Sometimes you're just like, "Look fucker, get out of my head...."
...and then (because most of the time our minds are stubborn and relentless whores), the sound of his voice saying, "I love you a million times a million" plays again, like a record scratch, "a million times a million...a million times a million...." and you get pissed that you know enough about math to know that his "million" didn't exactly add up at the end of the equation.
All of a sudden, another shot is taken at you, and again you're a fallen-fucking-warrior princess, trying to hastily sew up the reopening of your heart seams.
Just as you're moving forward, on the heels of this amazing weekend, with someone who swooped in much like a real-life White Knight, identified your gaping wounds and crafted the perfect amount of attention, patience, encouragement and affection to apply a healing remedy to the parts that were especially aching.... your ex-Love emails you, a day after he leaves and the sentence, "I miss the sound you always make when it's cold outside," hits you like a fucking missile attack, because I don't even know that I make a sound and because I've decided he's forgotten me, as far as I'm concerned I'd decided he'd forgotten our life together existed at all, and because he still knows me the best. The only way someone will learn those little things, will learn "me in details", is through time and years and chilly nights when I make "that sound," through experience, rough patches, and smooth sailing.
All of a sudden, you're forced to reexamine your heart (fan-fucking-tastic)- because the holes there are apparent. You look at your White Knight, the one who said, "The man who wants the life of a king will snatch you up and never regret a second he spends earning your trust and love," and who has patiently let me be as transparent as GLASS about where I'm at and you have to say, "I adore you. I want to see where this goes...and is going...but I'm terrified of being called someones girl, I'm terrified of being hurt, I'm terrified of moving forward." And because he's amazing he lets you cry about your Ex-Love, he lets you freak out and he successfully fills my mind with better things to think about, to be excited about....he gives me perspective and baskets full of smiles....he stimulates my mind and has me curled over in stomach pains from laughter. He's what the doctor ordered....and I hate when I still have to say, honestly to myself and to him...
I've only got 50% ....my heart has a limp. The capacity for me to FEEL is maxed out. And he gets it....he says, "Babe, I know what I signed on for. It's gonna hurt for awhile....and I'm in no hurry."
Right? I know, he's a real-live-man. A mature, super-human, extraordinary man.
So when my Ex- Love says, "I can tell you all this because, I know we're past it now..." again, the cards sit comfortably in his hands (and I'm angry at myself for hurting over it), the hands that are clicking "SEND" on a loaded gun, because he doesn't realize the severity of how that actually affects me, the hands that are now empty of me, while still unknowingly holding a chunk of my most important parts, the hands that are gripping onto other women, pressing up against bar stools and finding themselves curled through strangers belt loops, looking at them like he once looked at me....but they're not me, they're looked on with false admiration, prey to a selfish conquest. And he knows that.
The decision to be "past it" has now been made by him and if being past something, means reading the email that sits in your inbox like a 8,000 lb Elephant (actually, maybe that's a really small elephant...how much do elephants weigh?) and feeling like you've now backtracked a thousand steps in reverse down memory lane, then maybe that's what "past it" feels like. Maybe "past it" still guts me.
"DON'T TALK ABOUT HIM ANYMORE ON YOUR BLOG, CHELS" my adorable, Bob Dylan-obsessed, male coworker tells me, "You show him your hand that way." Well, I'm not holding any Aces, dear.
My cards are on the table. I'm trying, I'm moving forward, one foot in front of the other, but I would be lying to myself to say that there aren't parts of me that still can't let go of him. As foolish as it may sound and as embarrassing it is to admit.
I'm trying. I'm unlearning him and open to learning someone else. I'm excavating bits of him with sharp tools and examination. I'm being the best version of brave that I can be when you're only at half-capacity and I'm "bravely" opening my heart, standing proudly like glass, transparent and keen for rock-throwing, I'm aware of where I'm at. Of what I can and cannot give and what I'm ready for. I know that I'm hurting still and that despite the circumstances, I'm doing one hell of a good job embracing the newness. So fuck yea, go me.
How do you "move forward?"