Freedom

Four years ago today, my life ended. I’ve gone through the motions of living for four years- but I’ve been dead inside. The day you died was the day I died too.

It’s taken four years to even allow myself to look at you since I saw your body laid out under glass. Something not quite you in that white shroud. Four years of terrible self destruction disguised as surviving. And finally, finally, I’m done pretending anything will ever be different, that i will be anything other than broken. I will never let you go, I will never stop talking about you, I will never forget you and I will never forgive you or creation for leaving this earth.

I’ve finally accepted that this will never change – and this is my freedom. Because nothing matters, not really. Sure i get triggered by people leaving me, but it’s not them. It’s the leaving. It’s you. It’s your exit all over again. Everyone else is just a placeholder. Everyone else who leaves now is nothing. Everyone else is a body i won’t allow myself to feel anything for, not really. I can let everyone and everything go; i can risk everything, lose everything, and not care, because i know it’s all fleeting and temporary. The worst has already happened. And so I’m free. 

I walk in time to the music

…of a song you sent me 4.5 years ago, one of so many others you sent to speak your feelings better than you could (though there was never anything better than your words).

I’m walking home from a date, these years after you sent me this song. Another date where yet another fucking idiot made a joke once the question regarding emotional status and past relationships arose. (This one was some version of the, “Oh you’re dangerous!” garbage I’ve heard far too many times.)

I never flinch when this happens, so used to it I am by now. But neither do I ever allow them to feel anything but shame for their fucking cruel insensitivity.

I do not frown nor smile. My breathing doesn’t change, I don’t even move. I stare into them, unblinking, until i see the realization cross their face that they crossed a deep line.

Then the back peddling begins: apologies, sometimes a move to touch me or take my hand. Sometimes they stammer, their eyes growing wide. Or, worse, much worse, they attempt to lighten the mood by smiling, telling (themselves more than me) that it was a joke. Smiling broadly with their mouths but not their eyes. Willing me to relax my shoulders that have not moved, have not turned away, have not softened. I let them talk until they have comforted themselves sufficiently.

I might let them continue to touch my leg, my hair, my shoulder. I may answer questions, I might talk about my experience, or not. I may even let them kiss me. But my eyes stay dead for the remainder of the encounter, which is always shorter than they want.

Then I end up walking home with your music, the playlist I made of every song you ever sent me. Feeling your message behind them, eyes wet and blurring and heart racing. I walk through the dark, imagining that you are waiting for me, somewhere, so I can stop.

Black bird

I want to forget your tortured words 

and the beautiful voice they were sent in

When you took away the little flower

You had placed in this bird’s mouth

I’m still trying to fly, as you did, as you do

But find myself tethered, waiting for freedom

By a string I’ve tied myself

To the words that I interpret 

Into a language that I’ve created

Crumbs

I get myself into trouble. I date, with no self-honesty and no foresight. 

I close myself off, really overdo the good-time girl persona, and leave men in my wake. This makes me feel powerful and in control. I love it for a while, until I suddenly start having feelings for someone who was never supposed to be anything other than entertainment. And because I entered asking for nothing, the stage has been set to receive nothing. So I move on and distract myself, before any feelings can deepen. Except when they catch me out, when I start to misinterpret ‘the hunt’ for something else. When I read the affection and attention for more what they are: strategies men take on to melt me a little. 

I pay dearly when this happens. It is my own doing, I cannot blame anyone for disappointing or hurting me. I cannot be angry with anyone who does not reciprocate or act the way I suddenly am asking them to. I set the stage with low expectations and that is what I receive. Crumbs, because I never had the courage to put myself out there in the first place. 

 

Nicky Hayden

I recently dreamed that Nicky Hayden asked me out on a date. He only hinted at it, he didn’t directly ask me. There were other people around and I got the feeling he wanted to be low key or just not so direct. So I rather coyly pressed him on what he was trying to say, and he then asked to spend time with me. I was excited and flattered that Nicky Hayden (or more accurately, what he represents to me) was interested in spending time with me.

At some point in the dream I started to wonder if he knew I lost two partners. Then I thought, maybe that’s why he asked me out, because I could commiserate because he had lost a partner. Then I realized I had it backward –  it was him who was lost, he was the dead one, not his girlfriend.

And then I got depressed because he was already dead. I thought “These are the only men who are interested in me. The dead ones.”

It’s the dead guys who love me.