I have found something that makes me feel alive. A soothingly physical hobby that whisks the concentration from my mind and drops it onto the deck of a longboard.
It feels good. When your adrenaline is pumping and you're focused on getting your posture just right, you really can't focus on the things that be-grieve your soul.
I wish my board had a name. Definitely not Emma though. This is my new woman for the time being. I ride her as I please, and she brings me no grief. I don't love her, but I enjoy her company very much. We're on an adventure together.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Every day is a game of tug-o-war between the worries and resignations going on in my life.
It's been a while now, since Emma left me. I know a lot of men my age are divorced. I'm not special in my situation.
Isn't it absurd, when you stop to think about it, that so many people suffer the exact same thing, each account of it entirely unique and yet all-too-familiar?
I could describe my feelings to a multitude of kindred divorcees, and they could relate on the surface, but really, my only kindred is Emma.
I don't even know how Emma is doing. We haven't talked since our last talk. I love her so much, still, however we severed ties completely that day. Almost surgically. It was a simple procedure, in action. Her sister merely came the day after, gathered her things, and that was that. I mean, yes, there were the legal things, of course. But we exchanged tersely, business-like. It felt like, rather than talking to my soul-mate, it was a representative for her, some suited woman speaking on her behalf, with cool, dry hands folded stiffly on her lap.
That interaction was entirely different from the raw anguish I released when I was left to myself each night. When the hot tears had been exhausted, when my head throbbed from the heaving and sobbing that left me feeling spent and empty, I was thinking about soul-mate Emma. I think my body has immunized itself to that sort of visceral reaction, now. But there is that dull pain I still get in my heart. It's like dysthymia. It doesn't wretch my innards with suffering, but it's a bastard nonetheless. It prods me rudely throughout the day. And once I'm reminded, it likes to nag at me, gently, but the persistence lessens my overall quality of life. I don't feel suicidal anymore, but it's almost like this new way of aching for Emma has even robbed me of the choice of suicide or not. It leaves me feeling like some sloughed shell. Emma shed me and carried on, unfortunately taking my will to live, with her.
I'm at the point where I know I can find someone else. I mean, it is possible. I think about it, and tell myself: "it's plausible." But I miss Emma. It's like some sort of handicap now. I don't want to feel this way anymore, it is a tired hurdle. A chronic physical ailment. The needlessness is the worst part of it. Emma plays absolutely no part in my life anymore.
Emma is like the scene you see the morning after a party, when things are sorely out of place, the excitement is a dull memory, and you know that what you experienced is never going to happen again. Everyone just wants to go home and leave the deceased site. But you can't. It was your party, and when you're alone, and the frank light peers in through your window, you have to pick up all the pieces and dwell on each one.
Sometimes I just get angry at her, as silly as it sounds. I tell myself, she robbed me. She robbed me from ever feeling that way about a woman, ever again. I spent that on her, and she left me. I know it's immature. But my feelings sometimes get desperate like that. I feel like an upset little kid who had to leave the carnival early. Getting angry at her just pushes me back to feeling defeated, however. Because, no matter what I feel, she's gone and she's a dead, fading experience and what we had is already forgotten by the universe.
I want someone new. I hate saying that sentence, it makes her sound like an old car that no longer suits my needs, but it's true. But unfortunately my disability and my distracted, hesitant attention is an undesirable combination. I know I could do it. I could build something new, but it takes years. Emma took 24 years. No one is willing to put 24 years into something that's second-hand. Maybe someday, God will guide some woman to me out of pity, she may be equally resigned, or just patient and slightly alien, but until then, tug-of-war.
It's been a while now, since Emma left me. I know a lot of men my age are divorced. I'm not special in my situation.
Isn't it absurd, when you stop to think about it, that so many people suffer the exact same thing, each account of it entirely unique and yet all-too-familiar?
I could describe my feelings to a multitude of kindred divorcees, and they could relate on the surface, but really, my only kindred is Emma.
I don't even know how Emma is doing. We haven't talked since our last talk. I love her so much, still, however we severed ties completely that day. Almost surgically. It was a simple procedure, in action. Her sister merely came the day after, gathered her things, and that was that. I mean, yes, there were the legal things, of course. But we exchanged tersely, business-like. It felt like, rather than talking to my soul-mate, it was a representative for her, some suited woman speaking on her behalf, with cool, dry hands folded stiffly on her lap.
That interaction was entirely different from the raw anguish I released when I was left to myself each night. When the hot tears had been exhausted, when my head throbbed from the heaving and sobbing that left me feeling spent and empty, I was thinking about soul-mate Emma. I think my body has immunized itself to that sort of visceral reaction, now. But there is that dull pain I still get in my heart. It's like dysthymia. It doesn't wretch my innards with suffering, but it's a bastard nonetheless. It prods me rudely throughout the day. And once I'm reminded, it likes to nag at me, gently, but the persistence lessens my overall quality of life. I don't feel suicidal anymore, but it's almost like this new way of aching for Emma has even robbed me of the choice of suicide or not. It leaves me feeling like some sloughed shell. Emma shed me and carried on, unfortunately taking my will to live, with her.
I'm at the point where I know I can find someone else. I mean, it is possible. I think about it, and tell myself: "it's plausible." But I miss Emma. It's like some sort of handicap now. I don't want to feel this way anymore, it is a tired hurdle. A chronic physical ailment. The needlessness is the worst part of it. Emma plays absolutely no part in my life anymore.
Emma is like the scene you see the morning after a party, when things are sorely out of place, the excitement is a dull memory, and you know that what you experienced is never going to happen again. Everyone just wants to go home and leave the deceased site. But you can't. It was your party, and when you're alone, and the frank light peers in through your window, you have to pick up all the pieces and dwell on each one.
Sometimes I just get angry at her, as silly as it sounds. I tell myself, she robbed me. She robbed me from ever feeling that way about a woman, ever again. I spent that on her, and she left me. I know it's immature. But my feelings sometimes get desperate like that. I feel like an upset little kid who had to leave the carnival early. Getting angry at her just pushes me back to feeling defeated, however. Because, no matter what I feel, she's gone and she's a dead, fading experience and what we had is already forgotten by the universe.
I want someone new. I hate saying that sentence, it makes her sound like an old car that no longer suits my needs, but it's true. But unfortunately my disability and my distracted, hesitant attention is an undesirable combination. I know I could do it. I could build something new, but it takes years. Emma took 24 years. No one is willing to put 24 years into something that's second-hand. Maybe someday, God will guide some woman to me out of pity, she may be equally resigned, or just patient and slightly alien, but until then, tug-of-war.
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