You can be half a planet, half a country, half a block – or half a room away, and still hurt me with the arms that you impose.
I no longer wish to be part of the distance that you make.
Happy Holidays. Happy New Year. Happy Birthday. Happy every anniversary of every happy any thing that means something or no thing at all to you.
Happy any day that I’m not in, let’s say.
I will read your obituary and cry myself to sleep one day. But while you’re still here, alive, you get nothing from me. Ever again.
(I think they made resolutions for this).
A toast to getting where you need to go. No matter how long it takes you.
(you can start your new year any time)
“For her part [she] needs to begin to curb her angry outbursts – – not because they are unjustified, but because they will not give her what she is really seeking. Anger may make her feel more powerful, temporarily. However, psychologist Steven Stosny observes that that “if loss of power was the problem in intimate betrayal, then anger would be the solution. But the great pain in intimate betrayal has little to do with the loss of power. Perceived loss of value is what causes your pain – – you feel less loveable.”
Dear – –
This is not an apology. I am not sorry for the outbursts, for the kind of hurt from my kind of words, and the times I carved through your metal with my scorching blade. I am not sorry for the sparks, and if you got burned. You were the one warming yourself all over me. You should be the one on your knees, respecting years, respecting
I am not sorry for the discomfort of a buzzing phone. For street corner revelations, or for Actually … tied up in your silence, I am not sorry for any time I broke free. Understand, from behind your perennial shield, you share
some half this responsibility.
This is NOT an apology. My dear ‘Henry‘. Your arms-lengthing would provoke one more sober than me. Hard-won, I now at least have clarity. That withholding is an act of emotional cruelty. Revelation, finally! Your refusal had nothing to do with me.
No rust-mouthed man gets to (silently) say. If I deserve to be loved. And when I am free.
“Whether the ending is done in person or in writing, it must be responsible, mature, caring, and clear. He needs to … appreciate the depth of what they shared … and give her closure. There is no way for this not to be painful, but it makes a world of difference if [she] knows that she’s not the only one feeling heartbroken.”
You know, don’t you. Have always known. That it won’t be happiness that ends it. You learnt this many years ago. When, in some other loss, some other love, you discovered there’s no seducing sadness.
This is how you will lose him.
A small or sudden sorrow that separates. No crawling on your belly back. The distance, suddenly, too far.
Ruins to most people. But really, ruins are just evidence, aren’t they? That’s what you asked him once. Thinking about bridges, and wild weather, and washing away. But storms are easy. You see that now. You could swim across that suffering.
But this. This quiet, calm. The questioning. The way you can’t be his answer now. This is how you will lose him.
I imagine it’s something like lights turning on all over the world. One by one the illumination, as continents glimmer then glow. I see it as gravity pulling the stars back down. Collective sadness, collecting love. The bright flame of grief making our shared surface deeper.
Know this. You have been loved.
It’s not dimming, ever. To remember, to honour, to love in this way. We should do so well with the living. We should send out our sparks and turn up our songs while we’re both on the ground. Don’t you think?
You should know you have been loved.
♥ Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping
I expect so much more from you in 2017.
It is not so remarkable. To be two in seven billion. To find each other in the throng. It is not so remarkable to navigate the wide oceans and narrow fences between us, to swim and scramble, and to arrive at each other at last …
I’ve been here before. Recognising that happening under the skin. The visceral confession that precedes, concedes. Thinking – hand to chest – I found you.
To be two in seven billion. Thinking – perhaps – you found me, too.
I’ve been wrong before. I’ve misconstrued. And now. This forgetting heart of mine, she’s made and remembered. New old mistakes to drink away. To somehow, some day think away. Searching again for words, for wisdom and witches.
… try, they say …
Candles. Moonlight. Paper. Fire.
(Stilnox and bathwater don’t make the cut. No matter what they’ve cured before)
Crystals. Lanterns. Mantras. Sand.
(Ticket stubs, boarding passes? Silver chains and crumbling flowers?)
Sage. Yoga. Feathers. Tears.
One or two or five or seven. So many ways to ritualise. But not so many to exorcise those familiar feelings, familiar failings. Yes. This foolish heart of mine reluctantly knows. That there’s still more swimming and scrambling to go.
Try, they say.
To arrive at last, Rock – first a ritual for letting go.
(I’ve been there. With my heart out in my hand)
Note: this post is as much about the odd trajectory of my writing career as it is about love and the usual subjects. How not to get weighed down by the past, but not forget it either. And a reminder that there is no quick-fix, magic-wand way to transform your situation. The only ritual that works for that is, well – work.
Gone now. An empty room I travel through, seeing what used to be there, the ghost tables and photographs, the thread chairs disappearing. What to decorate, what to add to this emptiness? But first the walking, barefoot, the reaching and touching of things that used to be here. Feeling the fade, feeling the ending, the going away as something active, present.
Drawing our names in the dust, tracing the sadness with my fingertips. Only webs and dangling threads left now, all the finished, unfinished remains.
In this room. This small room, this small house we made, this small life we lived in small moments with big, deep breaths. Empty now. Gone.
What to do with all this space? You should know I’ve found someone to fill it up, to reach into corners, open the blinds. Someone to dance me across this bare, dusty floor. But they’re not you. You should know.
He’s not you.
I once said there’s a part of me that only you-
It wasn’t only you I left behind.