The Safety Net of Fear & Resentment
from #Hati-Hati: a collection of love poems & essays
And no, I do not – in my heart – want another go. I would never want another go, because I know better. Fool me twice and all. But my sadness and anger about it is that I even have to know better at all. It feels like some enormous injustice that my experience of us had to teach me to dream a little less, to become harder and live be more guarded.
What I want to hold onto from that time, from my experience, and what I can only vaguely recall now, is that excited and joyous magical feeling at the very beginning; that wonderful initial spark of connection.
And in a way it’s a narcotic – the memory. It’s an irreplicable sensation that I torture myself to never taste again, even in dreams. Yet I hold onto the memory because I want to keep believing it’s possible that it was real.
I want to believe that I’m capable of that feeling again.
What blocks it, what blocks me, is the fear that feeling that way again will lead me astray, that I will once again fall, blinded by love, and not see that my own imagination has caused me to perpetuate and abide a lie. The fear is that my imagination, my own desire to believe in rainbows, is faulty. The fear is that hope is not true. The fear is that loving is pointless and foolish, and my inclination toward the whole thing is not actually a super power at all, but just a loaded gun inside a weighted purse.
It’s quite dramatic once I start looking into it.
How could I be so completely immersed in the idea and fantasy of someone who it would appear had never cared one bit for me? Someone who repeatedly chose not to choose me? How could I, and why did I string myself along in that way, and do it twice?
And I want to let it go, and I have, and I haven’t.
I’m clearly still so very, very hurt. Because I know, now so much better than then, that I’m an amazing person. I know that I’m brimming right the fuck over with love and hope and all the good rainbow sticker sunshine flower stuff that I love. I know that I’m built of it. And I just don’t understand why anyone would ask for any of it if they didn’t even really want it at all.
I miss the joke. And it just hurts.
It still really hurts.
Because the fear, the memory, the elation and isolation, the rejection, pain, and the utter agony and superficial restoration of it all has not yet left me.