Inhalation

Does love ever really go away?  The older and (debatably) wiser I get, the more I want to tell myself that it does.  That we grow up and that old soft tugging on the chestular innards will just dissipate until we no longer sit around mopey on occasion at the thought of those wretched ancient flames.  But I don't think it does.

There was a drug I used to do, and it's been years and years since I've even seen the stuff, but I still find myself craving it from time to time.  Which is a nice way of saying I crave it at least once a day.  Sometimes I'll get a taste in the back of my throat or my hair will stand up on end and I'll think about it, and I'll WANT it.  I spoke a while back to a friend of mine who has also been clean for many years, and I asked him if the cravings ever went away.  He said he had once asked an old man this, a man that hadn't gotten high in 30 or 40 years.  Apparently the old man said that he still had cravings, every single day.  I know I'll never do it again, but I still have the cravings, and when I'm in a period of high stress, I sometimes cling to the thought of it.  That if my life ever gets so bad I can't cope anymore, I can always just go find some.

I know this is a strange way to say it, but I think love is the same way.  Sometimes I'll go for months without thinking of it, and then some nights I can't get it out of my head.  And in times of dire anxiety and high-pitched wailings of anger and stress, I find my thoughts turning back to it once again, like a safety net.  I can't stand the thought of clinging to a tumultuous past, but it IS like a drug, and those ancient fires still burn bright.  No, I don't spend my nights dreaming about those old lovers anymore, and I don't make elaborate plans in my head for ways of making it work again.  But it is always there, like a rat in a bucket clawing its way into my chest. (Too much Game of Thrones)

I've been avoiding posting this next piece, for many reasons.  I don't want to look/feel frail, and this makes me appear so.  It's exceedingly personal, and not in a cute or flattering way.  In a... glimpse into the mind of a madwoman kind of way.  But I'm nothing if not an honest person, and I try my damnedest to be an open book.  So in that spirit, here is a thingy I wrote long ago about a particular love that I fucked up, ran my car over, and backed up and did it again.

Scientific Findings of the Heart
 
Curled up in a ball at the bottom of the shower, the tears on my cheeks feel hotter than the water.

I was only a baby. I was such a child when I destroyed everything. But would you punish a child who broke a dish for the rest of her life? Forever ever?

No, I'm wrong. I was heart-broken before I even started dating. I was broken, I am not a whole woman. And the more I fuck up, the more pieces get chipped away.

My writings sound like 14 year old diary entries.

Stop it. Stop haunting me. It's been so long, go away. Stay away from my friends, stay away from my dreams, stay out of life. Or dear god, get in it. Burrow your little head into my life until all you see is the inside of me and all I see is that I am full of you.

Just say you forgive me. Just SAY it. I don't care if you mean it. (Yes I do. I care very much.) I want to be forgiven. I want to know that my reckless stupid dish-breaking child self didn't ruin your life. Like I ruined so much (all) of mine.

I feel pathetic for having feelings. Other people don't. They don't smile or frown, they talk about the traffic on the way home, what they had for dinner, their kid's first tooth. Their dish-breaking children. I want to be strong/robotic. I want to be cold and calculating. (STOP! Cold and calculating is what got you into this mess!) No. I was only a baby. I didn't know.

I wish I could still smoke away all my feelings. Puff puff pass those emotions to the next person, in a stream of beautiful clouds exhaling from my lips.

Instead I get to write 14 year old diary entries. A 14 year old with an advanced degree in English (You never went to college).

Science. Go back to the science. You titled this damn piece for a good reason. Science sez! I just had a dream about you. I haven't been a broken woman all these years, I just had a dream. And I'm hungry, which makes me a little emotional. And I watch/play/read/listen to beautiful things, and think that means that my life should be full of beautiful things and people that love me and romantic gestures and happiness, because I can't conceive of the difference between beautiful fiction and my life. Back up. Back to the facts. Tears are hotter than water. You were a child. You are hungry, and have bad (beautiful) dreams. Eat. Avoid sleep, where he haunts and smiles and pretends you never killed him.

Everything will be fine. Or it won't, and you'll die.