wreckage

It's been almost 2 years since we ended. Sometimes it feels as though it was last week. I was sitting in the bathtub last night, listening to Patty Griffin and Emmylou and for a moment, I wished that I had something tangible to represent what I went through these last few years. 

A sacred space exists (the wreckage), those minutes, days, months of meditation and devotion. I wouldn't ever want to go back to that drowning feeling, but I can certainly appreciate the clarity it brought me.  It was a turning point, happiness birthed from absolute despair. I just wish there was something physical I could look at, immerse myself in and then leave. An altar I could light a candle at. I find myself needing some sort of ritual.

It was unimaginable to me then that I could see you now and not wish to rewrite our story. Two years ago, I would have done anything to keep you. That's such a shitty place to be, feeling like you need to plead your way into someone's life. I was stuck behind your boyfriend in the skyway around the holidays and he was saying "we can't wait to see you" to someone on the phone and I knew who "we" was.  I would be lying if I said it didn't sting, but not enough to spend more than a couple minutes mulling over.  I still love you, but it's no longer possessive or an excuse to beat myself up for being unlovable. I know that we both ended up in the right place and that is such a peaceful feeling.

When we met, I felt ruined.  I was dealing with my Fathers death and and juggling guilt for walking out on Richard. If someone were to relay a sad story to me, I would become their grief and then add to it.  It wasn't empathy, it was selfish.  It's something I became addicted to, mainlining another's grief.  Turning tragedy into an excuse to become the savior, or the person who narrowly escaped a similar fate.  Always inserting myself into the plot, a hanger on.  I guess I never realized how adept I was at doing it.  I resented you for always being so unflappable and happy. I want to pick up the phone and tell you that I finally understand, that your absence has offered the clarity I needed.

This last year feels like rain on a chalkboard. I can't remember any big feelings beyond smooth sailing. Day without Night. The only discipline I've held on to is meditation.  Sometimes, I feel like a walking meditation, too adept at processing my feelings to feel anything out of place. Desire feels like an impulse I have talked myself down from but I am realizing now, how much I miss out on when I do that.  An intimate experience with another which can enlarge me and take me out of my perfectly organized life.  Even the most casual encounter can remind me of what I am, what we all are, the luxury of flesh. We will all be gone before we know it.  I guess my point is, I want back in.  I'm ready to feel the weight of it again.