Hello, BigBodyBeautiful friends. It’s been a long time since we’ve connected by way of this bloggy, hasn’t it? I’ve missed you all so much. I’ve been working hard on my novel, which is coming along. But, I thought I’d give voice to some things that I’ve felt and processed in various relationships (and a post or two) from the past. I’ve been doing some “house cleaning” so to speak in therapy and it’s led me to a few little-opened rooms where some of my psychology hides away and gathers dust. This post deals with unrequited love (loving an addict, the unavailable). So many of us have experienced this with other people and ourselves. And, today, this asked to come out. I’m giving these feelings some space in the hopes that I can finally let it all leave my lovely body and breathe some fresh air into the rooms inside of me. I welcome your thoughts and reactions, as always, my friends.
It’s clear. I need to let you go. You’re not healthy for me. I don’t think you are ready to show up for yourself, let alone, anyone else. It’s clear that you need to do this, take your ravaging journey through a dark and precarious land. A land of pleasure-seeking, distraction, and drink. A land that has no signposts or clear trails out. A land that very well might swallow you whole. Maybe, it already has (and I just haven’t been able to see it).
At any rate, I can’t follow you, love. I’ve already been to that land (in other lives); it has nothing to offer me. It calls to me not one bit. I do not feel a pull toward the false baubles it holds in its skeletal hands, its lipstick stained, garish mouth, its heavily boozied breath, sodden, unwashed hair, and unkempt countenance. I refuse to follow you into the inky darkness. I can’t breathe there, babe. I will not follow, so I have to let you go forward into what you need to experience. I know. I do. And, I hate it.
I feel like I can’t quit you. I can’t turn my back on you, walk away, seek to protect only myself. I can’t be yet another person who turns away from your pain, doesn’t accept you, doesn’t come forward. I need to help you. You need me to help you. Somehow. But, babe. I’m not enough for both of us. You don’t give to me. And, then I realize (have I always known?), you do not really want me. You want what you’re doing now, which is what you’re doing. Now. You do not want to be with me. Because, you’re not. If you did, you’d be here. But, you’re not. And, you don’t.
I’m pretty sure that you don’t want the exposure of my light, the unwavering gaze of my soul that looks into you so clearly, pointedly, and consciously (but also softly and understandingly). You do not want deepest emotion, thought, truth, and exploration of the wounds in the psyche. It’s just too much. I’m just too much. And, you have other engagements, which are bigger than this thing that we’ve briefly co-created (together but apart). So, I have to let you go. To find your way. Or not. Either one is your choice. And, I have no choice but to honor it, whatever it is, however that looks or moves or slinks from sight. I have to hold myself up and move on.
I wish you wanted to take some time, any time, to get to know me. To go deeper with me. Maybe that would gently ease you from your painful path, your attraction for the darkness (that parades itself as neon-lit happiness). Maybe knowing how good it can be to awaken will bolster you, give you enough of yourself to see what I see (when I look at you), and maybe it would show you that you truly are worthy of the light. Maybe. But, then again. Maybe not.
You’ve never come forward with me. You’ve never let me behind your solid-rock walls. I’ve tapped at them again and again; I’ve bloodied my fingers on the door, but you have rained your molten Quasimodo silence over the edge at me. My skin burns over and over from lack. My heart scarring over and over by your reticence, your avid, unavoidable, suffocating silence.
Actually, worse is when you are nice to me and pretend to have feelings (like I do). That is way worse. Because, I let it fool me so often. I keep coming back for one more silver of happiness. Then, find myself standing in a dark room and wondering where the light switch is. Anyway. I have to own my part in it. I will and I do. I’m working on it. But, my heart hurts so much.
I.just.wish.you.could.come.over.here.with.me.just.once. Take the chance. Lift the lid on this thing and peer inside. If only you felt more for me than you do for the other things that turn your head, the other things that possess you. How different it might be with you stepping into the light. Me by your side. But, then again, maybe not. I have no way of knowing for sure. You might blossom or shrivel for all I know. You don’t try and I give too much.
When will I leave? I want to say never. I want to feel, never. But, that’s not realistic, is it? I’m running out of juice. I came in with alot, but everything has a life span, doesn’t it? Everything lives as long as it’s supposed to. I’m running out of glitter, babe. I’m low on stardust and paint. I’m dragging my halo around now and it’s scratched and tarnished. I’m thrust out of the pearly, shiny gate. I’m holding on, but eating just the air is getting pretty old. I need some sustenance. Some meat. I need to know that you know what I’m talking about. But, again, the silence seeps. It comes up around me. All I can hear is the slow katoosh of my very broken heart, my uneven breath, a honking car off in the distance.