||[May. 26th, 2014|01:15 am]
It's been a while since I've posted. Mostly because I'm afraid what would come out of me if I tried to post again.|
Because I haven't updated The Corsair Journal for so long, I'm sure that anybody who ever followed it isn't anymore. Fine by me, really. The Journal was really more an exercise for helping me set some of my private thoughts and feelings, someplace where I thought it was safe to unburden myself, sort of a latter-day confessional where I could shed most of my identity and write private thoughts in a public space. I've always thought of that notion as surrealistically ironic, and I suppose that's why it appealed to me. I also loved writing in here every day because it gave me a chance to practice writing. I love writing, and get to do it so infrequently outside of here. I feel rusty.
The problem that I've really had, where it's been so difficult for me to get back into a rhythm of writing every day, is that I fear that the fire has gone out.
Regular readers of The Journal know that I've been through a divorce in the last two years. Personal friends know that it wasn't my first.
Since then I've been hiding. In Facebook, mostly, posting bullshit, meaningless political rants in between pictures of my new home, y'know, to keep the family and friends up to date. But nothing so deep or so personal that it would break the surface and expose anything deeper or more meaningful to me. I'm afraid to go there, with my public persona.
A fellow journaleer, tryss, said something to me a while back that's really stuck with me. I'll paraphrase a bit, but it goes something like this: "Losing a loved one is like being hit by a train. You put yourself back together, but the pieces don't really quite fit." I'll amend that by saying that one is lucky to find enough of the pieces in the first place such that you're even recognizable.
I sure don't feel recognizable.
Butterfly took something very important from me. She took from me my ability to love and trust with my whole heart, without fear. That part of me was so badly damaged by the train wreck that, despite my best attempts to put it back together, to make it operate properly without endangering the heart of someone who has entrusted theirs to me--I still don't feel wholly confident that the repair job I've put on it is good enough.
There's someone new in my life now. We've been together for about six months now; we share a house, and we love each other very, very much. She is one of the most loving, trusting, caring, generous, beautiful souls I've encountered to date, and our similarities and compatibility make me and my heart smile broadly when I think about her. But she's also a living, breathing person, with a fragile heart and feelings. I never have had to remind myself of that, and I find it unnerving that I have to. She has entrusted her heart to me, and I have endeavored to be worthy of that trust. It feels good. It feels right.
But though the sutures are long gone, the scars are still very, very angry pink. They hurt when I touch them. Every once in a while I hold back a grimace when something touches me in a certain place, or when I hear a song I used to sing to her, or a song that she used to sing.to me. I've excised Butterfly from my life, as she has me from hers. We haven't set eyes upon one another in over a year. It doesn't abate the hurt, and it feels like an eternity ago. Even so, the places where she and I were once joined are still tender and sore, and I'm angry that they are. I suppose that not enough time has passed. There are still places in my head that I don't dare go, rooms that I've locked and won't open, for fear of the memories that I'll unleash and the agony I'll feel anew.
I know that's unhealthy, but simultaneously, I know it's normal to feel this way. I also know that my problems are not unique, and I'm angry at myself for constantly droning on about them here, this place that used to be my shelter, my respite. One would think that I believe that I'm the first guy who has ever suffered a broken heart.
Someday I might be comfortable enough to go back into the rooms in my head where the good memories are, and I'm amazed how difficult it was for me to type that when half of me wants to simply erase from my head every memory of that life. That I'm even willing to acknowledge that I still retain those memories, and resign myself to the fact that I can never rid myself of them--and express the thought that I may even revisit them someday--is at least a baby step in the right direction. At this point, a year and a half later, I'll take what little victories I can get.