Back Sliding

My cathartic tendency is definitely on a haywire.

This used to be my turf, you know, my forte: exorcising the demons in me, writing about what the experts prescribed as stages of shock, denial, humiliation, bitterness, bargaining, self-induced misery (or self-pity) and the ever-elusive enlightenment….

I just don’t know what to say. And even if I do, I have so many things to say that I don’t know where to begin and how to say it. I guess this just me being clueless and jaded at the same time.

All I know is that there are two things I don't know of and would definitely like to understand. I rather leave the rest behind... at least, just for a time until I get on a safer distance.

I still haven’t figured out where in these therapy-defined stages I am standing on after you-know-what happened. For me to get a piece of peace of mind, I want to find out if post mortem is just around the corner or is still far across the block.

In the first few weeks, I found myself bizarrely coping. I don't know what had gotten into me but for some miraculous reasons, I was able to consider this as necessary and appropriate. I mean, I was able to laugh a lot, talk a lot, write a lot, go out a lot as if nothing ever happened.

But I cry too, sometimes - whenever the night finds me alone and finally undistracted - for the sake of crying, of letting what's in out and done or over with. Most of the times, I can't make the tears fall. Sometimes, I can't keep them from falling.

In those unholy hours, I arrive at the acceptance of my limits - in terms of my maturity; my capacity to feel the right feelings (the music and poetry feeling of falling in love) or let others feel it; and my willingness to surrender to such sweet urges.

And I deep-sighed at these realizations.

I took deep breaths of fresh air to come up with a conclusion that I still do not regret this. That was all I have, all that I got, all there is of me to offer a month ago. It's not my fault he's wanting and looking for something more.

And I sincerely think it's not his fault neither. I don't want to go looking for reasons to blame him even if I wanted to - even if I can - to make things easier. I still find this necessary and appropriate. In retrospect, it seemed rather inevitable. It could not have been in any other way.

Quoting him, love is not wanting... nor is it expecting. Talking about in the purest sense (not that I'm an expert at this), I've come to know that love is just loving no matter what. It pays attention to details but it doesn't seem to mind what's overflowing and what's lacking. Love appreciates. And yes, it is patient.

But when we gamble to win love, to feel love - rather than to love just for the sake loving - we give love on a pretense that we can get some of it back... like a trade of trust for assurance, or elation for euphoria. Expecting ourselves to be loved the way wanted to be loved is a case of what Ramon Francisco always tell me "that's normal, part of human nature".

So, blaming is not an option. Being sulky or feeling bitter about it will take me nowhere because I figured this is the limitation of human relationship, which makes love a matter of convenience and comfort. Perhaps, we mistook being in a relationship for love.

That's why I deep-sigh again.

If thinking too much is a sin... then I'm already dead. Because I can't stop wondering about the what-ifs. I want to prove ourselves wrong. I just don't have the creative juices needed to exhibit this art of giving up unless I'm feeling really lazy. But I wasn't and still not. Not about this.

I thought that it wouldn't hurt to at least try and extend the boundaries of our relationship farther. After all, we can't go back. And we've gone this far. Well, at least I think this is far enough not to go back as it is still near enough to stop. I have a vague sense that it all could be handled somehow.

But it couldn't. He wouldn't.

And I deep sighed some more... because this is where the pain or sadness or both begins. And I'm torn between constrained choices. My self-righteous conscience keeps breathing down my neck, nagging that this is far from lost though I can't detect where this spasm of hope is coming from.

The other one argues that hope can be misplaced. That in itself still scares the shit out of this chicken. That maybe – just maybe – this falls in the category that doesn’t need to undergo catharsis at all… because no matter how many theoretical realizations I can conjure up, I am after all just a lady - in spite efforts of keeping grace under pressure - finding herself on a back slide of things that were, things that are, and things that might could have been.

Analyses and assessments tend to dethread the fabric of chemistry, one-time connections, or dreams that are meant to stay whole. To my standards, what we had at the time we’re hitting off the charts was a dream incarnate. And we are meant to be whole – whole yet apart like two button holes on a white polo shirt.

...like a dream that just didn’t work, but I'm still glad that I had them. That is to say in the least.