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