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amulMemory. She looks at me, in my eyes, over the pizza. "Sometimes you say that like you're about to swallow a bitter pill."
Memory. High School, senior year. She's falling asleep in my arms and I whisper, What would happen if I were to kiss you right now? "It'd be nice, and sweet, tender. I'd ask you to stay the night, and in the morning mom would make us breakfast. But then you'd go, and we'd both be busy all weekend, and on Monday, when I see you in class, it would be awkward." So I didn't kiss her, and that Monday, it was still awkward.
Memory. Mme Turtle promised me she wouldn't be here, so I ate the pills, and now she's here anyway. I don't want to bother her, I don't want to push, so I hide in the corner, aching with the need for her but unwilling to ask. Roo spends three hours talking to me anyway, ignoring everyone else until I relax enough to take off my shoes.
Memory. I am on the dancefloor and I know half the people here.
Memory. I pull (f)AD close and whisper to her, This is how you make me feel all the time.
Memory.
No, I still cannot. Still cannot summon to my mind her face, her voice, no longer even remember the color of her hair. She's a vague blur of a demon in my thoughts, and I can remember a thousand injustices we each did to the other, but even now, even after twenty eight months, I cannot remember a single time when My Ex seemed to love me.
I can describe habits. I can list pet names and rituals. I know facts that could be strung together to theorize a loving relationship. But I cannot remember.
Only her screaming taunts, only the times we argued.
(f)AD got an email with an ex's contact info last night. We talked about the wisdom of getting back in touch with him, warring against her need for closure. She wants to speak with him, feels it's childish not to acknowledge the time they had together.
There's still this part of me that is racing to be ready for such a moment, fearing the day that My Ex might try and make contact. I must be strong, I must be better. All those bad habits we developed, all the anger I still feel, I feel this need to rush the healing process, I must be better Right Now. Because that day might come. I might be walking down the streets of Saturn, and turn a corner, and we'll be facing each other. I might become a rich and famous photographer, constantly invited to swank receptions and galas, and she might be there. Someone will say, "Oh, Amul, there's someone I want you to meet," and she could be hanging on his arm.
(tangent: quote from Sleepless in Seattle: "You don't want to be in love. You want to be in love in a movie.")
I might have to talk to her again, someday. I might have to look her in the eye, and when I do, I want it to be civil, healthy, cordial, respectful. I want to be past this and capable of saying, We had some good times, didn't we?
(tangent: "Why do you keep picking at it? You're never going to heal unless you stop jabbing your finger in there." But how will I know when it stops hurting unless I poke at it?)
I don't know, actually. I cannot remember, and the harder I try, the more closed off to those memories I seem to become. When I heard through the grapevine that one of our cats had died, I could for a time use that as an inroad to pleasant memories. Sitting on the couch, with Griffon just out of arm's reach. Times we talked about how cute he was. I could remember those.
But even then, I could not remember her face, her eyes. Cannot recall the way she moved.
We had some good times, didn't we? I mean, statistics suggest that we must have.
Memory. High School, senior year. She's falling asleep in my arms and I whisper, What would happen if I were to kiss you right now? "It'd be nice, and sweet, tender. I'd ask you to stay the night, and in the morning mom would make us breakfast. But then you'd go, and we'd both be busy all weekend, and on Monday, when I see you in class, it would be awkward." So I didn't kiss her, and that Monday, it was still awkward.
Memory. Mme Turtle promised me she wouldn't be here, so I ate the pills, and now she's here anyway. I don't want to bother her, I don't want to push, so I hide in the corner, aching with the need for her but unwilling to ask. Roo spends three hours talking to me anyway, ignoring everyone else until I relax enough to take off my shoes.
Memory. I am on the dancefloor and I know half the people here.
Memory. I pull (f)AD close and whisper to her, This is how you make me feel all the time.
Memory.
No, I still cannot. Still cannot summon to my mind her face, her voice, no longer even remember the color of her hair. She's a vague blur of a demon in my thoughts, and I can remember a thousand injustices we each did to the other, but even now, even after twenty eight months, I cannot remember a single time when My Ex seemed to love me.
I can describe habits. I can list pet names and rituals. I know facts that could be strung together to theorize a loving relationship. But I cannot remember.
Only her screaming taunts, only the times we argued.
(f)AD got an email with an ex's contact info last night. We talked about the wisdom of getting back in touch with him, warring against her need for closure. She wants to speak with him, feels it's childish not to acknowledge the time they had together.
There's still this part of me that is racing to be ready for such a moment, fearing the day that My Ex might try and make contact. I must be strong, I must be better. All those bad habits we developed, all the anger I still feel, I feel this need to rush the healing process, I must be better Right Now. Because that day might come. I might be walking down the streets of Saturn, and turn a corner, and we'll be facing each other. I might become a rich and famous photographer, constantly invited to swank receptions and galas, and she might be there. Someone will say, "Oh, Amul, there's someone I want you to meet," and she could be hanging on his arm.
(tangent: quote from Sleepless in Seattle: "You don't want to be in love. You want to be in love in a movie.")
I might have to talk to her again, someday. I might have to look her in the eye, and when I do, I want it to be civil, healthy, cordial, respectful. I want to be past this and capable of saying, We had some good times, didn't we?
(tangent: "Why do you keep picking at it? You're never going to heal unless you stop jabbing your finger in there." But how will I know when it stops hurting unless I poke at it?)
I don't know, actually. I cannot remember, and the harder I try, the more closed off to those memories I seem to become. When I heard through the grapevine that one of our cats had died, I could for a time use that as an inroad to pleasant memories. Sitting on the couch, with Griffon just out of arm's reach. Times we talked about how cute he was. I could remember those.
But even then, I could not remember her face, her eyes. Cannot recall the way she moved.
We had some good times, didn't we? I mean, statistics suggest that we must have.
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no subject
Date: 22 Jun 2006 18:37 (UTC)I ought to watch that movie, just for that quote. Seems to convey the thoughts I have... no, scratch that. Conveys the huge difference between real love, which is messy and has no string quartet, and Hollywood love, which is neatly tied up even in its messiness and has swelling, emotion-manipulating music every time you turn around. Hollywood love and romance is, by its nature, a fiction... and yet too many of us want it to be real, and are disappointed when it isn't.
Thinking on that just now, I realized that makes me (and others like me) crazy. We keep repeating the same behaviors and actions and expecting the outcome to be different each time.
no subject
Date: 22 Jun 2006 20:52 (UTC)I'm a sap for chick-flicks. I used to spend more time watching TLC than any other cable channel.
The difference between you and I is that, whereas you want to find the swelling violins, I do find them. In my head, I hear violins during the first kiss, I constantly base my solutions to relationship problems based on sappy movies. It doesn't work, and I'm always disappointed.
And yes, it's the definition of crazy.
no subject
Date: 22 Jun 2006 23:31 (UTC)no subject
Date: 22 Jun 2006 23:54 (UTC)Dammit.
no subject
Date: 23 Jun 2006 01:15 (UTC)no subject
Date: 23 Jun 2006 01:51 (UTC)no subject
Date: 23 Jun 2006 01:14 (UTC)I may eventually hear the swelling violins... but I'm hoping that when I do, there will be actual ones nearby so I don't feel nuts.
no subject
Date: 25 Jun 2006 21:31 (UTC)no subject
Date: 25 Jun 2006 21:35 (UTC)no subject
Date: 25 Jun 2006 22:10 (UTC)