I pretend I know what I’m *supposed* to get from this experience, because that’s what everyone is, right?–some sort of support for our individual life growth. I can easily understand what my supervisors, and mentors, and colleagues, and even best friends are meant to do for me (well, most of the time), but you–you threw me for a loop. You gave me warm, fuzzy feelings, and you also gave (give) me completely inadequate feelings. You make me want to know everything about you and nothing about you. Because the more I learn about you, the less I want to know myself.
I’m drunk, Mr. Wonderful, so the words that are about to explode from the depths of my soul are fake. But they’re also real, and they’re screaming for you–no, for someone–to, as Lindsey Stirling terms it, “make me feel alive and shatter me.” Do you know how long it’s been since my world has been shattered? It’s been at *least* five years, if not more, and while it was shattered then, it was then demolished shortly thereafter. I spent 150 of the 180 minutes I was present at that poetry slam tonight in some introspective whirlwind– wondering just why I would never support my ex-boyfriend’s poetry slam events, or why it’s so meaningful to me now but never on anyone else’s terms, or why I took so much offense to the poet who assumed that I couldn’t feel pain because I grew up middle class. I don’t know any of these answers, but I know my next move is to write a poem about it.
But I digress, because, really, that has nothing to do with you, Mr. Wonderful. Well, it does to a degree. You see, whether you decide to stay or go, whether you support your oldest friend or not, I will be there. For the minimum of one year I will be consistent. I will dedicate my Monday nights, and I will attempt to build the self-confidence to maybe sing a song, or maybe write a poem, but I will do that with or without your help. Maybe you’re the conduit to this lifestyle, perhaps this permanent residency in a life of building something for youth with one or two of your friends, but honestly, I wish it was something else. I wish your purpose was some stupid romantic bullshit that I never really believed in in the first place.
Do you know I gave up, Mr. Wonderful? Do you know I thought it was me and me alone, destined to be me and me alone, forever? So really, the answer is really quite clear: you were (are?) supposed to represent hope. You are the short-term, unattainable goal. You are the only other other person to sneak in and steal the second-to-last glass of the expensive scotch, and then proceed to buy me the last one. You are the only person to make me feel empowered and completely unintelligent just by an exchange of words. You are the only person in a very long time to make me instantaneously want more and yet respect our dynamic just enough not to do more.
You are, in the most concise explanation possible, amazing. You call me “too kind,” but I hear avoidance. I can easily tell you that the source of this response falls in one of two most likely categories: I am either defending myself from something scary, or I am incredibly intuitive. You are, also, either defending yourself from something scary or “just not that into me.” I don’t know what the truth is. I probably never will. There are so many factors to consider and so many emotions I’m just not comfortable feeling again. I know I have to run away from you, and I sit and swear that I will do that very thing in this drunken moment. But I’m not sure I really can, or will, keep that promise to myself. Sure, I have “hope,” or whatever I’m supposed to find from this heart-wrenching merry-go-round, but each time my “hope” is made and broken, I lose that much more of it. I’m ready, Mr. Wonderful, to lose hope again. So please stop building it up just to let me down.