The Therapy Booth

resting, doodling and holding love signs

It Must Just Be Part of the Deal

on November 10, 2012

I’m writing this while lying on my bed. My roommate’s in the kitchen, pulling together a hodge podge of leftovers for our lunch. I’ve spent most of the morning crying my eyes out. Actually, it’s 3:36 in the afternoon, so I could say, I’ve spent most of the day. I’ve cried more in the past 24 hours than I can remember in ages. And I’ve done me some crying lately. But this bit is taking the cake. My eyes can’t seem to get a chance to get un-puffy before the next puffs come along. Swollen, sleepy me.

Here’s a picture of me, wanting to crawl under a rock:

I have the good fortune of having several close friends who are Living Inquiries facilitators who met with me last night and today to usher me and my stormy emotions along. Much, much crying. Much seeing of all the mixed up confused, sad, loving, ashamed, frightened, freaked out glory. And totally not feeling glorious. Not glorious. Not at all.

It takes me over sometimes. Glad to report, it’s not often, and it’s been a while. Yes quite a while since I’ve been pulled down quite this shockingly.

And it’s not like something super major happened. I could call it a little reality check. That may or may not be accurate. It doesn’t matter. I just wanna call it heart break. I wanna call it shock. Nervousness. Fright. Great big giant YIKES.

He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not, he loves me . . . not? Knot? Knot.

I just flipped over to Facebook and saw a comment someone wrote on the Relationship and the Unfindable Self page: “Humbling, what is happening here….”

You got it, baby. Is this the great leveler? This cutting us down at the knees, bringing us to our knees, having us beg on our knees for grace, for guidance, for some fucking relief from the misery?

I just got this little flash of: I shouldn’t be saying this stuff here. This is a public site. This is my work. I’m a facilitator. I mustn’t let people know – what? – that I have feelings? That I spend hours bawling my eyes out in fear and grief when I feel the departure of a dream, leaving a gap of longing, of aloneness? That I skipped over Tom Petty’s Freefalllin’ cuz I didn’t want to hear the lyrics (I’m a bad boy, cuz I don’t even miss her/I’m a bad boy for breaking her heart), landing instead on a sweet Derek Trucks Band song? What the fuck.

Here I sit, on my bed, hoping the eyes are all cried out. Worried that they’ll come back. Not so sure I want to hang out by myself tonight, when all I’ve been wanting is to hang out by myself. When all I’ve been wanting is time alone in the house to have him come over. The mind spins when I don’t recognize the moment. When I’m unfamiliar to myself. All the while disgusted with what I take myself to be. This loving, longing, confused pile of tears and nervousness.

Well so what?

So what if I’m lonely.

So what if I long for this ghostly image and such specific sensory memory, it’s as if I’m actually feeling that hair, smelling that skin, seeing those freckles? So the fuck what?

And so what if I’m not writing eloquently today, trying to model myself after some advanced genius Joni Mitchell, writing her immense emotions, longing, leaving, lingering into tunes to be kicked out on a piano while the rest of us cry in recognition?

Somehow I’m landing on blues music on my Pandora. It’s sort of rubbing me the wrong way, but what wouldn’t today? Exhausted. Praying that I’ll sleep better tonight.

My thoughts go like this: Fact is, I’m crushed. And when I think that, I feel a weight on my chest, a sinking of my body. And so what?

There’s such a brutal fucking expectation that life won’t suck. That my heart won’t be broken. That I’ll see through every this and that and come out untouchable.

But I don’t think that’s what I want, but then again, what I want seems irrelevant. That is, my wants don’t result in their appearances beyond the wanting. Well, sometimes they do, sometimes they don’t. Not this time. I want to feel something other than what I’m feeling.

And that, my friends, must just be part of the deal. Because it is, in fact, part of the deal.


2 Responses to “It Must Just Be Part of the Deal”

  1. dChristina says:

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