chance and circumstance

Default ‘It Only Hurts’

I’ve gone back to not feeling myself. It’s clearly purposeful, but why? Why do we chose to make ourselves unhappy? Do you ever get that bored?

I saw a tee shirt today that read ‘half my heart is deployed’

I thought first of M. I wondered if he was doing well, and how I took a chance a year ago to save myself and to save him. I still feel betrayed, fool’s stigmata marking me, reminding me.

Regardless, I got a pit in my stomach that made me want to catch a train and get the hell out of here.

Keane ‘Try Again’

I finally got what I was looking for. Not face-to-face closure, and not reciprocation. I got a thank you. There was no apology, no empty words, no regret or wistfulness. It was a genuine, straightforward appreciation. I could paraphrase. The words took me by such surprise.

When everyone else left, you were still there. You tried so hard. You gave me everything, and I don’t understand why, but it meant a lot to me. Thank you.

Saying you’re welcome in Spanish translates loosely as of (or it is) nothing. It is nothing. In retrospect, I think all we need is a good thank you. Thinking back, I would have traded difficult times, obstacles, stress, heartache, for that recognition of my efforts. A simple tip of the hat will do, you know what I mean?

Cobra Starship ‘The World Has It’s Shine (But I Would Drop It On A Dime)’

‘Tall-iced-skinny-white-mocha-extra-shot…please’

I feel more alive than ever, but we all need some help from the barista now and then.

Evans Blue sampling

I am always asked to explain myself. Oftentimes it’s the distractable way I go about everything in my life–a little here, a little there–that provokes questions. Sometimes it’s my irrational nature. More so than not, it’s my error in judgement.

Someone dear to me begs the question ‘why?’ with more frequency than anyone. I still cannot speak the words with eye contact, so I rehearse again. My heart, as much as I hate it, has softened over time, soaked in emotions I haven’t quite drowned out, so I feel I’ve grown up past ranting. Never could hold a grudge.

‘How did we get here?’
‘You’ve assured me I’m alone. You’ve made your point.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you mean how did I get here?’
‘No. But it’s all good. It’s up to you. You’re the one who walked away. Maybe you should exclude yourself from the question.’
‘You’ve excluded me a long time ago.’

 I realize I don’t delve into much detail with anyone else, mostly because they’ve become immaterial to my points, and are dull in comparison. Ha. This one in particular is my ’one who got away’, and why, after many questions, I’ll explain why the most substantially fucked up. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe, like I chastise myself, it won’t help at all because I’m too stubborn, or too far gone. It’s not over yet, so stay tuned…

“She’s letting go of convictions to release the ghost inside
To release all the suffering of a cross and a girl
I sing ‘I love you’ way too much, so I’ll say ‘I hate you’ for tonight”

I got here with a look. Derek Zoolander (I sometimes find it necessary to pull inspiration from fictional characters because my own circumstances often feel unreal) had a trademark look that got him through everything, and so did I. I wasn’t the one who dished it out, though. The first time I saw it was in the middle of my shift at Old Navy last February. I had been expecting a visit from my army friend who was bringing along someone for an introduction.

‘You’d like him.’
‘Really? Thanks M, but I don’t need your dating services!’
‘He saw you, and he wants to meet you. He’s my best friend, you’ll want to meet him.’
‘Really?’
‘You’ll fall in love with him, I swear.’
‘Don’t swear.’
‘Okay, I promise.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

I glanced over, M in his BDU’s catching my eye, and damn near ran over a kid. I pushed my ladder aside, and approached. I could feel my cheeks burning, and I fought it, afraid I’d catch flame. The moment I made eye contact I got that look. It was endearing, gentle, mysterious, and sultry. It was a lot of things, and I wanted to see it all the time. I was a sucker.

“We’re broken but we fit together just right
You know I saw the black inside your eyes
I saw they were eclipsed by mine and they looked just right…
But don’t wait for me. And don’t trust in me. Don’t fall for me
Even when you know you’re falling for me”

That’s how it started. (Gosh, am I only at the beginning?) Every night I’d sit on the that (amazing!) sofa, I’d turn to my right (his left), just for the look. It was like making something really difficult–I’d put so much effort into getting it, but the end result was well worth the time spent. He looked at me like I held the world in a thimble. I crumbled, I caved, I sank deeper, I lost all control.

“There’s just so many things that you never needed to say
Like I’m your other soul, but you can love them all
Your tears are meaningless, they’re written on your face
Just like your empty words, just like the chemical
Just like the disease that stains your lips tonight
You are the disease that’s in my life”

About a year ago I asked him the same question: ‘how did we get here, [Auto]?’ He delved into details I’d never gotten. It was the other side of the story, and the look, and why I’d gotten it, and each time since then.

‘I was taking a swing through the mall on my break. I still had my uniform on so I couldn’t come in. I’m not sure I would have anyway. Sometimes I don’t have any balls.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I saw you in the window one day, and I just stopped and watched you. Yeah, I sound like a pervert, but I couldn’t help it.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘I told M that night when he called. I was asking him if I should go talk to you, and he started asking me what you looked like, and what store you were in’
‘Really?’
‘I said I had to talk to you. The long red hair, how you were talking with your hands and laughing, how you turned around. I wanted to watch you in slow motion. He stopped me right there and said he knew you, known you for years. So he brought me in.’
‘Wow. I–um, didn’t know that. Thanks.’
‘So here we are.’

I won’t detail the entire sordid story. I have so many times before, it’d be redundant, and frankly a little too much information. Someone asked me a few nights ago ‘Why’d you stay?’ It was a simple, direct question, and I can handle that. I’m not sure I can always properly articulate or organize my thoughts, but I’ve done my best before. What had me taken aback and at a loss for words was the past tense of the question.

‘I-I-I…well, um, it was hard. I, I couldn’t not.’

I made no sense at all trying to explain myself while avoiding the look, mainly because it’s personal and sounds ridiculous. How can I say I could see myself leaving, walking out and never talking to him, never laughing with him, never being touched by him again, but I couldn’t feel myself without him. There was no way I could do something I didn’t want to. Who quits smoking when they don’t want to? No one, it’s an addiction. See my point?

“You’re not the first girl to draw her fears on her arms
In hopes to capture all the memories that hunted you down
You can sew your lips shut with your heartstrings
Cause God knows that you don’t need them to hold yourself together
But don’t look down because I don’t know
If falling is fatal from this height I know
I should have never held you up this high”

So after all this, how did I get here? Or for his sake, how did we get here? Because, all those little moments were a fair trade to me. Every night I sat by myself, every tear, every bitten lip and worry, every heartbreaking comment from his lips…they were all worth sitting there, getting that look from the glow of the television, or from flat on my back. It’s masochistic, immature, foolish, reckless–the list goes on. In the same way I see people rubber-necking at a traffic accident, I want to see it all again for myself, just so I can re-affirm I’ve done the right thing in running the opposite direction.

“You should step outside your skin
Something tells me, that we were meant to be
But how can that be?
You run on evil, I run on fumes and stale air
When she came out, she brought her anger, she left her sympathy
Behind the walls she built for me
So we start spinning
You wouldn’t want to let us go easy
Or you just might become too weak…you wouldn’t want to let him down easy
Or he just might become the promise

I want you for who you are
So you can stay inside your skin
Oh something tells me love isn’t enough
But how can that be?
You’re not so evil, I’m not so good…

I am the voice you’ll never get
I am the one
I am the promise and the threat”

That’s all I’ve got. I’m tired. I’m a child kept out too late–I want to run back home to my bed. I’ve found solace in something, someone, but I can’t shake what I see when I close my eyes. I can’t kill ghosts of my past; I already let them die a slow death. It’s supposed to work out in the end, eventually, after a fashion, and so it has…am I wrong?

10 Years ‘Beautiful’

Wasn’t that the game you played as a kid?–you’d get going so fast you’d lose track of when you were supposed to stop, and when you should start back up again.

I go back in for treatment today. When do I stop? No, not when do I finish, when do I get better, when do I just go get the damn surgery? I don’t know where to draw lines. I erase them, cross them, ignore them, drive over them, and colour outside them.

I’m trying really hard to swallow down the acid and ignore what I feel. Dreams betray my strength when I prickle with intuition that this time, I’ve been given something that’s more than I can handle. Still, I’ll raise myself up, won’t I?

I could be wrong. The weight loss, the fatigue, it could all be trick photography of my finest hour.

The Starting Line ‘Bedroom Talk’

I remember it clearly–it wasn’t awkward, fumbling, fast, or nervous. It was short and sweet, in tandem, and natural. It meant nothing. It was perfect.

There I was, apron wrapped around my waist, coffee pot in hand, looking tired and forcing a smile.

‘Samantha Jones.’

I turned around, crinkled brow, wondering which of my white-haired regulars had been catching up on his Sex and the City programming.

It wasn’t any of them (whew!) but let’s undo that relief for a moment and frame the scene on the stranger at the end of my section. There he was, all tattooed six-foot-three of him, grinning (almost leering) at me from across the counter. We weren’t kids anymore.

‘Dennis??’
‘Yeeees, ma’am. Can I get a small coffee and a conversation?’
‘Counter, booth, table, or to go?’
‘Are we going back to your place?’
[I glare]
‘Alright, counter’s fine. I’ll sit awhile.’
‘Cream and sugar?’
‘I’ll take it black. Where’s Mick?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘You failed to mention that.’
‘Would it have aroused you?’
‘Not exactly what I have in mind, no.’
‘So I failed to mention it.’

So ensued a half-hour of interrupted banter and catching up. His coke habit, school, and barista job (the hourly financed rent and the tips for ink, apparently) left him in a solitary state the last four years. I was first, and last, and I was surprised, but not flattered.

‘State your point and purpose.’
‘I’m in town’
‘I see that, sir.’
‘Are you seeing anyone?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘Just one.’
‘So people can change.’
‘You know I never doubled up. It was more of a serial thing.’
‘I started this train wreck’ [he leans to the empty stool on his left, my right, to the imaginary patron,points at me, looking cheeky and vindictive]

Sigh. As much as I want to settle down and give it all, that’s where it started, and look where I landed. I felt screwed up and confused, and though I’m getting clarity now, it’s not erased my memory.

‘You heard The Virgins, babe?’
‘Don’t. You mean the band?’
‘Yeah, I sure wasn’t talking about you sweetheart.’
‘I get it. Yeah, I’m a fan.’
‘I’m a fan.’
‘Don’t’
‘Don’t stop’

We started talking about the future, the same way all the early-twenties do when they’re feeling lamentful and worn-out. He had comments about me being worn-out, which I ignored, deflected, or threw back at him. He explained how he felt about growing up, and I told him all the re-occuring dreams. I delved into Auto, and the unfairness of the situation. He asked for more. I gave in (again, haha).

‘He knows which strings to pull and buttons to push, switches to flip, and spots to hit.’
‘Ouch. Or no?’
‘Yeah, ouch. And now, I don’t have an excuse, saying they’re all a waste of time, or there isn’t anyone else anyway…because there is. I was angry, and I didn’t think anything good would come of Simon anyway. I was wrong. It’s a good thing though.’
‘Now what?’
‘Well it’s not really a matter of that. It’s done. It’s just..’
‘Just ashame?’
‘Yeah.’ [I shake my head and turn away, grabbing someone a refill so he doesn't see me tear-up]
‘You really loved him, huh? Wait–loved or love?’
‘Don’t ask me that.’
‘Are you gonna lie if Simon says it to you? You know, say it back?’
‘Don’t ask me that either. I’d like to think I’d be honest. Like I said, it doesn’t matter.’
‘You can’t say if he showed up right now it wouldn’t hurt. That’s not fair to the new guy.’
‘What do you want me to do? Seriously, it’s not my fault. It’s no one’s fault.’
‘You should have waited.’
‘I can’t, I don’t have that much self control either way. Too much water under the bridge with Auto, and I can’t swim.’
‘I’d save you.’
‘Let’s not add to my list of problems.’

This is all nonsense, in the scope of important things in life, this is menial, and so, worth my time I suppose.

‘You wanna get married, doll?’
‘To you?’
‘I’d never be so blessed. I meant, at all. Or do you enjoy your emotional detachment and commitment issues more than ’til death? Eh? How about it?’
‘I’d love to be married. I would’ve been, remember.’
‘That’s probably how you ended up all Samantha Jones on us.’
‘Yeah, maybe so. Everyone has a way to hide.’
‘He would have come back if he could. He was a good man, Cory.’
‘The only one who stuck around.’
‘I better go.’
‘Sure. More coffee?’
‘Why not.’

Not everything in the past is bad, but it doesn’t need to be re-visited either. That’s probably the only thing I learned. I owe them all a debt I can’t repay–experience in more ways than one.

Katy Perry ‘Mannequin’

I’m going to do it. I’ve never been violent-natured, but I want to slap him across the face. I want to scornfully spit ‘how dare you’. I want to act like a girl. So long have I taken the back seat, chilled, and gone along to get along. Now, when I’m happy, who are you to come back and ask me questions, question me? (Yes there’s a difference if you think about it).

‘Are you happy?’
‘In what way?’
‘Is perfection everything you thought it would be?’
‘Stop it.’
‘It’s a harmless question. What’s the difference?’

I crushed my temper, and decided I’d explain myself. I’m practicing, bear with me. Under the brittle demeanour is someone who has to work at harsh words.

The difference is so many things.

It’s waking up to someone. Maybe not every morning, maybe not ever. As others could recall, I was never a fan of sleep-overs. It’s the thought, the comfort that you’re close even when you’re across town.

It’s watching a programme without it ending in sex. Seriously. It’s being looked at like you’ve got more worth than the cost of your leather and lace. There’s always a rousing emotion after a certain time of night, an appetite fed, and a fix sated, but all the gasps and grasps are a litany of excuses not to look each other in the eye.

It’s talking when words are needed, listening when silence is called for. All the jokes and tongue-in-cheek (no matter how it ends) remarks grow old. There’s a history, and it hurts. The ‘remember when’s and ‘that’s the way you are’s make it harder to laugh, when all I wanted to do was cry. Without any electricity, it gets lonely in the dark.

It’s not feeling like I miss you when you’re right beside me. You’ve had your arms wrapped around me, and in the midst of the bear-hug, all I could think was how far away you felt. It was never the little things that hurt me, it’s what they added up to. Absolutely nothing.

It’s not giving. I’ve never asked for your heart in your hand, and even had I made the request, you’ve seen I would have kept it sacred. All I wanted was a little show and tell. You cared enough to be selfish. You cared enough to want me around, but not want me. (Yes there’s a difference if you think about it.)

It’s all the things you’ve never done.
It’s being looked at like you’re a million dollars when you feel worthless.
It’s falling and being helped up.
It’s genuity, lights off, and on.
It’s a heart-flutter from pure excitement.
It’s not being afraid.
It’s being able to turn around and not worry about being alone when you turn back.
It’s space, but not fathoms of it.
It’s the feeling you get when you think, maybe this time, everything will be okay.

Barenaked Ladies ‘Off the Hook’

It says it all.  No matter the circumstance or consequence, I withstood it, bending to bear the weight of my own lack of self control. I see everyone happy for me, relieved I’ve found someone who cares and gives as much as I am always willing to. I couldn’t be more grateful or smitten.

On a contrary note, the impact and subsequent detachment of so many months with Auto has left me on the floor (still) while all the pain and memories are collected by everyone and neatly swept under the rug. I’ve not moved from my position, I can still feel them. When will it go away, or is this a slow process I’ve felt since the night I walked away?

I ended up spending just shy of another season with him (’seasonal’, December archive). I feel, though I already know what a bad idea this could be, I owe it to myself to give my speech, and walk away. For so long, knowing but incapable of letting go, I swore it would feel great to leave him for a change. My anger and euphoria lasted no more than five minutes before I broke down. I wasn’t even at my door yet that night, but he never saw a tear. No matter how happy, no matter how much better–like the irresistible contrast I’ve found–I’m still breaking down.

I’d like to illustrate my point (as I always do) with some bad music.

Ne-yo ‘Make It Work’
Shakira ‘Don’t Bother’

I was dreaming and thrashing the night before my return flight home. There were wedding scenes, there were deaths, and there was Auto.

My fantasy used to involve romantic lighting, and a realization. I would stand in front of him, knowing the timing was perfect, and allowing myself to say those words. I love you. I never got past that (literally, figuratively…), never, even in dreams, able to imagine his reaction. My subconcious even knew the favour, and the emotional fulfillment were not in his capacity to return. Still, I played, rewound, and played over the scenario in my head, watching his face, feeling his fingertips on my skin.

I tortured myself, but for as long as I’d done so already, I liked the pain.

Asleep, I was back in his apartment, standing in front of him. I took a long, sucking breath, thinking my efforts could swallow up my tears and the tense air in the room. I shook my head, announced that, though he didn’t deserve to hear it (never did, regardless of fabricated or confused romanticism), I’d tell him anyway. I hated saying it first, but I’d regret never having said it, and knew I’d never hear it in return.

I woke up from that segment of the restless night, hurt all over again. I was very far away from an adoring guy who miss-miss-missed me and who I was wanting too. With my faulty memory, I was starting to forget his face in person, but the feeling from standing in front of him, ever present, always.

Breaking Benjamin ‘Home’

I wonder now, only nine days out, if I could really go. I tell myself the hustle and bustle is what I need, the solitary style of seas of faces and no names, but is it? Perhaps it’s apples and oranges–LA and NYC–trying to compare a change in life and lifestyle to different paces (coasts). Still, I had the same feeling now as I did last July in New York…relief. Don’t get me wrong, I had the time of my life, honest, but there is no place like home.

Nothing new here, same me, same worries. Just more of a tan and salt water in my hair.