I remember my biggest opposition to being in a relationship was that if at any moment I no longer wanted to BE in that relationship, if you don’t commit, you don’t break up.
You don’t hurt.
You don’t cry,
No one cuts or abandons or cheats.
The Collector, the only one able to pop my boyfriend cherry, in his hopeful childlike beliefs, made me change my mind actually, an impossibility being the bull I am, friendly and sweet for a bull, but still a bull.
Not many people can ever shake my core, question my beliefs, pull out the raw power of a simple touch, a touch that altered my very being.
I kind of like the word “Bullshit” thinking of me before him, literally full of shit.
Love will stomp out any thought your mind can possess.
I wonder what he thinks now, for actually I was correct, the million reasons he denied possible are the blinding flags I waved, flags I threw on the ground, so I did commit to him, and here we are, broken up.
And it hurts.
I do cry.
And certainly being right didn’t make me win.
Neither one of us won a damn thing, which leads me to reevaluate my old way of thinking, the beliefs that had shaped me then should justify this heartbreak, renewing my lifetime commitment to single bliss, heart perfectly in tact, my feet in a brisk walk or skip out the door before someone breaks into anything real.
To have walked through the fire of such intense fear, such incredible abandonment issues that have suffocated me, the literal vision of a pillow on my face comes to mind when I changed my status on facebook, the old me so comfortable in “single” land was a stage that dropped with me standing, so I fell, not one graceful thing came of it.
Giving into fear without a clue of how to control or mask my insanities to a man who could walk out the door at any minute terrified me.
I thought I was broke.
My father left, with a long list of anonymous faces, which all compute my father left, which is not even fair. I left the faces first.
No one was going to do that to me again.
I was wrong.
He is gone.
In fact, the very thing I never wanted to feel is at my door, reminding me of the moath, asking me what I have to say for myself now.
I say to this feeling, this deep oozing wound that what I never wanted a real man or my own self to see, well, I guess the only thing I have to say is this.
I know broke all to well, the breaking in my soul, in my spirit, it is the ultimate price. To deny myself of love or trust, my own worth out the window but flying through single land, without a person to hurt me, well, is like trying to fix a bullet hole with a band-aid.
What I didn’t know however, is that broken comes in so many forms, so many layers of truths, that in fact, for me it is the only truth I had to face to be set free.
It is a transforming humility, this type of broke.
It is wild and strong, the vigilant energy of an oak deeply embedded into the earth, roots grown by courage and faith have not brought me the man on the white horse.
I have no illusions, deep sadness, an added failure, so perfect in its imperfection.
Imperfections have not given me the romance ending, but this broke has led me back to the only safe place.
It brought me home to me.
It is only when facing the thing we say we must not, that we discover the hidden power of the human spirit, become empowered by the truth of what we so bury deep in our hearts.
We are more lovable and beautiful than we know.
I thought I was unworthy of anything real showing up, failure stamped my forehead like a piece of meat being branded for sell, burnt flesh for the world to see, to smell, my scar I won’t even look in the mirror for fear I might see the horror of something so ugly, it would be a part of me for life.
I thought I must have been terrible at relationships, to have been through a divorce, to lose a father, in the worst way.
I was wrong.
I found I love powerfully, with total commitment and fierce loyalty, that I am sweet and melt like the best butter on a big pile of popcorn, the sweet warm sensation of watching a tearjerker in a crowded theatre on a rainy day.
I thought I would hate relationships.
I found I love coffee in the morning, feet can feel quite lovely rubbing against your own, the deep satisfying patterns of breathing while asleep, the comfort of a backrub, the desire to make him happy, to want to be selfless shocked me.
It was quite my cup of tea.
Or maybe he was the tea I liked so much.
I remembered what I hate about it too, the compromises, the irritations, the making up when you want to fight like a child, not a grown woman.
I found wild lust and even brutal angry fights require you to show up.
To woman up.
Walking away now free of damage leaves a bad taste in my mouth, these fists now have been in the air, fighting, loving, fucking, crying, living.
I fought for a man I love, and still love, but this has been my first experience on the other side of the fence. I have been one brutally pushing change upon men who never asked for it, a control I know too well, but now I can relate to myself.
The Collector wanted control too, just like me, and I remember Divorcee telling him with a hint of laughter to be aware, to be with me requires total release and acceptance, that I am what I am, that no man controls me.
“Trust me,” he said.
He was right. He tried the hardest.
I knew it would not be easy to be with me, a free spirit, a lover of people, all of my relationships are with men, that I forget places and time slips away with a story I had not ever heard, amazing details lost the minute I see anger replacing my boyfriend’s upset face.
I knew he would have to be strong, incredibly strong and secure, and he wanted to be the one in my life, not one of the ones of the ones, a list of people he felt replaced continually with.
I felt stripped and pulled and ashamed for this part of me for most of the time, the other outraged and betrayed that he knew this all along, that he couldn’t just love me for me.
To be asked to give up a dream, just this piece here and there, of course that never is enough. My dream obsesses my very core, my art, my desire to meet and chat and fly, to cut out time with my children, for him, was a deal I never signed. This passion was what made him supposedly fall in love with me was now being asked to be just his, the way he wanted it.
I do not blame him.
I do not ask him to feel sorry or bad for his feelings are his own.
He has a right to them.
He has a right to change his mind.
I on the other hand, have passed the ultimate test for my own peace, a peace that beats hand in hand with loss, the very truth I have been seeking.
I do not need a warning label.
I am packaged perfectly and I came here talking too much, to way too many people, loving business, making art, my little room was splatter painted at six, my closets are full of journals I came here to write, Polaroid photos included for emphasis on little girl handwritten poems, a thought that makes me smile to see a blog is no different.
I will make you jealous, bring up every insecurity, live with my own ex, travel in packs of men, but I am exactly what I have always been.
I see him in my mind. I see the man who is leaned against the back of a crowded room, sipping a beer slowly and with ease as I flirt and dance, laugh and talk.
He is waiting on me.
He knows that no man is like him, that I can be alone on the worst night after a bad fight with an ex and too many shots, but that I’m coming home.
I always do.
My heart can’t lie nor can my body and when I give this completely, he will smile, proud, and he will chat with me about all the characters I met, question little for his own life will be full and beautiful, and he will take me to the bedroom the way he should.
In total raw confidence I love him, that I fought for him, that I fought for me.
That in reaching for me, without losing hope, in my biggest defeats, I made room for him.
He will love my dreams and release me with a kiss not a jealous text, brag on my accomplishments, and be my best friend.
It will probably be me who whips my head around in jealousy.
The Collector is a beautiful man, but he was named this for a reason. He collects beautiful things, ornate lamps, interesting art, but I am not a part of a collection.
I am unique, one of a kind, not for anyone or everyone, but perfect, in the most imperfect disastrous ways.
This song came to me tonight, like it was written for me, just for this exact day, and this isn’t uncommon, but isn’t it surreal every time?
You must know life to see decay…
But I wont run.
Not this mind and not this heart…
I wont run.
I will find my way over the hill, I can see it, can almost touch it.
I will find love that wont break my heart, and I most definitely will wear flowers in my hair..
That’s just my style.