Stunted & Lopsided
It's been brought to my attention, by various sources, that I am happy. More to the point, I look happy. It's a little weird when people from all different walks of your life share the same opinion. Leaves me wondering how I must have seemed before, you know? Interesting...
What does love feel like?
What shape does it take? How does it fill your heart? Soul? Mind?
Does it transform the very air which you breathe?
How can you compare one love to another? When you believe that you do not love one as much as you did another, are you doing the person whom you love now a disservice? Love is fluid and is never the same from relationship to relationship. It changes from person to person. The essence of whomever you love molds your heart and changes that for which you feel for them.
Practical.
Sensible.
Dirty words.
Epithets.
Is accepting that you may never love one person as strongly or completely as you did another a death sentence? Is it putting a limit on your capability to love as a whole? Is it simply facing facts? Is it setting up inferior expectations? Is it being honest with yourself?
I've been accused of being cold and dead.
"...No. I was unredeemable. And this unredeemed dark hole was still inside me. Even in moments of happiness and excitement (especially in moments of happiness and excitement) I could never forget it for long. I am still hated by him. And that felt like it would never change, never release." "Eat, Pray, Love." Elizabeth Gilbert
Around unsuspected corners I come face to face with accusations which linger in the air like stale cologne. I detect its faint aroma and my nose turns up, my stomach clenches and I am left feeling empty and inadequate. I am seized by insecurities and withdraw deep inside myself.
I've been reminded recently that love and hate are different sides of the same coin. I could not be hated on such a grand scale if I was not still loved with such a fierce intensity. I've bitterly opined over the months that he has nursed his hate, warmed his hands over its fiery heat. I think, now, in all honesty, I must admit that I nursed it, as well, only in a different way. Just like him, I warmed myself by it. I kept all his embittered texts, emails, voice mail transcripts and IM's and read them over and over and over and over again. I drowned myself in them. I clutched them to my heart and used them to erect a barricade around it to keep him out.
I am stunted and lopsided.
I was downstairs earlier, in the kitchen brewing a cuppa tea. My Mom was clearing off the counter and I went to her and put my arms around her. She, of course, asked what I wanted? Did I feel all right? Fine, I told her. I am fine. I wasn't. I began to feel the tears welling up. I pulled away and stepped back from her to stand in the dim light of the kitchen. She turned around and peered at me. "Are you all right? You look like you're near tears." I shook my head. "I'm good, Mom. Fine." I smiled at her. I waited until I heard her bedroom door latch before I sniffled and wiped at my eyes.
What does love feel like?
What shape does it take? How does it fill your heart? Soul? Mind?
Does it transform the very air which you breathe?
How can you compare one love to another? When you believe that you do not love one as much as you did another, are you doing the person whom you love now a disservice? Love is fluid and is never the same from relationship to relationship. It changes from person to person. The essence of whomever you love molds your heart and changes that for which you feel for them.
Practical.
Sensible.
Dirty words.
Epithets.
Is accepting that you may never love one person as strongly or completely as you did another a death sentence? Is it putting a limit on your capability to love as a whole? Is it simply facing facts? Is it setting up inferior expectations? Is it being honest with yourself?
I've been accused of being cold and dead.
"...No. I was unredeemable. And this unredeemed dark hole was still inside me. Even in moments of happiness and excitement (especially in moments of happiness and excitement) I could never forget it for long. I am still hated by him. And that felt like it would never change, never release." "Eat, Pray, Love." Elizabeth Gilbert
Around unsuspected corners I come face to face with accusations which linger in the air like stale cologne. I detect its faint aroma and my nose turns up, my stomach clenches and I am left feeling empty and inadequate. I am seized by insecurities and withdraw deep inside myself.
I've been reminded recently that love and hate are different sides of the same coin. I could not be hated on such a grand scale if I was not still loved with such a fierce intensity. I've bitterly opined over the months that he has nursed his hate, warmed his hands over its fiery heat. I think, now, in all honesty, I must admit that I nursed it, as well, only in a different way. Just like him, I warmed myself by it. I kept all his embittered texts, emails, voice mail transcripts and IM's and read them over and over and over and over again. I drowned myself in them. I clutched them to my heart and used them to erect a barricade around it to keep him out.
I am stunted and lopsided.
I was downstairs earlier, in the kitchen brewing a cuppa tea. My Mom was clearing off the counter and I went to her and put my arms around her. She, of course, asked what I wanted? Did I feel all right? Fine, I told her. I am fine. I wasn't. I began to feel the tears welling up. I pulled away and stepped back from her to stand in the dim light of the kitchen. She turned around and peered at me. "Are you all right? You look like you're near tears." I shook my head. "I'm good, Mom. Fine." I smiled at her. I waited until I heard her bedroom door latch before I sniffled and wiped at my eyes.