I don’t know what to do with this pain. It builds inside me and makes me sick, gnaws away my guts until they come gushing out of me into the toilet. Crabs my neck, makes my head hurt, wrenches bitter tears out of me and makes my throat sore and my nose red and messy.
I can’t turn it into great art or great poetry, or write a song. I can’t do anything with it except suffer.
When every cell of my body is crying out your name the best thing I can do for you is keep myself from you. All I can do with this pain is suffer it alone.
Yes, love, this is what has happened to us. My only gift to you is my absence. I wanted to give you my world, my heart, my soul, my life. But your life is harder with me in it.
That’s what has happened to the greatest passion of my life. All you want of it is it gone.
That connection with you, that thin thread of words and talking and understanding and caring, that was the only thing that made the universe make sense. That was the lifeline, the heartbeat, the crystal that refracted my dull light into a rainbow, the single drop that clarified the murk in my soul. A small thing, but the hinge on which everything turned. Those little contacts, knowing that you thought of me, knowing that you cared. A touch, a smile. God, I can’t remember the last time you really smiled at me.
Now it’s gone, severed. “Never hesitate”, you said. My life now is one big hesitation, the inhalation before speaking stretched out and out beyond absurdity into the most exquisite torture. The brief pause in a conversation that some how turns into hours and days and weeks. I spend my days in the moment before something happens, my fingers poised over keys I never strike. How are you? What are you doing? Was just thinking of you. I miss you. Every moment I miss you. Every moment I feel it and I don’t say it.
I promised you truth. The only truth right now is that I want you, I want you right now, right this instant, and every single instant before and after this. I am lying to you every moment that I don’t pick up the phone, send you a message. I am pretending I’m not here, pretending that I am going about my life, pretending that these gaps are filled with meaningful and satisfying things. Filled with some sort of life.
I don’t need you to be here all the time. I just need that connecting thread to not be broken. I need that to be there all the time.
It feels broken now, and my only urge, the only thing that makes any sense is to reach out, reach out, reach out, reconnect, touch. Feel safe again. Feel whole again.
So in giving you what I think you want and need, this space, this time without me, without the burden of me – ah, such pain in that admission – I am breaking my promises, I am lying. I have a choice between wrongs, between ways to hurt you. I so hope I’ve chosen correctly. I don’t know, I don’t even have the comfort of knowing that I am at least serving you in this way, by giving you what you need from me at this time.
When we met, I could ask you anything at all. For the first time in my life I felt I had solid ground under me. I could ask, and be answered. All my life I’ve been guessing, and being punished for guessing wrong. Winding tighter and tighter into a corner where every step is wrong. But with you, I could ask, and be answered, and the corner wasn’t a corner at all, but a door into more closeness, more understanding.
And now I can’t ask anymore. The door is closed, all my questions go unanswered, and again I’m guessing. Give you the truth I promised you? That my days are ashes, that I’m stretched as tight as a drum, that everything I do is just another way to count the hours of my misery? Or spare you. Give you the gift of my absence. Remove the pressure of me, the burden of me from you.
I don’t know. I don’t know anything.
And so this pain, this solitary agony, this awful reality that is without purpose or nobility or usefulness or meaning. This life that is as profound and meaningful as shit on your shoe. There’s nothing good or purifying about this suffering. It’s just bad. It’s just waste. What I could have been. Wasted.
All this longing and passion and feeling. All this life. All that is best of me. Poured into a dead document nobody will read. Running down my cheeks and blown into a tissue. Going nowhere, and nothing else that matters.