Memories are having their way with me. I’m back in the city that once felt so foreign – that once felt like home, to being the worst place in the world. And now, I’m back. With absolutely no support system. No idea what I’m doing with my future/next two years. Thoughts of you weave and bob their way through my heart and mind. Tattooed images pass as quickly as thunder on a summer’s day.
How did I get here?
I thought you were the one. I thought we would make it. You hurt me. You caused me pain. I gave you everything I had and you beat me like a dog on the street asking – no begging – me to forgive you and take you back. Manipulating my mind and heart to molds that fit your mood. Why am I having these feelings? Why did you ruin everything from the beginning. Why did I stick around!
My Freudian fate.
That must be it.
The words, spit, memories, pain and suffering can’t be undone nor un-erased. With my Dad’s passing I learned that I could no longer wait. I was tired. I told you for a year straight before anything with my Dad ever happened. Why did I fucking stay! I should have left before it even started.
Life is too short. Regret nothing. Learn.
Suffer only for those that share your blood and sacrifice only for those willing to do the same, and more, for you.
I’m trying to find comfort in whatever way I can. I first found it in the bed of another. Sharing pain with someone who understood and knew that all I needed or wanted was warmth – both in body and soul. It was time limited, but so deeply embedded in my memory that I seek them out often. Even if it’s just for a passing “Hello, I hope you’re doing okay”. Why? Because they created warmth and safety during a period of havoc and hell. Someone giving you the upmost kindness in the worst most times of need created deep ocean memories that can’t be forgotten.
Fast forward – I then found company in strange conversations and experiences. I needed to expand my mind and push myself to depths that I had never reached. Why? Because I was young, and had the right to date and know what sexual intercourse with someone foreign felt like. I had the right to drink excessively – damn it, I had just lost my dad! My therapist said it was okay, my mom said it was okay – and damn it, I did it.
It’s two months with someone. The conversations aren’t like the one’s you and I had.
What is love?
Where is love?
Where’s the snap on grid to guide my files and categorize my thoughts.
I need more than a “mhhmmm” and “right”. I need more than two words of agreement and verbal accommodation. I need opinion, passion, feeling in how you speak to me. You have such potential. You could do so much, be so much – but stop yourself. You’re afraid of failure and what they’ll say. Am I wrong? What is it then. Stop making excuses; let me push you. Let me help you.
Here we go again, My Freudian Fate.