Musings on Premeditated Loss
I can’t deal with my emotions.
I hate to feel like I’m losing. It starts inside my ribs, this non-electric tingling. This gut reaction to oncoming-disappointment. And it travels through invisible channels, directly to my elbows and down my forearms, lightly raising goosepimples on my skin as my core temperature drops. And somewhere in my sinuses ginger begins to grind, and inside, down my esophageal well a thin bit of bile bubbles as I acknowledge my greatest fear:
I don’t get what I want.
And if I do it’s certainly not for long.
I think about it everyday. Why am I am this way? Why’d I put myself here, why do I only want what I can’t have and why do I reject what I’ve been given? Why do I want so much more than the hand I’ve been dealt, and why haven’t I yet managed to learn to play the game?
Is it possible I’m addicted to the nauseating vertigo of placing the wrong bet? No, it couldn’t be that. I think it’s more I want to believe in the come-back. In the miraculous, in the one off chance.
I sound like a foolish dreamer, but I certainly boast a hard sell of someone too smart to get lost in the sauce.
Have you ever looked at a person and been keenly aware that every single one of your rules was threatening to float right off the pages of the Bible of your broken heart? Seen them waltz through the air like silhouettes of… Nothing!
I never saw them do anything because I never let my rules out of my sight, off the page, or far from my mind! And while I never claimed to be a lady, even I know I protest too much. Even I know that I’m a lost, and lonely, causeless, hopeless and homeless romantic without arms to hold me tight, and a chest to rest my head upon.
I’m too picky, and too blind, and too drunk on wild idealism, Greek Mythology and Astrology, soap operas and archetypes to think straight or see straight, much less even know what to say when faced to face with the Sun.
A girl once told me – a girl I liked a bit for a while, who liked me all right, but not in that way, I don’t think – that my face had good symmetry. She was the first person to tell me that, and I’ve heard it a few times since. Looking back now I see she had a pretty symmetrical face as well. I cut her out of my life and now, eight years lates, I randomly feel horribly about that.
We think people are beautiful on the outside because our eyes like symmetry, and when we meet people we think we like it’s because we think they’re like us and that we match. But when I’m hardest on myself, like right now, and most times really, it’s becaue inside there’s an imbalance. And my insides and my outsides don’t match. And it’s causing me a lot of fucking stress.
Anyway, I don’t know why I’m this way. Except I do. It’s because I literally can’t stand losing. I’d rather suffer solitude, I think, than fully engage in what could turn out to be messy entanglements and long term committments gone awry.
And you can’t trust anyone anymore, you know. People are so rotten. I’m just so utterly afraid of being punished for my love. I never want to be so naive, so enamored, so adoring, so addicted, or discarded ever again. Who was that Romantic, Sir Philip someone or other who was in love with some royalty, and he wrote her sonnets? I knew immediately in high school that I had what he had. Love sickness.
The drama of it all.
And I feel so childish. Like I’ve built up this whole great big thing in my head and as long as I don’t do or say anything, actively, I will be safe. But it’s here I feel most silly and juvenile because if I don’t do anything at all and something definite changes I will be livid with myself and tortured by my own cowardice.
The same cowardice that lost me Josh.
And sometimes, lately especially, I think so much of this was destiny. As though Josh pulled me away from one situation to push me into another, to challenge me to grow in this way that I wasn’t prepared to grow for him. And sure, that could have ended horrendously and maybe, truthfully, it would have. But I was the coward who couldn’t take the risk. I was too fearful of everything to trust that I could leap and he’d be there to catch me because I couldn’t see what he saw he in me.
I’m here now, convinced that my almost-lover has, from beyond the grave, conspired with the invisible forces of the realms to cajole me into evolution. Because we all need something to believe. And I’m a born Romantic. I can’t help myself.
And maybe we would have never lasted and maybe his demons had to have him and maybe on my worst day he fought some of mine for me. Still, eventually I’ll have to push through this wall.
I can’t stay here like this, pathetically crumpling like pieces of cheap cardboard everytime I think someone’s going to play with my doll, especially when I haven’t even attempted to get it of the shelf.
I could probably find a better analogy – like bike or ball or scooter or kite, or even book. But lovers are not toys or objects we own. At least they shouldn’t be. Though, I may be the most unfit and least experienced person I know to philosophize what lovers are or can not be.
I simply wouldn’t know.