Posts Tagged ‘unrequited love’

I Am Not Your

September 19, 2014

Stay around girl.

I used to be.

And I grieved that part of me, that sad, self-centered, navel gazing, John Hughes movie watching, cue poignant music now, sending myself (never did, but thought about it) carnations on Valentines Day in high school, stuffing love letters in crushes lockers, oh young, naive, unrequited in love, high school girl.

Let her go.

Carmen

Class of 1991

I am not her.

Hell.

I probably never was really “her” either.

I did not want to pick this school senior photograph, it was my mom’s choice.

I don’t really have other photos from around that time.

But I remember it so very well.

And as I was recalling with two different, no, ha, three different people today all the things that got stirred up yesterday, it occurred to me that it was time to kiss her sweetly and let her go.

I know she still wants to dance with somebody that loves her, but I mean, I got to go girl.

I am done waiting around for him.

And for you to get over him.

Like moving the fuck on.

How far on?

To San Francisco, to Paris, to London, New York, Rome, to Burning Man, man.

On my Way

Burning Man, Class of 2014

And this is not me either.

But it is a part of me.

I can carry silly romantic notions out into deep playa as well, I’ll find the one here, I met my soul mate at Burning Man, yadda, yadda, yadda.

The only person I met there was me.

And more of me.

Flawed, imperfect, crazy, wild, adventurous, able to leap at the suggestions of faith given to me in a single bound, beautiful, impetuous, courageous, curious, lovable, brave.

Whoa man.

I am brave.

And I am not too scared to say that I worked my ass off to get here and the here is just a beginning, the best is still yet to come.

I was encouraged to look at the growth I have had since I was that younger woman, and also just over the last nine and a half years, to stand up for that woman and not sit in the defective nature of old hurts and ideas.

So, I salute you, self.

You’ve come a long way baby.

There’s that whole not drinking or using for 9 1/2 years.

Which is a much better movie than 9 1/2 Weeks, let me tell you.

Then there’s the leaping about, moving about, trying different things, going different places, traveling to Paris, London, Rome, New York, living in Paris, living in East Oakland, going to Burning Man, going to LA, fuck, performing on stage in LA, and in Marin, oh, the places you’ll go.

I wish I could take her hand, little lady, sad lady, 1991 senior photo girl, and just say, you don’t have to change anything.

You are so strong and amazing and you are going places.

And you’re going to live in San Francisco.

And make it work.

“You’re never going to make it there,” he said to me bitter with his own regret, “believe me, I tried.”

Of course you did.

But I did make it.

Not in any way that I could have imagined, but I kept trying and here I am, still trying.

Still letting go of the idea that I can’t make this work, hell, this has been a make it work moment since I threw all my stuff in the back of my two door Honda Accord and drove out here from Wisconsin twelve years ago.

Girl.

You’re going to get tattoos.

And re-pierce your nose.

And stop wearing a tongue ring, it’s gauche.

You are going to date weirdos and not weird enough o’s.

You get to find out what works for you and what doesn’t.

Cheating?

Nope.

No cheating, don’t want to date you or hang out with you.

No interest in being in a poly-amourous group either.

Yay for you.

Glad it works.

I don’t need to work on my defects that much, thanks.

Monogamous, please.

And.

Straight.

Well, you can be a little fabulous, I am, but not too fabulous.

And yes, sex drive is way important.

Age not so much.

Looks?

Not so much either.

I will go for intelligence over the fleeting handsome face that time will steal away.

Humor?

Must have.

Preferably dark, wry, witty, sarcastic, but not too sarcastic, smart, silly, maybe a little raunchy, but let’s laugh, shall we?  Life it is so short, that’s another thing I would let little Miss 1991 know.

My god.

The life it moves by so quick.

One day I am seventeen and aching.

The next day I am forty-one and aching.

The lapse in time is so fast.

Go for it.

Get it.

And yeah, the fear, it will come up, but you can walk through it and nothing is going to be the horror story that your child hood was.

Your childhood, was not that bad either.

Or, don’t get me wrong.

You didn’t want to be there.

But when I think of all the things that I was exposed to, no pun intended, and the creativity and art and movies and freedom I got to have, no helmet on my head, free run of the parks and streets and trees and ponds and lakes and farms and train tracks, all the buildings I climbed to the top of and sat on the roof’s of, the life I got to live was pretty awesome for a girl growing up in rural Wisconsin.

I have grown, though.

Through no desire of my own.

I could wallow in that morass of self-pity and wish again for something other than the life I have been given or the mistakes of waiting for the one who is so not the ONE, that I may as well go walk down to the beach and drown the sorrows in the tidal pools, but frankly, I am not interested in that kind of out.

I prefer to hop on my bike.

Whether it is my one speed sparkle pony whip or my lowrider chopper at Burning Man.

And ride off into the sunset without him.

I’m not riding toward anyone.

No one completes me.

I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if one day I turn, and he’s alongside.

Because that’s what I have grown towards and into.

Not a person who needs another to complete them.

Rather.

I am a woman who is ready for the man who will compliment her.

He doesn’t even need tattoos.

I have that covered.

Put Grace In Your Heart

June 20, 2011

And flowers in your hair.

Sweet, maudlin me.  Climbing out from under the muck of another self-imposed beating.  I will apparently go to just any lengths to not have feelings.  Please direct me to the door and please help me stop beating my god damn head on it.

Walk towards the open door, Martines.  Walk towards the open door.

John Ater once told me that I would keep repeating the same behaviour.  I watched myself repeat that behaviour all day today and it does not feel good.  I would like to let go of this.  I would like to not be sitting in my house, alone with my cats, sad because the boy left without a kiss.

Hey lady, he told you upfront, he was in no place for a relationship.  And that is the lesson that you have been learning and relearning for so long.  Can we just say that you have learned it.

And we can just say, it was really sad today to send that letter to your mom.  And it’s alright to grieve.  It’s ok to feel that loss.  And it’s alright to be up past your bedtime on a school night crying.  Just let go of the grief.  Let your mom go.  She can’t fix you. Never could.

And you can run away from your feelings, but at the end of the day, just like they were there at the end of the night at the end of the bar in the dark with a pint of Bitter, so apropos, and a cigarette, sitting gin the dark letting the music swirl around you and waiting for Brian, fill in last name, there were more than one, to come out from the kitchen and taking out the trash and dumping the recycling.  Stop waiting for the man to rescue you.

Stop waiting for Henry Hall or The Brian’s or the Thomas’s to take you out of your head.  Stop focusing on someone else long enough to be ok focusing on you.

There is no shame in who you are.  There is no damaged goods here.  You don’t have to make-believe to be something other than who you are.

You may no longer hold onto words and excuses that fell out of the mouths of people who are sick.  They are sick, you don’t have to stand underneath the shower of illness.  Just put down the umbrella, take off the rain boots, take off the slicker, be yourself, naked, vulnerable, not knowing what good you have in you and walk out the door.

Walk toward the light, Carol Anne.

And then walk through it.  Maybe three decades of not letting yourself show scared and afraid it all was, maybe three decades of holding onto that weight, maybe, it’s time to say good-bye to it.  Not everyone will hurt you.  You don’t have to stand for unrequited love, even if he helped you move a sofa and run your lines.  You don’t have to be pursuant of the safe and the known.

Your lines are fine.  Your sofa is fine.  Your heart is fine.  You are fine.

Sad is ok.  Just don’t wallow in it and don’t bury it.  The plant that blooms is too sickly sweet, it is not the soft beard of grass on your soul, it ends up being a pit of pestilence that does not dissipate.  Take the ashes from your mouth and scatter them across the lye.

Perhaps I too will come into a state of grace and let myself be just this person, neither more wonderful nor less than you.  Maybe I will let myself pull up the stakes to the hot air balloon and let it all go.  I say to the universe, thank you for this experience, I trust that I will be ok having had it and I don’t need to keep repeating the pattern.

Today, just for this moment.  I am going to sit still. Sit with the pain and the ache.  And just feel it.

Just feel it.


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