Love G'n'R's Patience, but this same-titled song by my new favorite male artist just might be even cooler:
I'm running out of patience to be fucking with this now
You better believe me when I say this now
I'm packing up my nightmares and I'll be on my way
You better find me some time when you have more to say
My only complaint is that it's super short -- that's the one and only verse -- but he really packs a lot into four lines, doesn't he?
On the subject of nightmares, usually I dream about either kissing him or other men, but last night I dreamt about him kissing other women, which is still really more like a nightmare for me than a dream:
I'm packing up my nightmares and I'll be on my way
Oh wait, I can't. And that's what makes being the one left behind harder than being the one who leaves: I can't pack up my nightmares and be on my way, like he did. I have to stay right here, in the bed we slept in together, on the couch he laid on every time he was at my house, with my kids' memories of him...
There's really nowhere to go, (except temporarily, and I am looking very forward to my weekend away), so I guess I just have to stay here, feel it, and trust that it will keep getting easier. There'll be days, for example, when I don't have to start by waking up and remembering those images. Most days. Just not today.
But as germane as the nightmares line was to last night's sleep, it's the last line that most speaks to what hurts in my heart:
You better find me some time when you have more to say
I know it's not my job to say what someone else had "better" do, but it really, really hurts, and has for quite some time, that he never seems to get to that point. How we went from such a space of open-hearted dialogue to such a shutdown silence is both beyond my comprehension and really, really difficult to sit with...
Showing posts with label Micah P. Hinson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Micah P. Hinson. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Don't You Forget
How could someone who loves my heart so much choose to break it?
That's the question that today is posing for me, and it's a lot tougher than the ones I faced yesterday.
I should clarify: it's tougher to swallow, tougher to sit with, but not really tougher to answer. I think I know the answer: because he didn't feel he had any other choice. And like a lot of things in life, knowing the answer doesn't make it hurt any less.
The question hit me like a ton of bricks when I finished watching Take This Waltz, a heartbreaker of a movie with some seriously heartbreaking music from a super cool dude previously unknown to me:
There are things
That I say
That don't mean a thing anyway
And don't you
And don't you forget about me
forget about me
And don't you
And don't you forget about me
forget about me
forget about me
And there are things
That I do
That don't mean a thing anyway
And don't you
And don't you forget about me
forget about me
I'm not really worried that he'll forget about me. I'm worried he's already forgotten the most important thing any of us can ever do, something he taught me how to do, promised in writing that he would do, and then drove away from, and that is love someone with your whole heart, and then hang onto it, nurture it, and go to the mats to to try to resuscitate it if it’s injured.
Let's just say Micah P. Hinson isn't the only one for whom these lyrics ring true:
There are things
That I say
That don't mean a thing anyway
They don't mean a thing anyway
There are things
That I do
That don't mean a thing anyway
They don't mean a thing anyway
That's how it feels to me right now, but I also know in my heart of hearts that if he'd felt capable of staying true to the things he spoke from his heart, he would have done them instead of doing something that feels to me like a contradiction. Again, knowing this does not make it hurt any less.
One of my best friends called me in the middle of my crying jag last night and I told her what I was grappling with (and writing about here). She said she didn't know if that was true for her because she wasn't sure that she'd ever said or done something that didn't mean a thing anyway. "I have," I admitted. "In my marriage." And then she said "Oh yeah, I guess I did too, in my marriage. I guess I said and did things in response to the way I wanted things to be instead of in response to how they really were."
Is that what he was doing? I really hope not, and I truly don't think so, but I guess in a way, does it really matter, given that the outcome is the same? Either way, it hurts like hell.
When I woke up this morning, I could feel it in my solar plexus. That's where the core of our being lies, the oldest part of us, the part of us that, when it gets activated, is usually communicating some old wounds, some of the original vulnerability we had at our core when someone we loved let us down the first time, likely our parents.
Before this last love, I was never able to fully share what was parked in my solar plexus for years. And in sharing it, I got to let go of some of those old wounds that weren't serving my grown woman self. I guess I should be grateful for that. And I am. It's just that now he's gone, and I'm back here, in this super raw awful scary ouchy yucky place, only this time without someone so beautiful to hold me. Now those arms belong to memories of the one who has held me in that sacred place and fantasies of arms that belong to some other beautiful man I've yet to meet, neither of which can actually physically hold me or bring me comfort.
Holy f$#@ this hurts. Yesterday I had lunch with a friend who told me that by the time he was my age he'd said goodbye to three great loves. I walked away thinking: "Wow. This happens all the time."
But it doesn't feel like something that happens all the time. It feels like it's never happened to anyone quite like this, but maybe it's like birth in that way. The Onion once had a headline "Miracle of birth celebrated for 83 billionth time." When you have a baby, it feel like the biggest deal that's ever happened in the history of the world, and yet it happens all the time. I guess heartbreak is like that too.
That makes me feel a little teensy bit better -- the oneness and all -- but unlike birth, heartbreak offers no beautiful baby that you get to take home with you...
That's the question that today is posing for me, and it's a lot tougher than the ones I faced yesterday.
I should clarify: it's tougher to swallow, tougher to sit with, but not really tougher to answer. I think I know the answer: because he didn't feel he had any other choice. And like a lot of things in life, knowing the answer doesn't make it hurt any less.
The question hit me like a ton of bricks when I finished watching Take This Waltz, a heartbreaker of a movie with some seriously heartbreaking music from a super cool dude previously unknown to me:
There are things
That I say
That don't mean a thing anyway
And don't you
And don't you forget about me
forget about me
And don't you
And don't you forget about me
forget about me
forget about me
And there are things
That I do
That don't mean a thing anyway
And don't you
And don't you forget about me
forget about me
I'm not really worried that he'll forget about me. I'm worried he's already forgotten the most important thing any of us can ever do, something he taught me how to do, promised in writing that he would do, and then drove away from, and that is love someone with your whole heart, and then hang onto it, nurture it, and go to the mats to to try to resuscitate it if it’s injured.
Let's just say Micah P. Hinson isn't the only one for whom these lyrics ring true:
There are things
That I say
That don't mean a thing anyway
They don't mean a thing anyway
There are things
That I do
That don't mean a thing anyway
They don't mean a thing anyway
That's how it feels to me right now, but I also know in my heart of hearts that if he'd felt capable of staying true to the things he spoke from his heart, he would have done them instead of doing something that feels to me like a contradiction. Again, knowing this does not make it hurt any less.
One of my best friends called me in the middle of my crying jag last night and I told her what I was grappling with (and writing about here). She said she didn't know if that was true for her because she wasn't sure that she'd ever said or done something that didn't mean a thing anyway. "I have," I admitted. "In my marriage." And then she said "Oh yeah, I guess I did too, in my marriage. I guess I said and did things in response to the way I wanted things to be instead of in response to how they really were."
Is that what he was doing? I really hope not, and I truly don't think so, but I guess in a way, does it really matter, given that the outcome is the same? Either way, it hurts like hell.
When I woke up this morning, I could feel it in my solar plexus. That's where the core of our being lies, the oldest part of us, the part of us that, when it gets activated, is usually communicating some old wounds, some of the original vulnerability we had at our core when someone we loved let us down the first time, likely our parents.
Before this last love, I was never able to fully share what was parked in my solar plexus for years. And in sharing it, I got to let go of some of those old wounds that weren't serving my grown woman self. I guess I should be grateful for that. And I am. It's just that now he's gone, and I'm back here, in this super raw awful scary ouchy yucky place, only this time without someone so beautiful to hold me. Now those arms belong to memories of the one who has held me in that sacred place and fantasies of arms that belong to some other beautiful man I've yet to meet, neither of which can actually physically hold me or bring me comfort.
Holy f$#@ this hurts. Yesterday I had lunch with a friend who told me that by the time he was my age he'd said goodbye to three great loves. I walked away thinking: "Wow. This happens all the time."
But it doesn't feel like something that happens all the time. It feels like it's never happened to anyone quite like this, but maybe it's like birth in that way. The Onion once had a headline "Miracle of birth celebrated for 83 billionth time." When you have a baby, it feel like the biggest deal that's ever happened in the history of the world, and yet it happens all the time. I guess heartbreak is like that too.
That makes me feel a little teensy bit better -- the oneness and all -- but unlike birth, heartbreak offers no beautiful baby that you get to take home with you...
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