Wednesday, April 17, 2013

The Swing (reposted)

As I was looking through previous posts last night searching for some links to writings related to yesterday's "N" challenge, I realized I no longer had "The Swing" from January 2012 in my list. I must have deleted it (I'm sure some or all of you would say that's because it was too damn long!) but I liked it so I went to my archives and here it is. Again, this is more for myself than anyone, so skip if you wish. 

I have INXS's "The Swing" in my head.

The Swing
It's the swing
It's the swing like a pendulum
It marks the moments as the years go by in an innocent phase
The swing into never-neverland
There was a darkness like an old friend
That scratched and crawled up the wall
Into my life
Into my destiny
Into my desire
It's the swing
It's the swing like a pendulum
So look behind you when the race has run
And the winner is named
The swing into never-neverland
There was a darkness like an old friend
That scratched and crawled up the wall
Into my life
Well it’s the swing
The swing like a pendulum
Between the pieces and between the lines
Leaving nothing to hide

Lyrics from my childhood applying to my adulthood.

This entire blog has been my way to cope with much loss and grief in the past 4 years. That’s it on the surface. But deeper down, between the pieces and between the lines a large part of what I wrote here was an attempt to send a message across space and time, in the odd and off-chance hope that someone I had fallen in love with would happen to recall my blogspot name, maybe read the posts, maybe understand that almost every blog I wrote was my way of talking to him, telling him the things I desperately wanted to say to him but never could. A tenuous stretch at best...every “post” button click was ever-so-slightly propelled with the merest ethereal, slightly self-deprecating, “what the hell here goes and who knows” kind of oomph.

Let’s backtrack. It all went wonky that day long ago when I mustered enough courage to say to him “my mind, my heart and my body ache for you.”

That’s code for “I am in love with you”.

And he replied, “no worries girl, I feel the same way.” Which I thought was code for “I totally understand you are giving me a coded message that you are in love with me and I feel the same way which means I am in love with you too.”

Yay! We were on the same page!

Silly girl. Well. As you might know if you’ve read this blog, it didn’t pan out. But this blog was, as I said, my hope-driven outlet. The surface appearance of my entries was ALWAYS true, but the deeper meaning was my secret motive. I like to think of this blog as multifaceted.

So here I am ratting myself out.

A few months ago I had brief contact with him and I asked him to read my blog, explaining most of these posts were with him in mind. So, barely containing my anxiety, I asked the next morning if he had and what did he think? Aside from the egotistic writer’s need for critiquing the writing, I wondered how he must have felt seeing himself hidden in the typeface. He said he had read the whole thing, all my posts. I was stunned. 

And happy. Because he was still talking to me. Surely that meant he understood, finally, the full extent of my feelings for him? Surely, now, he knew what I had barely been able to say to him personally...the surface words...surely now he...knew. And he was still talking to me. That was good news! To read all those outpourings of emotion, knowing they were written with him in mind and to have him still talking to me meant...something. Right?

Wrong. Wrong! WrOnG. wROnG! WRONGWRONGWRONG. Incorrectomundo. Not right. Erroneous. False. You’re OUT! SA-WING batter!!!!! That’s a miss... close. NOT.

When I pressed him for feedback, he let on he had just been messing with me. Haha. He had read a couple entries, liked my posts, thought I was a good writer and liked my sense of humor. (Teehee). But he hadn’t really noticed anything about him in there (I occasionally write posts about stuff OTHER than him). HoHo. Oh, look at the sky, and the butterflies...and the birdies. Haha. Tralala. Blah blah blah. Look at me, I’m a big, ignorant idiot...your blog has meaning? Cool! HAHAHAHAHAHA! Why aren’t you laughing?

Because I was floored! It may seem immature, but I was brokenhearted. Angered. Enraged, actually. Once again, my bubble in which his spirit resided was burst. His apathy – or ignorance – was stark and clear. He couldn’t have knocked the wind out of me or hurt me more than if he had hit me in the gut with a mallet. And, to testify to my blockheadedness, this was not – regular readers may or may not recall – I repeat, not, the first time he had done this kind of bitch-slap into reality thing to me. 

But this was it. I couldn’t help myself. This time I let him have it. Up til then I had always put his feelings first. He always came first. I always justified his silence. Always said his work kept him too busy to communicate like I hoped. In a text mind you, I feverishly thumbed two years of silence, unleashed two years of hurt, two years of “you SELFISH MISERABLE PRICK!” at him. To which he recoiled and back-tracked (I could almost hear Flinstone feet) and quickly flung off a spate of “sorry sorry sorry!!” texts to me. He never meant to hurt me. He regrets everyday what he did to me. He put me in a “bad position.” Our “relationship” wasn’t “TENABLE”. And had he known how important my blog was he never would have joked about it or treated it lightly. He apologized profusely for his “bad judgment” on many levels over and over and then obligingly told me he would respect my wishes when I told him I never wanted to talk to or see him ever again. 

Well, I certainly made THAT convenient for him, didn’t I? You’re welcome. You are hearby called Sir Heartbreak. Because you’re a big idiot who breaks hearts. Here’s your lance, your quiver (Cupid gives his regards), no...Sire, you don’t need a shield. You are the one skewing people, not the other way around, remember?? Haha. There’s your horse. Ok, Sire you are SET. you go. *waving. Beware dragons and unicorns Sire! Ok, bye now. Have fun storming the castle. *frustrated face. No. No, he doesn’t get “Sir”. He’s just a plain old, run of the mill Mister. Yeah. Mr. Heartbreak. *still frustrated face. AND you don’t get a horse. You get a 1980 Subaru. With four different kinds of tires. And a faded paint job. And NO RADIO.

Ok. Rant over. Back to reality.

The truth of the matter is...and this is is a bitter reality-check pill to swallow: I wrote a story. I had the starring role. And he was the dashing, handsome, sexy, charming, heroic protagonist. He fit my story well. Came along just in time. I fell in love, but It Wasn’t Meant To Be. (cue music. Where’s wardrobe? Get those lights on her now!!) He “had feelings for me too” and was “tempted to have a relationship but couldn’t.” It was, in my mind, Tragic Love with Bad Timing, Destined to End Sadly. It was a story that would make Thomas Hardy proud. It certainly did justice to my Drama-Queen Leonine Hopeless Romantic brain.

So I have come to realize what I inwardly...deeply, well-hidden and locked away inwardly...knew:

That’s ALL It Was.

A story.

...the swing into never-neverland...

He wasn’t real because he wasn’t there. He was somewhere else, always. We texted, occasionally spoke on the phone, but there was no real relationship. No real physical romance. I fell in love, yes. That was real. We cannot help who we fall in love with and I have since stopped judging others for their obvious idiotic hearts. But we can help what we do about that love. 

I knew from the onset being with him was never reality, then or later. There was too much distance between us. Too much “his life, his work.” But I still created and – with a stage presence that would make Katherine Hepburn applaud – acted my story. That’s what I did with my love. I ignored that “God-Gut Truth” I have blogged about...I doggedly clung to the story I had created hoping it would end not like a Hardy novel, but continue Disney-happily ever after. 

The story was a way to cope with all the other real-life happening around me. I don’t do reality well. It’s boring and problematic. I am a creator. An artist. A writer. I ignored the reality of who he really is and embraced the fantasy of who I created him to be, trying, with eyes squeezed and face turned away stomping my feet with fingers in my ears, to make all my dreams come true. Then when he did human things like use me, or hurt me, ignore me or tease me – when he showed he truly did NOT understand what was going on it was like a slap because that was reality seeping into my fairytale. Ouch. Did he not get the script?

...Leaving nothing to hide...

Last night I burned all my journal entries about him. It wasn’t a hugely cathartic ritual. It didn’t relieve an unseen weight on my shoulders. But it was my small way of finally letting that dream story go. Letting him live his life in his hometown. To forgive myself for the mistakes I made and hope he can someday forgive me. I don’t know if our paths will ever cross again. But if they do I hope neither of us feel awkward or unsure. I hope we both (more so me) understand it simply was what it was. Nothing more, nothing less. 

The pendulum of my life and my emotions is swinging...sometimes frantically, sometimes mildly. It’s real life. It’s hormones. I’m 43 for God’s sake. But centerpoint is clear: it’s time to finally write the ending of that Romantic Narrative. Then, maybe even burn it as well. HA! Wouldn’t burning “the greatest love story ever unlived” be a great ending to all this? Oh, the irony.

There was a darkness like an old friend 
That scratched and crawled up the wall
Out of my life, out of my destiny, out of my desire. 

The end.

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