This is fact not fiction.

Goodbyes

Everyone assumes that you rip off some band aid and voila, you’re better!  You’re over it/them/him/her.  That the initial goodbye is painful, but past that there is no pain, no memory, no whatever.

That is absolutely wrong.  A goodbye (for me) is like learning how to get a shot from the nurse or giving blood.  A deep breath in as the needle approaches and a long, slow exhale as it pierces your skin.  An internal voice chanting “You’re fine.” over and over while praying for the sting to pass.

And the sting does pass, but like needles, goodbyes also leave bruises.

A series of unsent letters and unsung songs.

I’ve amassed quite a bit of angst as of late.  The kind you felt when you were 15 or 16 and there was this boy and oh my god he doesn’t know I’m alive, but I wish he did angst.  And somehow at 15 or 16, you could live like this.  Keep those feelings of like/crush/juvenile lust deep down inside, listen to The Cranberries on repeat, and think that he’ll figure this out soon, he’ll ask me to the dance, he’ll pass me a note in class that says I like you, be mine.  I lived in a state of such angst through most of high school.  I liked so many boys (hey we were children then really) who never saw me, never gave me the time of day, let alone played out any of my childish fantasies.

But back then, there was one shy, smart, beautifully talented boy who eventually fell in love (albeit young love) with me.  The one who asked me to a dance by a note in math class (how did I ever learn to love integrals more?), who told me he loved me by cutting out tiny paper hearts and placing them inside a card as confetti, who bought me the one and only bouquet of flowers I received from a man other than my dad.  The one who snuck out of his parents house to see me, the one who listened to me ramble on, over-analyze, and obsess over life (I’ve been at it awhile guys) and never told me to hurry up or get over it.  Alas we were but young loves and there came a time where our love did fade.

But that boy taught me how to love.  How to give my heart over fully.  It has been the best and the worst gift I’ve ever gotten.  Best because I love truly and deeply when the time is right.  Best because I am open to second chances, timing, and fate.  Best because while a loving heart at times is bruised and broken, I always come out on the other side full of love.  Best because loving someone feels like one of life’s purposes. Worst because loving someone can get you hurt.  Worst because disappointment and sadness and expectation drag love down.  Worst because my open, loving heart falls quickly and quietly.  I am often afflicted before I even know it.  Yet I continue to fall over and over—sometimes with new loves, and often times over and over with the same person.  I guess you just can’t fight it sometimes.

But enough background…I’ve turned to writing these unsent letters and unsung songs because I’m angst-ridden.  I’ve got all these feelings inside, fighting my urge to just blurt them out to someone in particular (I fear freakouts, panic, and/or silence) or write real letters, I’ve got this.  As we struck up conversation again recently, it seemed like our true feelings were revealed…and then quietness began to creep in.  Days without messages, messages unanswered.  All the little things I like to over-analyze, worry, and fret over.  You may ask, why do I care when things turn to this?

The simple answer?  I just do.  After almost five years of communication, it’s hard to just give up, go away, turn it off.  So until I am brave enough, ballsy enough, or just get fed up enough…I’m going to write to him here.  Tell him the story of us from my perspective.  Bare my soul here.  Take the music and lyrics I find comfort in and relate them to my life, these situations, the ones that evoke memories and emotions.  Tell him what I’m really thinking, the moments I can’t stop thinking about him, how I’d really like to be making the grand gesture (I’ll eventually explain), how far apart 1,000 miles really feels, how not talking for a few days makes everything seem wrong in my world.

And if he tends to Google people like I do, maybe he’ll eventually find these.  Or maybe eventually I’ll be brave enough to tell him.