The Newest Season

The moment there is nothing more to say is its own season.  It lasts less than a second, but fills my entire body with longing, regret, anger, and remorse. I find it most confusing that I didn’t see it coming. In the way a falling leaf articulates the coming of fall, only the calendar spoke of the end drawing near. And it wasn’t enough.

This moment chokes me, and strangles every piece of strength I have left.  It twists my heart up and sucks on its pulp.  I feel light and heavy all at once.  The lightness just a symptom of the numbness in my body. I float on air, and then have a thought.

This moment…the one I’ve feared, ignored, dismissed…gives way to something entirely different.  Hope.

The dictionary says hope is the belief in a positive outcome. I think it is more than that.  Hope for me, is the air.  I do not need to verify it…it is faith and love, movement and silence. It is the place my future redeems my past. It is honest and the most truthful apology to ever leave his lips. It’s the moment he admits he destroyed me, and the moment he agrees he did so on purpose.  I am closer now to this hope..a new season, a new beginning.

If I am hanging on by threads, then they are made of silk.  My body wraps up in them, tangled to my core.  And though I find myself teetering helplessly, it is enough to sustain my weight, and I will not fall.If I am hanging by threads, than they are made of Silk.

And while I hang here, I offer you my soul.  I beg you to unravel me, to peek inside and see what you find. I can promise things you only have ever heard of, and I can sustain love even while I ponder horror.  I ask you to walk tenderly, to touch softly…I have pieces made of glass, and others as round as the sun. It’s up to you to discover the difference.

The wonderment of pain, I suppose, is its ability to heal.  And so I take a deep breath, watch the moment pass, and revel in the newest season.  Please come with me, I am going to need your help.

Tangled Up In You

There was a moment, late last night, that I lied in a haze stuck somewhere between dreaming and alertness. I was aware, yet confused.  My eyes were closed, my body still, yet I knew I was awake.  Usually, I don’t like these moments…stuck in a time I cannot measure.  My body gets wrapped up in my mind–and I’m familiar, only in these moments, of what I have to lose.

I have a keen ability to close my mind off from my body. Silencing my thoughts, allows my body to run free. I can fall in love in an instant, convince myself that chasing a feeling is as important as sustaining it.

I’m used to feeling with only half of myself. I can believe words without ever requiring a truthful action to accompany it.  I love you can exist even as you betray me.

This time feels different. When he touches me, his words burn in the back of my mind. When he kisses the small of my neck, I feel beautiful, and when he tells me I am, I remember how it felt when he held me.  This is my body relying on my mind…my mind reinforcing what my body feels…

When he leaves, my fingers remember the way his stomach feels, right before it meets his hips, and I cannot believe how much the words he sends me, resemble how good it feels to touch him.

And somehow…his body… tangled up in mine, can erase all the words still inscribed on my mind.  All the I hate you’s…all the goodbyes…all the lies, wash away. And all that remains, I suppose, is the way he sees me. I wonder most, if what he sees is what I am.

Second chances, it turns out, aren’t so much about starting over…but feeling your way through your thoughts…learning to trust that when a body reaches out for yours, it is possible that it isn’t going to hurt.



All the Tiny Little Pieces

The moment I return to most often, is the moment he told me “it’s too late.” The finality that exists in those words is numbing.  Mostly, I remember how the bottom half of my body felt.  My legs went 3 shades of numb…first the tingle, then the burn, finally the numbness.  I remember looking down…staring at the concrete floor my feet rested upon.  I don’t think I realized I couldn’t feel them.

When I looked up, he wasn’t looking at me…he was staring where he always stared…out in the distance I humorously refer to as “Kellyland.” I believed somewhere out in that cold distance, she waited for him. He wanted to go there, but I wasn’t ready to let him.

Just like now, he couldn’t admit how deeply he wanted to leave, and i was OK with letting him lie.  I asked 3 times what I could do to make him love me again. When he said it was too late, I didn’t believe him. If Steve taught me anything in the last 10 years, its how to walk away with the realization that some things just cannot be fixed.  Preparing my relationship with his family was my first lesson, and sweeping my marriage under the proverbial carpet, was my second. I was a slow learner both times.

It was January when I realized just how long it had been since he loved me.  It was February when I realized how much he loved her. It was April when I realized the life I lead was not my own. And it was May when I realized how much I loved myself. I grabbed ahold of that carpet, and I let her fly.

Walking away breaks my heart a tiny piece at a time.  When the screenplay of my existence over the past year rolls slowly through my mind, I feel a calmness that finally can let me cry. I mourn the person I used to be even as I don’t want to be her anymore. I mourn the moment I fell in love with him, even as I fall in love with someone new.  I can be both places at once…learning that with each piece I let go, I create a new one to take its place.  And I can’t help but wonder, how long will these pieces encompass me…when will I let them go…and start all over once again.

It was June when I asked him to fight for us, July by the time I realized he couldn’t.  Even as I turn my back to him, I cannot help but glance back.  One last look into the clearest eyes I’ve ever seen.  Searching for that piece of him I’ve never seen…searching for the truth.  He still can’t say it…denial is the bed he sleeps in each night. I long for him to trust me enough to let me see what he did, what he felt. But he cannot do it. And this is my fault.

It’s November now and I keep forgetting to check the calendar.  Like the sunlight, the days are leaving too quickly and the end is growing painfully close. My body tells me it’s getting cold, and I’m mesmerized by the flocks of birds heading south. I read a few weeks back that birds do not migrate south for warmth, but instead for the ease of finding food. I can’t help thinking of my own migration…that which i need versus that which I want.  As I search for nourishment, I cannot help but seek the warmth as well.  My fear trips on excitement when I realize this life is now my own.

I know I’ll keep looking back, and sometimes I’ll stare longer than others.  And I’m OK with knowing that all these pieces will not fall away.  Some I’ll keep tucked away, reminding me that deep inside, I know how to love someone enough to stay no matter what they do to hurt me. And while I look at him, I’ll imagine my hands touching his face one last time, my eyes telling him that one day, I’ll forgive him.

But not today. I think I’ll save forgiveness for January.

 

Gravity is a Pebble on a Beach

There must be a moment, right before death, that you relax and give in to the inevitable.  I imagine this most with drowning.  The body, immersed in that which gives life, violently opposes it. Your legs must kick desperately, and your toes must point toward the ground, searching fruitlessly for something to stand upon.  Your arms, reach upward, grasping for air it cannot harbor.  And then the calm must come.

Lately, I’ve been tripped up with gravity and my need for it. The weight of it is only opposed by water.  There is something magnificent about the pressure that pulls us to shore, that unopposable force that ties us to who we are and what we need.  But what if the truth floats more within the water than it does amidst the pebbles on the beach?

Is gravity the devils advocate, the noose around my neck…or my safety, my oxygen.  Does my body search for the ground beneath me out of habit, necessity, or trickery. I don’t think I know yet.

Saying goodbye feels  a little like the water.  Perhaps not leaving the shore.  The violent opposal of the inevitable is exhausting.  Kicking, screaming, aching…I tried everything to find a ground to stand upon. Staying felt more like seeking gravity…leaving felt alive.  No one understands this and I feel tricked.

Watch and See

I think its time to start adding the laughter.  Watch and SeeThe person I most often share on these pages, exists in the deepest core of my heart.  It’s the part I have a difficult time showing when I see someone face to face.  I mention my blog frequently because while I fear what it reveals, it’s perhaps the most necessary aspect to knowing me.

I named this blog “Partlyme,” because I’ve understood for quite some time now, that I am not whole.  Each piece of me, dances in opposition of the other.  This excites me actually. I think we are all like this, but most of us forget to celebrate it. Starting today, I’m living a celebration of myself.

Doing so, requires the addition of the humorous, vibrant, confused, control-obsessed, scared, exhausted, energized me.

I began this morning, like I begin all mornings…late and tired after a 6am fight with the ex.  These fights sadden me more than I can adequately articulate. And I don’t understand why. But I’m beginning to find them necessary to leaving him. Every 24 hours I get the smallest snippet of what life was like with him.  Angry. Defensive. Accusatory.

My new life will not be like this.  Watch and see.

I’ve had a thousand experiences…and I can laugh at them all.

Chasing the Sun

I think I’ve had a thousand beginnings.  And each one is slightly less scary than the one before.  I used to plan ahead, remain perched upon what was supposed to happen, instead of feeling what was actually happening. I’m less obsessed with the future now, as I understand it will always remain slightly out of my reach.Chasing the Sun

I imagine the earth feels this way about the sun…Always rotating trying to feel its warmth upon its face.  I must have thought the future held some contract of dreams fulfilled, lies untold, promises kept.  But the future keeps rotating…changing, always just slightly out of my reach.

But the sun remains a steady companion.  It greets me each morning, wakes me with a fresh promise.  Things are going to keep changing…but what was once old, will be come new again.  The beginnings will keep coming, and the endings are yet another promise. There is certainty here–a comfort in the process.  If losing love is like a window through my heart, regaining it must feel like a moment stuck in time.

I’m starting to sense that it is the present that offers the real possibility.  No longer searching for dreams fulfilled because I am too busy fulfilling them. I don’t question the chance, the inevitable opportunity that comes with new beginnings.  And I do not fear the end. This place used to feel like hope abandoned. Now, it has become a consummation of possibility.

The wildness, that must occupy this space, is palpable.  I feel it with each passing decision even as I abandon all logic.  I can both articulate it and forget it all at once.  And if I remain here long enough, sunlight on my face, my past will be wiped clean by somebody else’s  dream.  And with each lover’s touch, not even the fingerprints will remain.

Naivety of Flying

There is a naivety to flying, as though I thought the wind would never change.  I can’t remember how long I’ve been up here, or what I did to find this place, but I just realized how far I have to fall.   It seems it’s been months since I couldn’t find my breath, and now I find myself choking on it. It is both my vessel and my obstacle at the same time.  Flying

I think wind must be like the seasons. It’s tides change with the earth below it.  As though it is urging fall forward, bringing with it crisper nights and mornings that seem newer than the one before.  I watch my hands desperately trying to harbor it.  I want to hold the wind in my hands. I want it to urge me forward. But it keeps tricking me. It comes and goes, dances and waits.  It is teasing me.

There are moments that it urges me upward, tossing me into new atmospheres that tickle pieces of me long forgotten.  Pieces never rounded, still jagged with youth, expectation, and dreams.  Here I want to take a chance, and I forget there is no one left to catch me when I fall.

Other times the wind pushes me downward. Reminding me I have no wings, that I am small but heavy.  The pieces here are more familiar.  Their edges have been worn smooth by my hands.  My fingers and thumbs tensely working to smooth away the broken promises and lies you still won’t admit.  The irony, I suppose, is that the sleek edges of these pieces no longer fit together.  They slip on each other and fall away.

Down below…with my feet on this earth, I dance on the broken pieces and wait for the wind to catch me again.

Yes, there is a naivety to flying…as though the wind will never change.

Coming to My Senses

Somewhere around my 14th year, I forgot I had five senses.  Trusting only my ears, I lived life believing what I heard.  Words became more than simple units of language, but instead, they created the way I saw the world.  My dreams were made of thousands of small yet powerful words, dancing together…choreographing the mural that would become my life.  I suppose this makes some sort of cosmic sense, considering the second definition of word is unit of meaning.

Coming to my sensesI’m starting to know better. Because the unit of meaning, the promise behind the words, if you will, lies not in the word itself, but in the soul of the one using it.  It lies in the action…what you can see, what you ultimately get.

Yes my ears are tricksters, paying more homage to your soul than to my own.

My other senses are much more loyal, even if I was not loyal to them.  I’ve recently discovered my nose.  Taking deep breaths…cleansing smooth, quiet breaths…sends chills down my arms.  A vessel for the oxygen this body needs, my nose is my greatest life line.

In truth, I’ve always had a sense of my eyes, except that I misunderstood them.  My eyes feel like the sea, with specs of hazel no one has ever noticed.  They busily search constantly for truth. They realize the subtlety in a nervous action, the way a smile hesitates on nerves.  But they cry at sappy movies and remain dry when my heart breaks.  They are constantly trying to find answers, but acting alone in doing so.

I’m embarrassed to say, I forgot I had hands and a tongue a very long time ago.  I got little enjoyment out of the textures of my life. The nuances fooled me. I searched for silk, but felt sand.  Now I try to catch water in my hands and am mesmerized when I get to watch it leak.  I can feel water in places as dry as the desert.  I am thirsty for things I cannot drink.

The madness, I now understand, exists in a place where your senses contradict each other.  When what you hear is not what you see.  When the salty taste of his skin reeks of her floral scent.  I imagine I had a choice, go mad or turn them off.

I turned my senses off and rested on my ears.  I believed the words I’m sorry more than anything else I’ve come to know.

Lying dormant for so long, I yearn for a life where I taste and feel my way along the path. Perhaps my coming to my senses journey, means walking through life backwards for a while, allowing my hands to smoothly sweep away my footprints, because I no longer think getting lost is a waste of time.

And when I’m ready to stop walking backwards…I’ll feel myself forwards.  I’ll become the incomprehensible silence that lies at the moment your senses no longer collide. My coming to my senses journey When the smell of fire is the same as your lovers touch, eyes that don’t turn away, a kiss on the nose, and the words I love you.

Until then, I’ll ride the textures of my experiences.

And I will not name them.

Happy Anniversary

The truth is, we were never good at the big things.  Anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas and New Years stood as comical reminders that we were brilliant at letting each other down.  Today, I’m mourning the art of being let down.

I believe it was two years ago today,  after a particularly staggering argument (the topic of which I no longer remember) that he threw a watch at me and said, “Happy fucking anniversary.” There is something beautiful about getting a watch as a present. As though that person is giving you the gift of time, or perhaps eternity. Somehow this is lost when it is hurled at your forehead.

Yet somehow, I find myself remembering the small things. How we could drift down rivers and never say a word.  How his laugh, when it was real, resembled a 12-year-old girl’s. The way his hands felt when he held on for dear life.

There will be no presents today. No broken plans. Nothing to apologize for, and nothing to fight about.

So I guess I’ll give myself the gift of time.  It isn’t trapped inside of a hurled watch anymore, but swirls around me. My butterflies dance amidst its breeze.  Moving on is touchy, it trips on moments stuck in the past.  I’m hurrying it along now.  Remembering one good thing and a thousand bads.

Yes, we were never quite good at the big things.

The Whirlwind

Standard Armenian carousel, 1930s-2000s
Image via Wikipedia

Time passing is supposed to be slow, yet I can feel its movement on my face.  It’s a cool breeze, the type you don’t notice until it stops.  It reminds me of a slow whirlwind, as though my future is stuck chasing time’s past.  This is happening around me and in me, I can watch it happen and feel it happen all at the same time.

As it spins me, I try to find my footing.  It reminds me of the first few seconds on a merry-go-round.  I’m not dizzy yet, but soon will be. I try to  find my barring, focus on something on the horizon, and wait as I gain momentum.  I’m stuck going slow, but anticipating fast.

While searching for that stable place on the horizon, I swear I caught a glimpse of who I was supposed to be.  She’s different, has hair made of fire.  She’s on the run, swiftly embarking on the journey I forgot to take.

I’m trying to find something common between that girl and me.  Something common in that journey and the one I chose.  But it feels now like the life I never chose, chose me.  A moment of pause to take stock of my life. I never wanted this and thank God for this all at once.  Here I am again…refusing to choose the pieces of me that are the loudest.

I used to think broken things were meant to be put together again.  Pieces confused me, I needed things to be whole. And so I repaired the items and people in my life with glue and a lot of pressure.  I heard once a broken bone renewed was actually stronger than its previous self.  Cracks adhere to each former piece and literally disappear.

But the idea now that I am a unique, stable, whole self is laughable.  As the merry-go-round turns, I see piece after piece after piece of a changeable, confusing, complicated me.  I am that girl with fire hair, and I am that woman trying to find a stable place on the horizon.  I am the future and time’s past all at once.

Catch me if you can.

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