and still, it just wasn't right.
Third day, I sent a text message. "Are you there? If you have time, I want to talk."
The phone rang almost immediately. We had so much to say. We'll have more still, I'm certain. For the first time ever, that irreversible decision became something entirely different. The decision was never permanent and to have left with good-bye was self-imposed torture, anger, fear...defeat. Will we be perfect? Hardly. Will we need time to work through life together? Certainly. The impasse evaporated into the ether. I didn't crawl from the abyss, I was catapulted.
I'd been working through most of the evening. Earlier, he'd phoned, excited, determined, planning. "I'll call you when I get home, around 10:30/11, okay? I love you."
I didn't really expect it before then. Then I did expect it. Now, I wish I hadn't heard it.
We spoke. He listened. I cried. We cried. We spoke some more. So much going on inside and still, it just wasn't right.
Third day, I sent a text message. "Are you there? If you have time, I want to talk."
The phone rang almost immediately. We had so much to say. We'll have more still, I'm certain. For the first time ever, that irreversible decision became something entirely different. The decision was never permanent and to have left with good-bye was self-imposed torture, anger, fear...defeat. Will we be perfect? Hardly. Will we need time to work through life together? Certainly. The impasse evaporated into the ether. I didn't crawl from the abyss, I was catapulted.
I'd been working through most of the evening. Earlier, he'd phoned, excited, determined, planning. "I'll call you when I get home, around 10:30/11, okay? I love you."
I didn't really expect it before then. Then I did expect it. Now, I wish I hadn't heard it.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
TOMORROW'S ANOTHER DAY, SCARLETT.
And it started with a whimper, the same shitty pain in my shoulder that crawls upward through my neck and from what I understand, is the culmination of seven years of intermittent pain from an injury I sustained while attempting to restore the 1926 Craftsman that I used to know as my home in San Diego, coupled with a few really stupid tricks which include overcompensating at the gym, a car accident, emotional stress and grinding my jaw at night.
*Cue whining violin and literal old fart noise*
I left a message for my friend whom I'll be spending time with this week, regardless of my abrupt termination from the disastrous mistake I was about to make with a man I love very much, but not enough to put myself through another six years of the highest of highs and the lowest lows. See, the trouble is, those highest of highs will never sustain you in the depths of hell. That's the place where all bets are off. No matter how you attempt to compensate for your loss and grief, you always end up face down in the bottom of the black pit of despair. The rebound guy, the carefree (albeit great) sex, excess after excess – nothing fixes it until you can finally say "FUCK THIS". Nothing will free you from your grief except the time it takes for you to finally, one day, not just see what went wrong, but to once and for all wrap it all up in a shroud of acceptance, place it on the offering pyre, AND SET FIRE TO IT!
Well, Sherman's just been through Atlanta. Pass me the marshmallows.
*Cue whining violin and literal old fart noise*
I left a message for my friend whom I'll be spending time with this week, regardless of my abrupt termination from the disastrous mistake I was about to make with a man I love very much, but not enough to put myself through another six years of the highest of highs and the lowest lows. See, the trouble is, those highest of highs will never sustain you in the depths of hell. That's the place where all bets are off. No matter how you attempt to compensate for your loss and grief, you always end up face down in the bottom of the black pit of despair. The rebound guy, the carefree (albeit great) sex, excess after excess – nothing fixes it until you can finally say "FUCK THIS". Nothing will free you from your grief except the time it takes for you to finally, one day, not just see what went wrong, but to once and for all wrap it all up in a shroud of acceptance, place it on the offering pyre, AND SET FIRE TO IT!
Well, Sherman's just been through Atlanta. Pass me the marshmallows.
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