check please

Last night I went to my friend Kelly’s condo for dinner. Kelly was my first roommate in Virginia, what's interesting about our relationship is that it blossomed quickly and without reserve. If you told Kelly that I am a particularly reserved person who keeps my life very private, she’d probably laugh in your face, as there is little that I’ve kept from her.

Our conversation grew from friendly chit-chat and attempting to make masks over our faces with our hands to more serious topics, like my relationship with my brother, Kelly’s relationship with her father, our parents’ ever changing roles in our lives as we continue to grow, the once relationship I had with an unavailable man, and the rise and fall of my past serious relationship.

As I sat at the dining room table spilling my heart out to Courtney (Kelly's younger sister) about how my last relationship came to fall, I was overwhelmed with the sorrow that had once pre-occupied my mind. My light-hearted dinner experience suddenly transformed into a one-on-two therapy session. I battled the same stupid battle, again. I felt the same pain, again.

The past couple of months have been emotional dry-spells in terms of dealing with my feelings. Occasionally I’ll be graced with “blog vomit” -- when a spurt of emotional release flows from my heart onto paper. For the most part, however, I’m only good for offering sound advice or a good laugh, with the exception of some serious heart-to-hearts I’ve engaged in after drinking a bottle of ‘Christmas.’

What’s interesting about all of this is that in those few moments, as I divulged every detail of the sorrowful ending that once was my life, there was no release, there was no conclusion, there was nothing but the same wide-open feeling that I always have when it comes to him: unresolved pain, unspoken hurt, unforgotten love. While I have taught myself to deal with the pain and the hurt, the love, oh the love, it is torture all on its own.

We hold on to whatever bitterness and pain we can grasp, because these feelings are recognizable, tangible. Their power is reasonable and bearable. It’s deep, cutting deep.

It’s like my pain is the only real thing I know. When it hits me, I recognize its gloating chuckle as it watches me squirm under my skin. I can’t just move on, I have to stop and breathe—a reminder as necessary as my beating hearts serves to prove I’m still alive. The pain is the only thing I hold on to, to remind myself that the love I felt, the years I spent, the tears I cried all mattered; they all meant something. Because, frankly, deep down inside, he’s left me stumped, unsure that it was ever valid.

I’d rather embrace the pain than acknowledge that the love was real, that I was actually capable of being duped by him, duped into believing that there was something more waiting for me at the end of that brightly lit tunnel. I don’t hold bitterness towards him, like the normal response would be, rather myself—for allowing myself to be so involved, so consumed by him that I let my guard down that much.

Like I said, I keep my private life very private. My pain is really the only emotion I bear to the world. The inner workings of my heart, of the way I love, its depth, severity, all this I hold very close, very sheltered, because it’s as intense as it is.

I’m not afraid of getting hurt.

I’m not afraid of falling in love again.

I’m afraid of that empty, abused feeling that comes if it doesn’t work out. The one that’s burned in my memory, that’s tattooed on my soul.