Hopelessness. Confusion.
Anger. Revulsion.
Pride. Hurt.
Inside a hollow, ceramic shell.
Breakable.
Fragile.
Invisible.
This is the feeling you encounter two-point-five years later; when all it takes is a book lying dangerously close to the truth to send you into orbit again. This is the chaos theory, in its physical form and definition. The domino effect. How something that happened years ago, ages and centuries back, can still affect you. Can still hold power when a name is mentioned; how that name still holds the same agonizing ache, the same lifeless shock. Like 'f**k,' said in the middle of Sunday mass. Gasps, surprise. An intense, red rash of embarrassment. Gossip. Release that never comes.
To say I was hurt would be gross idealism. I wish I could recreate in shining color the last time we spoke; that horrifying phone call that ended all the uncertainty. The eerie thought that an epileptic fit would have been a cake walk then. The surprise on his face when he saw me in a store a few weekends back. Horror. As her perfect red hair swam down the aisle behind him. Long, purple nails. Holding the leash. In the freezer section. [Symbolic? Maybe.]
I don't know what's worse. The betrayal of not knowing, or the growing, malignant mass that can see past, present and future and yet still deny everything. Everything.
I'm a horrible person, I think. I'm dwelling and obsessing when the rest of my life is freaking amazing. Smack me virtually. Despicable.
"You knew it all along. It's your fault, really. He's never really been able to stop when he sets his mind to something. You could have done it for him. You knew perfectly well he wasn't single."
Quote his cousin. Quote her bouncing blonde ponytail, the way she gallops when she walks. Like the horses she shows. Quote one of my distant friends. A distant, but good, friend.
"& the grass will continue growing, the sun shining exactly the same color. But it's flat, overturned. Nothing holds joy anymore..."
Quote me. Quote the mess I was then. When I could barely form a coherent sentence without his name. Without pain. Teenage angst, penned by a fourteen year old with a grudge. "Teach Me." That's the book I just finished. He taught me, all right. Not much, but it's there. Taught about life, about 'first love.' About tennis courts at midnight and which constellations he adored. How lyrics could be the soundtrack to your life, how stage musicals could BE life for a while. Which actors had come from small towns, how I'm going to make it one day. I'm not so sure I believe the last anymore.
How does this happen? Can a person really change with added age, added maturity? Or am I still the same naive, screwed up little freshman I was back then? Am I still peachy-keen with the mystery, lies, would I willingly give in to the same feelings? How is this fair, that I'm still feeling the effects while he's on the other side of the state? With her. In dorms less than a hallway apart.
Do people change? Rectify past mistakes? Yes, the point of this webstite is progressive thinking. But how can you really be progressive if you're stuck on the past? Do you have to rid yourself of poisonous thoughts, of memories too painful to really have happened? Or is that gut feeling what is supposed to drive you; to keep you moving forward? How do I continue a good streak for an extended amount of time, an amazing year, when thoughts and anniversaries of indescretion are dragging me down?
You should take that feeling and become determined to overcome it. That's the first step. Just push yourself to overcome it. You don't have to push it away and try to bury it somewhere. Just learn to accept it and not let it get to you. It's a terribly hard thing to do, but once you start that journey, it will start to fade into memory and leave you more at peace.
And it may help to just ramble and rant at someone occasionally. If that's the case, I've been told I'm a real good listener.
Sending you hugs and as much support as you need!
And that's comin' at ya' from yer local redneck hippie.