Deafening Silence
After having written you that e-mail, I know in my belly that it's important I remain strong, which in this case also remains silent. I placed the onus on you to make the next move, and to retreat from that decision undermines my credibility, costs me your respect and my own self-respect. But it goes against my nature; one, separation anxiety. I don't actually want you to go away; on the contrary, I'm hoping against stupid, foolish hope—that disagrees with my deep down intuition entirely, I might add—that you might ride to the occasion.
I fear your failure to reply as another sign that I am yet again discardable. I thought... I thought I had been the good guy, for once, someone to be proud of, someone l liked. But your silence, your unwillingness to notice or in a tangible way show your care that I'm hurt creates a terrible dread that nothing and no one I will ever be will be loveable.
I know, I know, the otherside to this story. This has nothing to do with me but for my poor choice in having trusted and believed in you when, at some level, I knew you were not ready. You don't want happiness, yet, because you don't know what it is; you don't appreciate love because you haven't got any. You are so afraid and buckled up inside that yourself, and all your contempt for and fear of it, are all that you can see. I know this is not a rejection of me but rather a rejection of yourself, your feeling undeserving of happiness, your addiction to the victim narrative too strong to grant you the courage to take something for yourself.
But I can't help but be angry at you for it. This really, truly could have been something. The pieces were all there, between us. It was everything else that imposed upon you, and your refusal to deny it. You chose wrong; not because I, specifically, was the right choice; I don't mean to place myself on a pedestal or self-aggrandize. But it's pretty easy to identify as that right choice when you speak of all the people in your life and the way they treat you. No one appreciates you, everyone demands, corrects, chides, diminishes and criticizes you. No one, that you have yet spoken of, seems to love you just the way you are, no one seems to appreciate the charisma and wit and lateral thinking and beauty of your curious searching mind.
But where and when will that beauty every shine? Where and when will it ever flourish or be nourished, if you refuse to be bold enough to reject and deny who and what doesn't love you back. And I can see it, can feel it in my belly.. you're a long, long way off from making these choices. Whether you are simply not angry enough at the circumstances of your life to find the fire you need to escape them, or whether your are so entrenched in the narratives you've been fed that you really believe that this miserable, lonely, victim-centered existence is your lot in life—I don't know.
I just want to shake you, to make you see: you are unhappy and have chosen a course wherein that happiness has no end in sight. I cannot understand how our first weeks together didn't open your eyes to what was possible, what could be.
Who cares if your parents don't approve if they only serve to make you unhappy? Who cares about this career that brings you no satisfaction? Who cares about what your cultural will think? Happiness is all we get in life, and briefly, and then we die. If you were pinned against that tree tomorrow, with minutes left to live, would this be the life you'd wanted?
And why.... damnit why won't you love me? I've seen how happy I make you. Why isn't that enough? What do I have to do in this damn world to just be loved? Why does no one want me?
It aches that I cannot call and ask you these questions, to bring this all to the fore. But... but if you can't find whatever it is in you to rescue me this time, if you cannot be the one to rise to the challenge of the moment, however will I trust you? However will we be equals? So here I sit. Wishing my phone would signal you that you care, trying not to dwell, feeling foolish for having arrived here.
But I don't regret it. I was good. I was loveable; briefly, I was even loved. Pick myself up, try again, treasure the memories and honor the lessons. Try to forgive you. Your life did not afford you many chances for bravery or to act in your own interest.
I am just so utterly, utterly tired of being invisible and alone. So tired.
I fear your failure to reply as another sign that I am yet again discardable. I thought... I thought I had been the good guy, for once, someone to be proud of, someone l liked. But your silence, your unwillingness to notice or in a tangible way show your care that I'm hurt creates a terrible dread that nothing and no one I will ever be will be loveable.
I know, I know, the otherside to this story. This has nothing to do with me but for my poor choice in having trusted and believed in you when, at some level, I knew you were not ready. You don't want happiness, yet, because you don't know what it is; you don't appreciate love because you haven't got any. You are so afraid and buckled up inside that yourself, and all your contempt for and fear of it, are all that you can see. I know this is not a rejection of me but rather a rejection of yourself, your feeling undeserving of happiness, your addiction to the victim narrative too strong to grant you the courage to take something for yourself.
But I can't help but be angry at you for it. This really, truly could have been something. The pieces were all there, between us. It was everything else that imposed upon you, and your refusal to deny it. You chose wrong; not because I, specifically, was the right choice; I don't mean to place myself on a pedestal or self-aggrandize. But it's pretty easy to identify as that right choice when you speak of all the people in your life and the way they treat you. No one appreciates you, everyone demands, corrects, chides, diminishes and criticizes you. No one, that you have yet spoken of, seems to love you just the way you are, no one seems to appreciate the charisma and wit and lateral thinking and beauty of your curious searching mind.
But where and when will that beauty every shine? Where and when will it ever flourish or be nourished, if you refuse to be bold enough to reject and deny who and what doesn't love you back. And I can see it, can feel it in my belly.. you're a long, long way off from making these choices. Whether you are simply not angry enough at the circumstances of your life to find the fire you need to escape them, or whether your are so entrenched in the narratives you've been fed that you really believe that this miserable, lonely, victim-centered existence is your lot in life—I don't know.
I just want to shake you, to make you see: you are unhappy and have chosen a course wherein that happiness has no end in sight. I cannot understand how our first weeks together didn't open your eyes to what was possible, what could be.
Who cares if your parents don't approve if they only serve to make you unhappy? Who cares about this career that brings you no satisfaction? Who cares about what your cultural will think? Happiness is all we get in life, and briefly, and then we die. If you were pinned against that tree tomorrow, with minutes left to live, would this be the life you'd wanted?
And why.... damnit why won't you love me? I've seen how happy I make you. Why isn't that enough? What do I have to do in this damn world to just be loved? Why does no one want me?
It aches that I cannot call and ask you these questions, to bring this all to the fore. But... but if you can't find whatever it is in you to rescue me this time, if you cannot be the one to rise to the challenge of the moment, however will I trust you? However will we be equals? So here I sit. Wishing my phone would signal you that you care, trying not to dwell, feeling foolish for having arrived here.
But I don't regret it. I was good. I was loveable; briefly, I was even loved. Pick myself up, try again, treasure the memories and honor the lessons. Try to forgive you. Your life did not afford you many chances for bravery or to act in your own interest.
I am just so utterly, utterly tired of being invisible and alone. So tired.
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