I originally wrote this back in April, but it all still applies. Nothing has changed. How sad is that?
I hate this prowly feeling. It doesn’t happen very often, but there is little that I can do once it starts. It generally means that something in my life is completely out of my control, and I just have to ride it out, however, we all know that patience has never, ever been one of my virtues.
Part of the prowliness is this constant urge to cry; an unending battle against tears that keep building up against my will. Unlike my daughter, who is able to turn her emotions on and off at will, it seems, I am not a master of such things. When something is bothering me, it will continue to do so until something else comes along to take its place, good or bad. Call it fixation, but my life tends to come and go in waves, each wave a different problem, passion, fascination.
I wish that I could distract myself, but when these feelings start up, they whoosh all creativity out in front of them, smashing my interests in the sand until nothing matters much. Still, I try, with camera, wire, or yarn, or in this case, words. Indeed, the only thing that does seem to help is writing. I admit, at the moment a lot of that writing is coming across as whining. In reality, I think it is more like the five stages of grief.
It’s difficult to explain why I am the one experiencing the grief. Aubrey and Isaac broke up. Intellectually, I know that the breakup has almost nothing to do with me. Emotionally, however, I feel responsible in a lot of ways, the least of which is because I told him that if he couldn’t be the person she deserved, then he needed to be an adult and break up with her. Is that what he decided to do? I don’t know, and it’s the not knowing that drives me crazy.
Isaac was a part of all our lives, not just Aubrey’s. Knowing that he’s never coming back has left this huge, gaping pit in the middle of my chest, filled with misery and sadness. Part of me is really angry at him, for a lot of reasons, but most of me is just plain sad. I’m not good with loss, and although I relish change, this isn’t the kind I long for.
I think it’s because I generally don’t like people. I find very few people to be genuinely funny, interesting, smart, creative, or have any positive virtues. I’m rather jaded that way, I know, but think about how many people you truly like, and I imagine it’s not as many as you may first guess. So when someone does make it past all those barricades and becomes someone that you consider to be a friend, when they just disappear overnight, it hurts.
Just as much as he was Aubrey’s boyfriend, I considered Isaac my friend. We spent a lot of nights on the sofa, talking until my meds kicked in and I passed out, only to wake up with his foot in my face. We watched stupid movies, stupid websites, stupid videos, and laughed our asses off. We talked about life, love, and the pursuit of happiness, and I learned about all the sadness in his life. It wasn’t the kind of thing he would talk about, except in terms of anger or acceptance, and mainly entitlement, but being somewhat trained in such things, I found the depths of sadness underneath what would appear to be shallow, happy waters. His whining about his stepbrothers’ spoilings were easily translated as, “I’m the unloved and forgotten child.” The more I got to know him, the more I realized how truly unhappy he was. I made the classic mistake, however, of thinking that he could be rescued, fixed, loved into being happy. Being a woman over 40, I should have known better, but because he was my friend, not my boyfriend, I didn’t think all of those “Women Who Love Too Much” rules applied.
Instead, I learned a different lesson; a harsh one that I keep having to relearn, over and over, yet to get it down… Love is not enough. No matter how much you shower someone with love, it can’t make them happy if they don’t want to be. In fact, as in this case, it can make things worse. If that someone believes they are unworthy of all that love, they can freak out and run, convincing themselves that they were never happy and that everything was just a lie. And that’s the crux. The lie itself is the lie. The happiness is real, but it’s lost in the perspective of misery and loneliness, of feeling never good enough, and believing that life should be easy because real life is just too hard.
Yes, life is hard, and it is so easy to forget that only one thing can make it easier, less horrible, more bearable, and that is love.
“You didn’t mean it, baby…”