I have been afraid.
The day it all came crashing down, I was forced to step back and to try to take a more objective look at the situation—the control of which had long since escaped my grasp.
I remembered, then, what it was like when this whole thing began. How you texted me constantly. Called every chance you got—after shows, in airports, from the store. And if I took too long to respond, you were quick to ask "Where'd you go?" Or to accuse, "You left me!"
At the time, I took it in stride. I did not know what to make of the situation, or of you. I tried to not read too much into it, not to take it too seriously. Especially when you said things like "I'm a little obsessed…" Or a million other little bits of things you said—things I wanted to believe you meant, and would not allow myself to.
But your attentions made me smile in spite of myself—made my heart laugh.
And sitting at my desk that day, staring dully at my silent phone, I found myself wondering how we got from there to here. From you pursuing me, to me becoming this pathetic, distracted, useless thing. From me thinking your "obsession" was cute and silly, to me being hurt and saddened that you no longer feel the same. I sat there, wishing that you would text, or call, or otherwise contact me in some way…
And I wondered how you did it. How or where you had found the strength and self-control to not contact me. Where was that strength and self-control in you before?
And all I could think was that none of it mattered. It didn't matter what was Before. Because the moment we were in was Now and not in Before. And in this moment, Now, there was me, who could not resist contacting you—always, always telling myself that this time would be the last time—and there was you, who hadn't slipped up once; had not once been the first to break down and reach for me, needing to know I was still there.
It occurred to me, then, that it simply is not possible that you feel the same about me as I do you. If you did, you would not be able to resist. If you did, you would long for me. If you did, no other's touch would satisfy you. If you did, your decision would already be made…
"And so", I thought, "I will be the one to end it." I would do what you could not. I would be the one to do the right thing—to take back control, and to end this madness. I would be the one to extinguish Hope. I would be the one to let go...
And so I told you to forget you ever knew me.
And why not? It should be easy enough. You are mostly there already—only reminded of me now and then because I insist on inserting myself into your life; because I refuse to leave you in peace.
But there will be peace now.
I clung to you because I was afraid that if I let go you would forget me—never realizing that it was not my battle to fight, and therefore one I could not win.
Original post date: 12.22.2008
Monday, December 22, 2008
It's Getting Better All The Time
It was after the fourth beer that it hit me. I went outside for a smoke, and there was it was: a beautiful, dark, shiny Harley—just sitting there.
Even in the dim light, I could see that it wasn't exactly like your bike. But the color was close. Close enough to tear me out of the present and back into thoughts of you.
And it's not that it's unusual for a bike to be sitting at that bar. In fact, for a Saturday night, the biker population at The Pony was rather sparse. And maybe that's why that bike sitting there struck me the way it did. There were only two others in the lot, and this bike was off all by itself. It was also the only Harley. And between the color, and the light, for a moment—just a moment—I imagined that it was yours. That you were inside somewhere. Laughing. Having fun. Oblivious.
The thought made me laugh aloud in a bitter sort of way, and I took a picture and I sent it to you...
I went to my Jeep, then, and I laid down in the back. I was too drunk to drive, and not drunk enough to get you off my mind.
My mind is odd when it comes to thinking of you. There's a dam that can hold it back most times, but once one tiny thing catches that latch, and opens that gate, there is no stopping the torrent...
Laying there in the dark, I wanted to talk to you so badly. I don't even know what I would have said if I’d had you on the line.
For several long minutes, I was angry. And I wanted to text you again, and tell you not to do this to anyone else.
I am not sure, now, exactly what it was I thought you had "done" to me. Because in the clear, sober light of day, I recognize that my feelings are my own—that they are solely my own creation and responsibility. And as much as I might like to think so when I'm drunk, you didn't do anything to make me feel the way I do about you. Yes, the predisposition for these feelings was there, and you certainly did nothing to dissuade them (and, in fact, could even be said to have encouraged them). But you did not create them. I did that all on my own. Me, and my gullibility. And the little girl inside of me that still wanted so badly to believe that fairytales really do exist...
But in that moment, cold and alone in my Jeep, it was not the clear, sober light of day. It was dark, and I was not sober, and I'd had an immensely taxing day. I was sad and melancholy, and I was rummaging through old memories, mourning the loss of some intangible thing—whatever it was I thought we had, I suppose.
And in the non-light of that Saturday night, I wanted to tell you to not do this to anyone else. And while I knew, even then, that it wasn't strictly your fault, I knew also that there were things you could have done differently—things that you should do differently if you ever find yourself in a similar situation again...
Helpless and dangerous. You said that once—that being emotionally attached to me was a helpless and dangerous feeling.
You have exhibited neither helplessness, nor indications of dangerous feelings.
I never sent you that second message. I fell asleep huddled under my down jacket, curled on the backseat of the Jeep.
And I keep poking the spot that hurts, and I'll keep on poking until it's numb. I'll poke until I can look at your picture, until I can hear your voice, until I can listen to your music, until I can sit in my Jeep, until I can stand the feel of my own hair against my face...
I'll poke until none of it pierces my heart anymore. Until all emotion is gone. Until it's like I never knew you at all...
It’s getting better all the time.
Original post date: 12.22.2008
Even in the dim light, I could see that it wasn't exactly like your bike. But the color was close. Close enough to tear me out of the present and back into thoughts of you.
And it's not that it's unusual for a bike to be sitting at that bar. In fact, for a Saturday night, the biker population at The Pony was rather sparse. And maybe that's why that bike sitting there struck me the way it did. There were only two others in the lot, and this bike was off all by itself. It was also the only Harley. And between the color, and the light, for a moment—just a moment—I imagined that it was yours. That you were inside somewhere. Laughing. Having fun. Oblivious.
The thought made me laugh aloud in a bitter sort of way, and I took a picture and I sent it to you...
I went to my Jeep, then, and I laid down in the back. I was too drunk to drive, and not drunk enough to get you off my mind.
My mind is odd when it comes to thinking of you. There's a dam that can hold it back most times, but once one tiny thing catches that latch, and opens that gate, there is no stopping the torrent...
Laying there in the dark, I wanted to talk to you so badly. I don't even know what I would have said if I’d had you on the line.
For several long minutes, I was angry. And I wanted to text you again, and tell you not to do this to anyone else.
I am not sure, now, exactly what it was I thought you had "done" to me. Because in the clear, sober light of day, I recognize that my feelings are my own—that they are solely my own creation and responsibility. And as much as I might like to think so when I'm drunk, you didn't do anything to make me feel the way I do about you. Yes, the predisposition for these feelings was there, and you certainly did nothing to dissuade them (and, in fact, could even be said to have encouraged them). But you did not create them. I did that all on my own. Me, and my gullibility. And the little girl inside of me that still wanted so badly to believe that fairytales really do exist...
But in that moment, cold and alone in my Jeep, it was not the clear, sober light of day. It was dark, and I was not sober, and I'd had an immensely taxing day. I was sad and melancholy, and I was rummaging through old memories, mourning the loss of some intangible thing—whatever it was I thought we had, I suppose.
And in the non-light of that Saturday night, I wanted to tell you to not do this to anyone else. And while I knew, even then, that it wasn't strictly your fault, I knew also that there were things you could have done differently—things that you should do differently if you ever find yourself in a similar situation again...
Helpless and dangerous. You said that once—that being emotionally attached to me was a helpless and dangerous feeling.
You have exhibited neither helplessness, nor indications of dangerous feelings.
I never sent you that second message. I fell asleep huddled under my down jacket, curled on the backseat of the Jeep.
And I keep poking the spot that hurts, and I'll keep on poking until it's numb. I'll poke until I can look at your picture, until I can hear your voice, until I can listen to your music, until I can sit in my Jeep, until I can stand the feel of my own hair against my face...
I'll poke until none of it pierces my heart anymore. Until all emotion is gone. Until it's like I never knew you at all...
It’s getting better all the time.
Original post date: 12.22.2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
As I Once Was, So Shall I Be
For whatever moments of doubt I have had (or will have again) regarding the genuineness of your professed "emotional attachment" to me, there were equally (and more) moments when I did believe.
Do you know that, for a long time, I kept an open journal entry titled "Reasons To Believe", and that whenever we'd have some bit of conversation, or whenever you would do something that seemed to indicate that I was unique to you, I recorded it in that journal entry?
It seems silly to me now. Childish even.
But what I think you maybe never quite understood was what I was up against. That you were asking me to believe that I was something special to you defied all logic. And not only my own logic. It defied the logic of every friend I confided in. Admittedly, we're talking small numbers here—maybe four individuals, total, who knew the whole story and not just vague snippets. But they were my friends. My close friends. People who knew me. The very people who knew better than any my true value. And yet, even they did not buy that you genuinely cared for me. And so I was fighting not only my own nagging sense of what seemed plausible, but the valued estimations of dear friends as well.
Only two things in the whole world stood in contradiction: your word; and my gut feeling that you were being honest.
And that gut feeling was easily maintained when we were in regular contact. There was constant reinforcement. Every time we spoke I was reassured all over again that whatever it was you felt for me was real, and that you had not caught me up in some malicious game.
But the events of the last two months have made that faith difficult to hold onto. And yet you have seemed surprised—even injured—any time I have expressed skepticism or cynicism. And I can't help but wonder what conclusions anyone would have drawn in my shoes.
We each came back from New Mexico, and I knew I had let my emotions get too involved. I think I might have been alright if I had let the whole thing go then. I remember thinking one evening later that maybe I could scare you off. That maybe if I told you that I was getting in over my head, that you would realize it wasn't a game for me anymore. And that if it was a game for you, you would fall silent and just quietly slip away. And I wanted that to happen, if that was how you felt.
So I gathered liquid courage, and I told you just how much you really got to me—that you could really hurt me. But you did not fall silent, and you did not slip away...
At least, not then.
For me, the confusion came only later. Once you did fall silent. And of course, I knew you said you needed to put some distance between us. And I understood that. But I hadn't expected it to be so easy for you, when it was so hard for me. And even when I asked you how and why it was so easy for you, my beseeching was met with utter silence. There was so much that you left unanswered—even harmless little things. Things that a perfect stranger (let a lone a friend) would have graced with a reply.
Please, tell me you can understand how I might be confused. How it might be easy for me to doubt your intentions after all that has transpired. I do not want you to remember me as a lunatic...
I think, now, that we really are at goodbye.
And if so, please, please, do not remember me this way.
Remember the moaning mummy in Taco Bell, or remember us peeking at one other over the cradle of our arms—shy and uncertain. Or remember how I felt in your hands, or you in mine. Or searching for beer. Remember my jean jacket, or the view from behind, or a flask of vodka in a dry town. Or my smile, or the sunlight on my hair, or your fingers in my hair. Remember anything—anything at all. But do not remember me like this.
It is not who I am. It is not who I was. It is not who I will stay.
I am beautiful, and I am smart. I am happy, and I have my head on straight. I am charming, and lively, and I have entertained the intellects and sensibilities of Nobel, Field and Turing Award winners. I am a positive, stable force in the chaos of this universe, and people remember me because I touch their lives for the better and I leave something good in my wake.
And some day very soon, I will remember these things, and I will be who I am again.
I hope you can forgive me. And that someday you have the opportunity to see me as I should be. And that it washes away all recollection of ugliness...
Original date of composition: 12.17.2008
Do you know that, for a long time, I kept an open journal entry titled "Reasons To Believe", and that whenever we'd have some bit of conversation, or whenever you would do something that seemed to indicate that I was unique to you, I recorded it in that journal entry?
It seems silly to me now. Childish even.
But what I think you maybe never quite understood was what I was up against. That you were asking me to believe that I was something special to you defied all logic. And not only my own logic. It defied the logic of every friend I confided in. Admittedly, we're talking small numbers here—maybe four individuals, total, who knew the whole story and not just vague snippets. But they were my friends. My close friends. People who knew me. The very people who knew better than any my true value. And yet, even they did not buy that you genuinely cared for me. And so I was fighting not only my own nagging sense of what seemed plausible, but the valued estimations of dear friends as well.
Only two things in the whole world stood in contradiction: your word; and my gut feeling that you were being honest.
And that gut feeling was easily maintained when we were in regular contact. There was constant reinforcement. Every time we spoke I was reassured all over again that whatever it was you felt for me was real, and that you had not caught me up in some malicious game.
But the events of the last two months have made that faith difficult to hold onto. And yet you have seemed surprised—even injured—any time I have expressed skepticism or cynicism. And I can't help but wonder what conclusions anyone would have drawn in my shoes.
We each came back from New Mexico, and I knew I had let my emotions get too involved. I think I might have been alright if I had let the whole thing go then. I remember thinking one evening later that maybe I could scare you off. That maybe if I told you that I was getting in over my head, that you would realize it wasn't a game for me anymore. And that if it was a game for you, you would fall silent and just quietly slip away. And I wanted that to happen, if that was how you felt.
So I gathered liquid courage, and I told you just how much you really got to me—that you could really hurt me. But you did not fall silent, and you did not slip away...
At least, not then.
For me, the confusion came only later. Once you did fall silent. And of course, I knew you said you needed to put some distance between us. And I understood that. But I hadn't expected it to be so easy for you, when it was so hard for me. And even when I asked you how and why it was so easy for you, my beseeching was met with utter silence. There was so much that you left unanswered—even harmless little things. Things that a perfect stranger (let a lone a friend) would have graced with a reply.
Please, tell me you can understand how I might be confused. How it might be easy for me to doubt your intentions after all that has transpired. I do not want you to remember me as a lunatic...
I think, now, that we really are at goodbye.
And if so, please, please, do not remember me this way.
Remember the moaning mummy in Taco Bell, or remember us peeking at one other over the cradle of our arms—shy and uncertain. Or remember how I felt in your hands, or you in mine. Or searching for beer. Remember my jean jacket, or the view from behind, or a flask of vodka in a dry town. Or my smile, or the sunlight on my hair, or your fingers in my hair. Remember anything—anything at all. But do not remember me like this.
It is not who I am. It is not who I was. It is not who I will stay.
I am beautiful, and I am smart. I am happy, and I have my head on straight. I am charming, and lively, and I have entertained the intellects and sensibilities of Nobel, Field and Turing Award winners. I am a positive, stable force in the chaos of this universe, and people remember me because I touch their lives for the better and I leave something good in my wake.
And some day very soon, I will remember these things, and I will be who I am again.
I hope you can forgive me. And that someday you have the opportunity to see me as I should be. And that it washes away all recollection of ugliness...
Original date of composition: 12.17.2008
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