Were hearts just meant to be broken? Is that why we have them? So we can break open and feel the true energy of the universe - all the beauty, joy, poignancy, messiness, confusion, fear, and pain, pain, pain that exists in the world? Maybe a broken heart is the truest thing in the universe - and a joyful heart is, also. They're both sides of the same coin. Maybe diving into the pain the the only thing we can do when confronted with the pain and confusion, and maybe on the other side of that - somewhere that I have yet to find - is joy and release from all this exquisite agony. Maybe opening up to that pain - being brave enough to do that - is opening up to the universe, to God.
The confusion is so deep - the love and the hurt intertwined in such a way that I can't separate them. Is this normal? Is it because I'm supposed to learn the exquisite lesson that pain and joy and life are inseparable? Or is it because I'm too sensitive, because I can't turn away from it? Is it something I'm forced to live with, my whole life? And can I do it?
In "Doctor Zhivago", one of the lines that I loved, and wrote down (somewhere), was "For a moment, she re-discovered the purpose of her life: … to call each thing by its right name.” I remembered this when I saw "Into the Wild" recently and he quotes that line. I remember when I first read that, I felt like that was me, that was my reason, too. And maybe me role in life is to observe, to watch, to experience the nuances of human emotion. Maybe my exquisite sensitivity and tendency to absorb emotion, like a sponge, maybe it's my role to live with that, to experience it fully, let be the pain flow over me and through me, so that I someday, somehow, find the joy on the other side. Maybe pain and joy will always be my companions, no matter what. Maybe they're everybody's, but we just don't like to talk about it. Maybe my job is to talk about it.
Today, in talking about my situation, I was told that I'm too nice, that I let him get away with too much. I was always taught that, as a woman, I had to be nice to be acceptable, happy, coupled. But nice only gets you so far. Nice gets you happy smiles when your soul is breaking apart, sweet words to hide the truth, declarations of love and actions that speak the opposite. Not uncommon for the nice girls, the ones who trust what people say. The nice girl in me says I'm being too harsh, that he's only dealing with his own confusion and pain. But the dark one says I'm being played for a fool. And I'd rather believe the nice girl, but there's still that doubt, that doubt....
But in this week, I've heard such care from people I never would have expected it from. I'm so grateful for all the people who have been honest with me in my confusion, supportive, let me cry in the middle of a party, led me outside to talk, called to check on me, told me they loved me and how special I am. The people who are taking care of me in my grief. My best friends, my mom, even my hairdresser, my doctor, and my boyfriend's neighbors...they all support me in being my whole, true, self. And that's magical, and I love them all for reaching out to me, for letting me cry, and unload all my crap on them. For telling me I deserve better. Maybe that's why I'm in this situation of limbo, pain, confusion and yes, love....so I can appreciate the good things I have while letting go of the expectations of what a love relationship is supposed to be. Maybe my lesson is to accept what is, exactly as it is, and to dig deep into myself to find the unconditional goodwill that can support the one I love through all, even if it means it takes him away from me, and to find the strength to live my own life, on my own, without dependence. Maybe the interdependence will come later, when this period in our lives is over.
I just want to lie down in some field and sink into the dirt, become part of the earth, because I don't know how to be in this life at the same time that I must. Am I just too sensitive to pain and the nuances of truth? Do I need too much? Then how can I exist? How do I cope? I know there's a profound lesson here, but I'm damned if I know what to do with it. That love hurts, like Steve Perry always said? And I sit here popping anti-anxiety pills and drinking champagne to dull the pain that wakes me up at night. I don't know what to do. I've moved on so often. I'm so tired. Part of me wants to become one of them - the mercenary, the manipulative, the ones who just use others to get what they want - because that's who gets ahead in this world. Maybe it's time to turn over a new, even more cynical leaf.
On one hand, can I accept the love that I'm offered, accept his confusion, and make a life with him that has room for that? Or should I be the iron bitch and just move on, not looking back, my tears being wiped away by the wind of my passage as I go, because, dammit, I can't get everything I want? Should I relish the good things and just accept the rest, caring for him in his confusion and pain, and seeking his acknowledgment of mine without wallowing in it or allowing it to turn me into a harpy? Or should I look, yet again, for someone with an uncomplicated life, who has all the room in the world for me, and who can offer me the warmth and strong arms around me that I long for. And does that person even exist?
I don't know. I don't know.
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