Isn’t time supposed to heal? Isn’t time supposed to make it all go away? Make you feel more confident about the decisions that you’ve made in your life? Well, if that’s the case, me and “time” are in a fight. Not one of the disagreements that can be fixed with a hug or a bowl of ice cream as a peace offering. One of those full-blown, “may never be the same” fights. Because time, my friends, has not done what it’s needed to. Time is going on, and I’m going on, and I am still in pain. I am still a god damn fucking mess that needs to be cleaned up routinely.
Exhale.
From the minute I met him, I knew. Something was different. I didn’t know what kind of different, but different none the less. And sure, things take time, and time and time and time, what’s with that word, anyway? Time can go fuck itself. I’m so tired of things taking time and needing time and wasting time and being timed and time-sensitive and time and time again I feel like I’m running out of time.
It’s time to really just get this out.
I’m disappointed. And hurt. And alone. I’m going through my life in an “it will get better” sort of fog that just crept over me a few years ago when my whole world ended around me. Everything my life was supposed to be, was in that moment, crashing and burning and wreaking havoc in ways I never knew possible. It’s gotten better, but only in the way that a dull pain gets better, in that it’s always there. It’s sort of like arthritis, you know, good days and bad days. And love in my life has amounted to good lays and bad lays, and I wonder, desperately, if I’ll ever have something real ever again.
And I say that lightly, relying on the fact that it was real the first time around, which it very well might not have been.
Tonight I had one of those awful moments. The kind that I keep really locked up as tight as possible, which I usually think is in my best interest until my wedding song plays or some other unfortunate trigger appears in my life in a way that I can’t control. Control, what a funny word. I’m so obsessed with control and controlling things and not being controlled and the things that really, really matter in life are always things that are, for better or for worse, uncontrollable. I’ve tried to keep this in mind when I start to feel myself twitch, but for some reason, I still can’t help but try to keep my shit together, even if it’s not going to matter anyway.
It was always you. You were the one who I fell in love with first. And then you were the one who made me feel beautiful again. And then you were the one who connected with me intellectually, the you who made me have hope, the you who fixed all of the pain in my past temporarily, and the you, finally, who made me believe that you might be the next “you.” So many “you”s have come in and out of my life in the last almost ten years, and I’ve always thought each of them was the only “you” I’d encounter. I thought it was the last “you” I’d meet, or have something intimate with, or feel something with. The last “you” that I’d take a risk for, or open my heart to. But that’s not the case. Oh, Becky, that’s so not the case. There are going to be a dozen more “you”s before I get it right, and it’s all of my “you”s that will make me see that final one so much more clearly. And then, and only then, will I be able to truly say that it had all been worth it.
I wait in the rain but I don’t complain ’cause I wait for you
And I don’t feel pain, you’re like Novocaine, and I got you
The Four Eleven 