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January 13, 2006 Shit happens. Admittedly, I'm a strange fellow. Anyone who knows me would, more than likely, corroborate this statement with an emphatic, hell ya'! I often talk about strength, mental, emotional, and physical, on my Random Thought's page. I am not comfortable with weakness, never have been… probably never will be. Which is why it's difficult for me to admit to the fact that I have been suffering from some bouts of depression. Now is it "strength" to actually admit to your weaknesses? I certainly think so, but for me it's more than that… it's the truth, and the truth is always best. There are probably plenty out there who would advise me against laying out my heart and mind like this, but again, I do not live in secrets or lies… I live in truth. And the truth of the matter is this: I am both saddened and enraged by the wanton debacle of my marriage.It's been about 6 months since I saw my ex, and I have come to one glaring conclusion, one that I never thought I would ever have to, and that is… I am nothing like her. I cannot just shut my emotions off, as if they were switches to be toyed with, going from off to on with the idle flick of a finger, as she did, in the end, with her own emotions. Up until a couple months before she left, I was under the strong impression that we had something good, something that would last. This impression strengthened by her constant convictions to me. Convictions that I learned a few months down this arduous road were nothing but lies meant to hurt and deceive. That might, indeed, be the very worst part, knowing that she had lied to me… to my face. But for how long? How long? As is life and the meandering way it tumbles onward, I have yet (and doubt I ever will) received any modicum of closure from this. In the end, she refused to speak to me, opting for the anonymity and safety of the Internet, rather than doing the right thing and the courageous thing and facing me. The woman to whom I had pledged my life ran out on me. I am beginning to realize that it will take more than a month or two to digest this. Part of me feels that I should lock these ambiguous emotions up, and never let them out; namely, so that she might never know how much she has hurt me. But if I am anything… I am honest. The irony, and the horror, is that she knows this all too well; which, is probably why every move she has made since leaving was an effort to wound me further. I am a man who does not give his heart and mind easily, but when I do give it, I give it all… I hold nothing back, and I not only expect, but also demand, the same from the person to whom I have entrusted my life and my emotions. In retrospect, I was wrong to ever trust her, wrong to allow her the honor and privilege of being my lover, my life mate. Nevertheless, as I see it, my only mistake was in believing her. Those first few months after she left were filled with fury and rage, and it was comfortable and good… something I could grasp on to. Now… well, now I am feeling the loss. The strange thing is, I can't even focus on what it is I miss. Is it those days and nights of abandon and wonder? Do I miss the comfort and the intimacy? Specifically, I just don't know. I do not miss her, but I do miss what "we" had. None of this makes much sense to me, all of it is new and strange, and I search, possibly in vain, for the lesson I know dwells within. More than likely, I will never see my wee-love again, or hold her hand. If truth be told, I would die a happy and (hopefully) successful man if I never again gazed into her eyes or heard the lilt of her southern drawl. Even as the fury at what she did, and what was done to me, rises in my throat like bile, I strive to remember those times where I was in love, and thought someone loved me. It's difficult to explain, or even find the words for, but I will never forgive her, and yet, I will never forget her. My rational mind is filled with hatred for her cowardly actions, but still my heart loves what we once had, even if it was for only a few years, even if it was only a lie. The image I have of her in my head has been forever tarnished, and I cannot help but wonder when it all started? When did the lies and the deception begin, and when did the love and the honesty stop? Still… (and this is me- the hapless romantic) I cling to visions that remain when I loved a woman, and I felt that the love she fed back to me was real. Yet, I write, knowing fully that she may or may not read this, knowing that there is a dark, cold part of her that will, undoubtedly, receive pleasure from my pain, and knowing that there is a part of me that just doesn't give a fuck. I write for my pleasure, first and foremost, and sometimes I write to… comprehend the messy workings of my mind. Second-guessing and regret leads to red-rage and a seething enmity. I think now, I will attempt to look forward to a future that does not require or warrant her presence, and look back at a time before the lies… a time when the both of us were happy and sincere. A time when we frolicked like children in the inherent beauty of our love, taking comfort in each other, opening ourselves up for pleasure and compassion. [Add Comment] 0 Comments |
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