I’m leaving tomorrow.
I’m leaving and I feel not anticipation, or regret, or aching nostalgia, but relief. And, in adjunction to that, I feel her.
I met her here. I met her, fell in love with her, created her, here. Created us. She is my heart. She is the very light in me. She is the one who I love and would marry and would allow all of me. She is. I simply, don’t.
And I log on to the internet and I find oracles writing hope for me. Writing regret. As if they saw into my heart and took its words and put them before my eyes so I can see, “you are leaving.” “You are leaving the one place where she will always be, in memory. And when you go you will leave her here. And this time, it surely will be you leaving her.”
This new chapter is so good for me. I find the world open and white and lovely right now. The future seems so free. I feel so ready. So, unresisting. And there is this piece of me, which wants to tell her. Which wants to inform. Which wants to say, “tell me you love me?” “Tell me this matters. Tell me if I leave you will still try and find me.”
Perhaps all along it was not her rejecting me, leaving me, being unfaithful. Perhaps it was me. Me rejecting, leaving, pushing, disallowing, me of bad faith and windmill tilling and whining over melting ice cream I could have eaten and enjoyed while it was cold. Perhaps it was all me. Doing this to her, and in so doing, doing this to myself. As a spiritual person, who knows the definition of unconditional love, the feeling of inflicted pain, the awareness of what hurt can create, the awareness of what love can be; perhaps I know I can forgive. Yes, there was so much pain. Yes it appeared as her actions. Yes I bear scars.
Yes, if I allow it, she would ruin me.
But I allowed nothing less than that. I let her ruin me. I expected it. I was unresisting to it. For I wanted what I thought I deserved. And now, I miss her. I miss her. Like I would miss marrow, and indigo, and sunshine. Like I would miss my heart, were it to flee to a jar to escape me. Like I would miss these two years did they not exist. I miss her. And the things she did, they don’t matter anymore. They don’t, except when I dwell on the hurt and then they do. And I dwell not, and then I am at peace except for the missing.
Reed says its normal. It might take years to get over her. I feel no urgent need to seek a replacement. To seek a compliment. To seek even an amusement. I only feel a missing. And this growing urge to contact. This growing urge to tell her all I want. And blame her for not letting me have it.
In reality I do know it is all my fault. And it is all hers. And it is all mine. And I have been the one to bring this about with my wanting, even as she perpetrated the actions against me by proxy, because I could not break my own heart so thoroughly as that. And I must release this; this need to hurt myself, this feeling of unworthiness.
Last night I dreamed of her and I, asleep on her bed, in a white apartment. I was sleeping there most nights in the dream. I would watch her sleep. And the predominant feeling was, I was waiting in rejection. I lived in this dream in a feeling of nervous apology. My presence felt conditional upon her fond feelings. And I felt too hopeful, a love, a want, based on fear. Sandy foundation.
I woke up to find myself shocked. I knew, my dream (dream defined as: fantasy/longing) had been us living together. I thought it long dead. I also knew how I felt when we were together; I thought that long purged as well. But it wasn’t, isn’t. She is still in my dreams, as a thing unattainable, and expected to reject me.
I realized this is how I live my life. Expecting this from everyone. And why? Because, I was unwanted once. I was unattainable. I was what someone wanted me to not be. I was myself. And they wanted a doll to play with, not a real toy.
I am strong enough to know, this is not true in my conscious mind anymore, but subconsciously must still be. I must still need purge this. I must still tell that little me, it was okay, that they didn’t want me. It was natural, for they thought progeny to be extensions of them, not a person. Not a baby. Not alive. It is okay they didn’t know. It wasn’t bad. It just was. And the way I felt just was. And judgment isn’t necessary. Of them or of me. There need be no apology.
I miss her. But with that realization, the missing is less urgent. There need be no apology. Not apology or blame. It just was.
It just is.