I am a break-up masochist.
Raise your hand if you're sick of this saga. And feel free to ignore me for the next week or so. Until then, I process.
My shrink is right. I am no stranger to survival gear. I'm stronger than I even know myself to be.
I can almost feel my body, its churning metabolism, willing myself to steel up and scab over. But, frankly, I'm surprised by how much this stings . . . you know, for something I've been actively dreading since December.
Fight. Fight the Maybe He'll... syndrome; fight the big What If! Pound into your bones that it is done. No negotiations, no love songs. Mourn the loss, and keep on fighting (though it feels more like fending off a panic attack). Here is an end to the uncertainty. It has to be better this way. Maybe my brain will get that through to my sore ass heart.
Meanwhile I torture myself. I refuse to take a break from the music that was loosely knit between us, mine just as much as his, spider threads across our uncrossable chasm. Better to drown in it, roll it up in the sandstorm till my heart pops out a pearl. Delaying it only means you'll be blindsided next time you turn on the radio. Better to salt some wounds yourself.
He can't keep Bukowski. He can't keep Dylan. So I have to sit like a three year old in a cake-stained party dress, pounding my firsts in the center of the living room, wailing out my sugar rush in a flash flood tantrum. No! Mine!
Raise your hand if you're sick of this saga. And feel free to ignore me for the next week or so. Until then, I process.
My shrink is right. I am no stranger to survival gear. I'm stronger than I even know myself to be.
I can almost feel my body, its churning metabolism, willing myself to steel up and scab over. But, frankly, I'm surprised by how much this stings . . . you know, for something I've been actively dreading since December.
Fight. Fight the Maybe He'll... syndrome; fight the big What If! Pound into your bones that it is done. No negotiations, no love songs. Mourn the loss, and keep on fighting (though it feels more like fending off a panic attack). Here is an end to the uncertainty. It has to be better this way. Maybe my brain will get that through to my sore ass heart.
Meanwhile I torture myself. I refuse to take a break from the music that was loosely knit between us, mine just as much as his, spider threads across our uncrossable chasm. Better to drown in it, roll it up in the sandstorm till my heart pops out a pearl. Delaying it only means you'll be blindsided next time you turn on the radio. Better to salt some wounds yourself.
He can't keep Bukowski. He can't keep Dylan. So I have to sit like a three year old in a cake-stained party dress, pounding my firsts in the center of the living room, wailing out my sugar rush in a flash flood tantrum. No! Mine!
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3 comments:
You are amazing. Clearly he is not. Take it all. It all gets to be yours.
breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe
...so comes love...
wish you were coming to reunion. there are a lot of smithies who would love to toast you with wine, women, and song. xoxoox (one of your suitest thing sweetmates)
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