Breaking up – The slow end

“I cannot do this anymore”

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My friends comment how composed I am, how I don’t show emotion. I provide updates, my understanding of his actions, I show my frustration and, my clinging heart is exposed. But what they don’t see, what they don’t expect, is the moments here. At home. The minutes that have turned into hours that collectively may now add up to a day. The moments where I am paralyzed as the energies of my body are consumed by breaking my heart.

I hold my head in my hands, close my eyes, and search for an answer on what to feel. Trapped between words of love and actions that contradict, I straddle allowing the anger to consume me and move on, or the alternative, letting go with love. In one scenario, I fuck, I date, I write a story that has no second act. In the other, I embrace my individuality, cherish my friends, and remain emotionally and physically unavailable. Drawn to him. Ultimately. Remaining open to a future us.

I look at my phone. I acknowledge the game at play and my lack of understanding his motives as of yet. However, as each minute passes, as my eyes search around my room as if the answers could be found here, I embrace the anger for it is the only escape.

We’ve run our course

Letting go of something I never grabbed onto. He was handsome, his lust found me, engulfed me. The moments together were light. Happy. And I, physically awakened. I kept seeking. Where was he. So simple. An opposing mirror to my complexity. The best me was suffocating. But my inner dialogues kept pressing. Don’t throw someone away due to an unhappiness with myself. Seeking someone to challenge me, bring out the best in me, seemed as if it was a problem I wouldn’t have if I was together, whole. A problem best dealt with myself.

So with the new year, I communicated. Me, communicating. Imagine that. I felt that there must be someone more interesting underneath the fine specimen of a human being. I wanted more. Yes. But I said what. After all, he had fallen, supposedly. A light request to someone who wanted an us.

But tides change. And he felt defeated. The month to follow, I was dealt my own recipe. Games I say. Games he said he didn’t play. “Straightforward, I am.”  Dense, I retorted. Nights of pain. Of hurt. Against a current of need. Something I rarely seek. This boy who “liked” me so failed to be the simplest of friends. Enough cuts.

So I tried. Multiple choice. A, B, or C. Your words don’t meet your actions. So either your feelings have changed or this sabotage will not be well received. A. we try and make this work. B. we enjoy each other casually or C. we part ways. Not C was the only answer I ever received. And the mention of defeat. Continued games. Continued stabs.

And me, somehow caring enough to communicate again. Imagine that. A request for him to tell me how he feels. A warning that my emotions were on their last leg (pinky toe rather) and that I have an uncanny ability to take my feelings and put them in boxes. Tied with a pretty bow. Of apathy. Of indifference. Emotional doom to never be reopen.

“I get it.” The three words I received. Tonight was worse. Another stab. And I told him, we’ve run our course. He says, “I don’t want to weigh on you.” And my innards screamed. On the mat at the gym. A diatribe of fuck you’s to a phone that died after his response.

A sign that a response is not due. But oh how I just want to say fuck you. Send him the definition of like, falling in love, and an us. I hate him so. and back to the resurfaced “I hate the words I love you.” the i love you, but.

To my almost . . .

Almost my better half-

My thoughts are devoted to you right now. I am trying to not think about you, let my thoughts just be. But your eyes and your words are too distracting. I hear the charming words, I see you on top of me as you pinned my arms and tried to tickle me, I see you next to me in the car, staring and touching my beauty marks, I feel the heat of your body as we passed each other in the gym, touched lightly and made everyone take note that perhaps someone had me, I feel your hands on my hips as you taught me balloneta, your fingers on my lips as your attempted to teach my tongue how to roll it’s r’s. The many moments of silence as your listened to me and always digested my words, pausing before you spoke. Truly soaking in the minutia of what I said. My heart hurts with these memories. My heart hurts more with the knowledge of what could have been.

My girlfriend’s words last night on how much she likes you, how great you are. I could only think in anger then that she should have been using past-tense. I felt she was not helping. How attractive you are. What a gentlemen. Yes, I know. I said. Can’t we just focus on how him and I were not right?

I wonder now if that was truly our end. “Take care Smith”. (Substitute Smith for my last name, which is what he called me) I wonder where you are in this moment. Your childhood friend/other business partner is visiting and your itinerary is booked. I imagine you laughing, enjoying. I sit typing, hearing the crashing of the ocean. My lights dim as a second light has met its end in the 24 hours since ours. Perplexed at how I change these lights that are 14 feet above me. I wish our end had a solution—was simply challenging but fixable, like this hard to reach light fixture.

For now, I will sit in darkness, the white saliva of the ocean as the light to this dark. 

 

 

My ocean before the darkness:dusk-on-oceanMy ocean the temptress

Rewind

I simply woke up with no Valentine’s inspiration. Decided to post something old. Inspired by my trip  to New York and the old worlds I encountered. I opened old word docs. And then I saw this. It’s about M. The ex who wrote on Tuesday, “You, us and all that was is strangely persistent in my thoughts.” At the time we lived 790 miles a part. Looking back. I miss. We had the relationship I want now. 

I wrote this- Feb. 10, 2007. 

Normally when I write, the words are at my fingerprints, they effortlessly lay themselves across the page–the emotions behind them acting as their engine.

I sit here now and there isn’t much and what there is, fails to have legitimacy.

I sit here to hold back nothing and perhaps end the numbness I feel—discover exactly what it is that I feel.

I don’t imagine you coming here and our interactions playing out as they do. I don’t imagine not wanting you inside me. Yet, I also don’t crave that moment.

I do want you here and upon learning you are indeed coming, I am excited, complete. Soon after, conflict flickers inside me. This time, thinking about setting up the block association or all these things I could do to get back on the bandwagon with work, and then realizing, you are here.

I hear an echo, “shadow of a boyfriend.” Why do you hate it so much when I work? In your world, I should be able to stop everything and focus on you for a stretch of 48 hours. And I agree? That should not be that hard. But dear, the problem is there are certain things that cannot be done during the week. During the week, I am under water, so I need times like weekends to walk on shore and actually get somewhere at a decent pace.

You always tell me that I can work, but I can’t. I look at your face. I think of you sitting, just waiting, or disappointed. And I realize—my two lives or our two lives, cannot coexist.

Perhaps you think you instill a good balance? No. You make me start losing my motivation for work, which is the scariest thing for me.

Writing that sentence has now produced tears. My ears pound and I feel as if I forgot to equalize and I am at the bottom of the ocean. The emotions heighten and tears and cries that can be heard are about to be unleashed. Fortunately, the pain in my ears protects me and the emotions are quieted, unrealized.   

Perhaps I will find the emotions again, without the tears, without the pain—physical at least. . . . . .

Work is what I have. I don’t have much else. Work is my family, my heart, my best friend, my happiness, my worth. Its what I can rely on and I am so in need of it. I love it. I suppose this is why I feel an unyielding pressure to perform and am scared to shit when I know I fail to do such.

My heart hurts because I know you don’t get it. And you are perfect. You love me. Perhaps with you, I don’t need work to be my love. However, then my identity escapes me and I forget who I am.

And I am unhappy. And I am conflicted.

And I just wish we could sit and be each other’s company and do what we need to do—be it work or errands or anything. Yet nothing produces a greater stress. Last Saturday morning, I lay in frustration from so much to do and chained with the realization that you were there beside me. I wanted to get up and do what I needed to do and have you sleep. And now that’s exactly the place I find myself in . And I know this conversation is looming or possibly not, but the pain, the disappointment, the knowledge that perhaps something is gone, will be the stale air we inhale.

 

And hence, I am immobilized. Wanting to know the answer before the air consumes me and I am out of breath.

I want to go lie in bed. I am tired. Emotionally void. Yet war zone comes to mind and I feel safer here. 

Perhaps I love you. Yet I acknowledge a numbness. I suppose I am shut off. I wonder if I am done or just closed temporarily.

 

 

i was done

 

 

No feelings for Person > Person has feelings for you > Person around = Resentment?

I have quite a bit of updating to do, but a quick note. 

I am back in New York. Missing Caballito. Still frustrated at my initial sabotaging of our perfection. I realize that if he were to ask me to be my boyfriend, I would object. I don’t actually want anything more than what we have, aside from perhaps some security, an antidote to my vulnerability. This vulnerability is causing me to want to act up, react, demand, and need. 

I saw KidRobot for the first time since May. More to come on KidRobot. I also saw the Journalist. The companion I left behind in New York a month ago. A companion that is emotionally available and as such, I didn’t allow as close as Caballito (physically). Of course, we only want the men that could hurt us. I spent many moments with the Journalist. Stuck him on a horse. Drove him past pumpkins. Departures from the typical daily life of a New Yorker. Perfect “dates” although in my mind, they were just “days.”

I saw him Friday, my first full day back. And I couldn’t find the feeling of connection I had previously felt. Perhaps, because he is a large contrast to the energy, power, and strength I see in Caballito? Everything from his shoes to his purchase of gloves made me realize the difference of our worlds. Unimportant, yes . . but the little things were starting to bug me . . 

AND when the little things start to bug you, I feel everything thereafter is an inevitable ride downhill (without brakes) . . 

Is it just me or when you lose feelings or realize you have none, do you start to resent very small insignificant things?

 I realized that I may have been too shocked by getting acclimated to New York again and clouded in my own feelings of longing for Caballito and my lack of “legs” here, to enjoy the Journalist on Friday. So, last night, the Journalist came over. It was nice and comfortable, but when I realized he was spending the night, I wanted to inch away. Eject him from my bed. He somewhat smelled. He was too skinny. He is nice, but just nice. I turned off the light and he kissed me. I kissed back with tight lips. And then turned. 

I slept. I woke up early and there is no better source of caffeine than wanting to escape a situation in your own bed. . . . I miss you Caballito.

The continuing saga of unavailable guys

Someone help. I lie here and there is a deep-seeded longing coupled with a confusion. Wondering what I really want . . . My ex, my bestest friend in the whole world, I, the “love of his life,” wrote to me a month ago, “stop looking and you will find.” I denied my looking. I knew I longed to meet someone, but I also knew I didn’t want to just meet anyone. I wanted to meet someone who really made me tick. I longed for continuity in my life. Someone to share my inner trappings and musings. Someone that was there as I straddled my disparate lives.  Someone that could have my heart, albeit a sometimes missing presence. Someone that I knew I could be utterly devoted to.

Yet, I fail to see anyone that makes me tick. And my seeking thoughts are comprised of only that. Not searching for someone to spend lonely moments with, or that I just thoroughly enjoy, I want someone that could potentially be the one.  However, I am in no rush. No ticking clock. Just a clock that doesn’t know what to do as it passes time.

The time is passing and as I find myself incapable of exploring great men unless they make my heart leap, my relations are short bouts of great men who are emotionally unavailable. With them, I am not concerned about losing feelings for them and being confronted with having to confront them. I don’t press fast-forward on our future to discover a potential ending of me ripping their heart out and breaking it in two. I acknowledge that they will do the heart breaking, however I am much less concerned with them breaking my heart than me breaking someone else’s.  I can venture into waters and risk someone hurting me, yet I can’t venture and risk hurting someone else. (I assure having my heart broken from someone hurts and perhaps more, but I tend to shut off and throw walls up and all sorts of things. I hermit in my misery. It is awful. However, it doesn’t have it’s day until its due. I let it play out, unlike my inability to give a man who truly adores me a chance.)

I may sound like a martyr, but I assure the above dilemma is borne from a selfish place. As I write this, it becomes clear that I have some great pain with confrontation. I recant the moments of feeling trapped and suffocated–unable to confront and thus prolonging my discomfort. Perhaps, I am so scared of confrontation that the discomfort I have endured in the past haunts me.  And so I doubt that I am so concerned about hurting someone, I am concerned about hurting myself, just in a much less obvious way, perhaps. (I can’t tell you if this in fact true or the life behind my obsession with unavailable men, but for this evening, err morning, it is my theory.)

So to the men in pursuit of me: Matt Damon, MiCarino, Navy Seal, Short Beckham, and Rico Suave, I apologize, but you are killing me. Matt Damon, I believe your amazing email about me is the catalyst of my lonely inactive heart starting to audibly ache. A heart that has been alone and a body that has not had regular service for 18 months!

And yes, I hate the way this post reads. But I needed to write this, for these thoughts would turn friends’ ears deaf. I am so sad. So empty. So lonely. The fact I am adored and liked, yet unable to love back when it’s all I want to do makes me feel like an ice-princess. Not cuddly, not loving. Soulmate made me remember that I am . . . yet his presence in all of this now is too much for me to handle.

I am supposed to see him tomorrow. He wanted to come over tonight. Our bodies drawn to each other. I made other plans. Then, he was to come over after. I failed to write back. My thoughts running rampant from my dinner with two recently single women. Feeling as if I couldn’t listen and be there anymore for them. As if I started to resent them for having great relationships even if the guy turned out to be an assclown.  My thought being, if we are all destined to meet someone at a certain time, the time before is better spent in relationships where great memories were created than single indefinitely. Maybe I am having an Attaingingme Pityparty . . . maybe I sound crazy, and I am, I am crazy sad. 

Are you tall, dark and handsome? Can you be my Mr. Unavailable that is Available . . . I am willing to travel 🙂