My Truths
One of my truth’s is that I am pissed off.
I am pissed off that this time that I am stuck in refuses to pass. I am pissed off that I am pissed off. I am pissed off for being childish and churlish and immature and so full of angry hurt that I can’t sleep at night.
I am pissed off at every bastard I dated before you. I am pissed off for all the times I was let down and disappointed and deceived. I am pissed off for all the times I felt not good enough and cliched and stupid. I am pissed off for having wasted time and love and energy and effort and good will and tears. I am angry for all the wasted sadness. I am pissed off that the past never dies. I am pissed off that it carries forward into my today, for each particle of their (your) shit that leeched its way into my oh so fucking soft skin.
I am pissed off that love wont die even when I want it too. I am pissed off that forgiveness comes too easily. I am pissed off for ever having loved in the first place, for ever having risked, for ever having bothered.
I am really pissed off because I have lost my voice. And in it’s place lies a wail and a nag, a lamentation that I just cant bear. I am tired of hearing a plainitive ‘but I love him’ repeated over and over in my head. I am pissed off that this is all I can manage. This list of complaints. This anger. I am tired of this muteness.
And I am pissed off at you. Yes, you.
I’m pissed off at your absence.
I’m pissed off that you fail to care.
I’m pissed off that you haven’t noticed.
I’m pissed off that you don’t listen.
I’m pissed off because you let it slip.
I’m pissed off because you are constantly distracted.
I am pissed off because you are not you anymore.
I am pissed off because you have put me in this position.
Fuck yes, you’re right, I am pissed off at you.
But mostly I am pissed off at myself. Almightily, fucking over the top, furiously, outrageously, pissed off at myself.
For fighting for something, I can’t seem to win, against someone, I can’t seem to beat.
For not shutting the fuck up.
For not being more patient.
For not being able to have a single coherent thought.
For allowing this in the first place.
For every useless mistake I’ve ever made.
For blaming myself for it all.
For not being able to make a decision and stick to it.
For being confused.
For having cancelled my ticket last March.
For not having booked a ticket earlier.
For coming in the first place.
For staying.
For wanting to stay.
For needing your arms around me at night.
For noticing the changes in you.
For not noticing the effort you make.
For getting angry and then immediately feeling sad.
For not being able to make things right - at least with myself.
For being needy.
For being insecure.
For not taking chances.
For writing this post and hoping you will read it and it will make some sort of fucking difference.
For not being able to write something worthwhile.
For caring so fucking much.
For being vulnerable.
For fucking being who I am. For being me.
For this self loathing. That I blame us both for. For that. And for this too.
**
Image found here.
Filed under: confessions, decisions, endings, i am childish, the lovers | 7 Comments
Tags: anger, love, personal
Balance
There is balance in everything if you know how to look.
In the scraped knees and the too short skirts, in the stringy blonde hair and the holding of hands. In the burning sick and the uncoiled spring. In the please fuck me nights, and, the absence in your mornings. In the blood poring from my mouth and a stranger’s kisses on my cheek, my lips, not your hands in my hair. Inappropriate and not wanted. In the kindness of their tears and the futility of missed calls. In the furtive late night tiptoeing and the messages that she sends. The binaries are there. You just have to know how to look. And strangely there is a comfort in that. It doesn’t sustain me and I don’t want to know, but I need to know, obsessively check because I want to haunt you too because there is so much love and you know that and I know that and I know how much you want this and I don’t want to be hatred and I don’t know how to be love and I don’t know how to be trust or forgiveness or all those other adult things I’m supposed to be. Because I wanted to be loved. And just like the rest of us maybe she just wants to be beautiful and I want to be special but not for just anyone. Because that is too easy and comes too fast. It has to be of my own choosing and you have to stop what you are doing because then I will too and it really will be a shame because it was always better when it’s too late.
And somewhere in all that there is a stillness. A perfect ending carried out to you in someone else’s arms. Cradled. A perfectly small closing in on you ending, and he looks at you with sorrow in his eyes and he tells you that he couldn’t save it. That he tried. That we tried. That I was brave. That we fought hard and long and I lost it. I couldn’t keep it together and he didn’t know what to do but he tried so hard and the blood shocks you and you can’t take your eyes of his gloved hands and our fucking ending just sits there and you stare and you realise that you wanted it too and you know in that moment what we have known all along and that is that you weren’t there. And as he asks you to take care of me, you silently nod your head - offended and I wonder why.
And just like that it’s gone. They’re all gone. And I’m better and we are better and all that is left is the two of us.
**
Photograph by Katie Tegtmeyer
Filed under: the lovers | 5 Comments
Tags: love, endings, beginnings
I Loved You Best
I haven’t written because I haven’t known what to write. I haven’t known what to say because panic and fear and uncertainty will not let me out of their grip. Not to think, to breathe, to decide, to be.
I do not know how to be ok.
I do not know how to fix the mess that I am in.
I do not know how to get home, or how to survive this.
I do not know how to pass my days, or my nights.
I do know that it is ok to not know.
I am grateful for each and every comment that I receive on this blog.
Somedays, your words are the only thing that I “hear” outside of the constant thud of this broken heart of mine.
Thank you.
I love him.
I do not know how to stop loving him.
I do not know how to love him and to know that it’s over. I think it’s best that I do not talk about what is happening on here, he knows about this site, he loved my words, I do not want to splay the ugliness between us all over these pages. I do not want to make this harder or uglier than it needs to be.
In my about page, I say that I want a permanent record. I want to wear the death of this thing, this love, this hope, this future, this possibility, on my self like a scar. I want to say that I love him. That I love every memory, every flaw, every story, every secret, every mistake that makes him who he is. I want to say that I believed, believed, that I would grow old with him. And instead, I am presented with a lesson in impermanence, in a new kind of loss, in acceptance, that is, most heartbreakingly of all, now of my own choosing.
Somewhere, somehow, I lost my voice. We lost our song. I am so fucking sorry that that has happened. I am so fucking sorry that I was looking the other way as we unravelled.
I don’t know how to leave, how to be without, the person that I have loved best.
I do not know how to sit with this sadness.
Broken Heart by bored now
Filed under: endings | 10 Comments
Tags: love
“this situation is starting to make me love you less”
“i am starting to care for you less”
Filed under: confessions, greece, the lovers, this non-english life | 15 Comments
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