I have been thinking about love, lately. Love love love love love you dark and long, like midnight. Well, I am confused about it, as we know. Wonder lots about it, about the people in it, whether I have been in it.
Today I had a talk about it with Dennis, who estimates it will take him over three years to let go of me, with whom he is in it. Love. Three years is unfathomable to me, I say, thinking of how long it has taken me to get over people. Three hours, usually.
There are two people with whom I think I may have been in it. One of them has been waiting a month for me to reply to his email. I would feel quite fine with never seeing him again, as I did two weeks after he left. That previous 2weeks, though, I would have happily died. Miserably died. Been okay with dying as long as it meant I did not have to be all alone thinking of him.
I think if I were to see him again I may fall back into it, however it is just too hard to find out. Too complicated. And anyway I am fine with not being in it with him. I think this may mean that I never really was.
He is probably reading this. I am sorry. I will write you soon.
Then, the other one, my ex-husband. Oh, how confused I am about our ex-relationship.
My memory is foggy. I left him four years ago. I am, though, quite sure that I was quite happy with him, that I would have been quite happy with him for four evers. I only occasionally and briefly considered leaving him when we were together, and that was largely because I wanted to leave his horrid country. He was my longest ever relationship, and it was remarkable because I did not grow bored with him. I generally grow bored with people rather quickly. Three months, for example.
Ah, yes! I used to hypothesise that after spending three months with someone you were bound to be in love with them. I must have mentioned this theory at least a dozen times here. Well, it has changed. If you are incapable of love, as I often consider myself to be, instead of being in love with them following three months, you will be bored.
But the point. I was not bored with him, Chris, after two whole years. Then, after I left him, I cried myself to sleep for weeks afterwards. It may have been months. I was so unhappy to be out of his horrid country, so lonely for him, so hurt by him.
I was talking aloud about this to myself this afternoon, pretending to talk to Dennis, as I do with almost everyone, when I began to cry.
My goodness. I thought this a long dead issue! Four years later! In fact I have hardly thought about it, about him, at all in this time.
But, but, but. I think I am still hurt. Perhaps I should have. Thought about it.
I am beginning to think I am not so hard hearted, not so cold and impenetrable, not so duck-feather-backed as I have lead myself to believe.
How much do I feel that I hide from myself? This is not the first time a storm of emotion has taken me by surprise. Talking to someone about my father a while ago something similar happened, a great bitterness came to my attention. A great disappointment. A great feeling of.. loss, missingness, a gaping hole in my life where a father should be.
He is probably reading this. He took offense at my mocking post about the goldfish incident and I have not heard from him since. Even on my birthday, which.. oh, yes! I cried then, too. I don’t care if I never hear from him again, and do you know why? I am BITTER. I am disappointed. I admit it. I can be hurt.
I always thought myself so resilient, so independent, practically antisocial; emotionless. What an idiot, what an idiot. My armour is so leathery, so robust, even I cannot breach it, myself. So well developed it went undetected for twenty-five years.
I will die of cancer.
Edited 30/06/11 to make public. I am not sure why I posted it privately. *shrug*