Is hurting each-other the best we can do?
This is very long and was written in the middle of the night to clear my mind.
IS HURTING EACH OTHER THE BEST WE CAN DO?
There are so many types of hurt you can feel; it seems their diversity is endless.
I remember the burn of falling into a fire at age 9. Far away from civilization, I had to sit with my arm in snow runoff for two days to numb the pain. My father would not cut his vacation short so I just had to deal with it until I got home. My mother quarreled with my father and rushed me to the hospital. My hand was swollen and filled with puss. The skin fell away in slabs.
I remember the broken bones. Usually unnoticed at first, until the pain grows and grows. I broke my arm early one morning and refused to go to the hospital until the middle of that night. It had swollen up until it felt like my skin would split. It seemed that my whole body throbbed with each heartbeat.
I remember the pain of fights. Long hours late at nightempty gyms. Being stuck in the ring with a professional for half an hour at a time. The blows fallingthe shock of their ferocity. Even in a hopeless struggle, my pride would never let me stay down. I would always get back to my feet and face up to whatever punishment was in store. The time in front of the huge crowd when the blood came flowing from me like raincaught in the glare of camera flashes, it seemed to be suspended in midair. The referee cutting the fight short when the blood could not be stoppedthe disappointment of technical defeat when I remained ready to fight on.
But tonight, I was reminded of the worst type of ache. I did not expect to see her. Not tonight and not in that placeand then there she was. Just the sheer sight of her made me feel as though someone had stabbed me. Her bright eyes, easy laughter, and sly little smirkall of the things that tore at my heart before, they all seemed to be even more pronounced than in my memory. She seemed so happy and carefree. I had hoped that the part of my heart that belonged to her had hardened, like scar tissue. But it had not. Her eyes did not see me. I watched for a moment or two, unable to turn my gaze from her horrible beauty. I knew that I was punishing myself with all of this. I retreated to my lonely bed and tried to sleep. That dull, stabbing pain in my chest had begun.
I can not sleep. I listen to the clock tick and try to think of something elseanything else.
They call it heartache for good reason. I do not know what form it takes in others but this is how it feels to me; an abrupt blowright to the solar plexus. From there, it begins to feel like something inside my chest is slowly caving in. Like a tiny collapsing star is pulling my insides into itself. My ribs begin to hurt. Then a dull, nauseous feelingnot really sickness, but a pang, settles in my stomach. This is not a psychological phantasm; the feeling is absolutely physical and real.
The pain of a burn is all pervasive and inescapable. You can focus on nothing elseit is immediateall consuming. It constitutes the very boundaries of your world.
The pain of a broken bone can either be dull and tolerable, or sharp and unbearable. It just depends on which bone has snapped. A broken rib can go unnoticedsave for the shortness of breath. A broken nose can either fill your eyes with tears and your hands with blood, or it can just prove annoyingsomething you can fight through.
The pain of a fight can even have a beauty. Your mind is working so fastyour body exerting itself at maximum level. There is little time to dwell on anything. Once the final buzzer has sounded, you can sink into a pleasant sea of endorphins and exhaustion. A profound indifference settles over you. The bus rides home afterwardslate at night, with a bloody nose or a black eyenothing seems to matter, not even the curious stares of strangers. The sleep that follows is devoid of dreamscoma like. Beautiful.
There is no beauty in heartache though. No solace in the focus on physical symptoms. Only a dull ache in the background. Only a focus on the human source of my condition. Only the replay of old words and deeds from the pastrunning on an endless loop in my mind.
I am reminded of the other times
Seeing the European model on television. I remembered our last moments together. The cab ride at 4am to my houseall kisses and busy hands across town. She whispered me that she was moving to LA to become famous. I told her she was crazy. I opened the cab door into the cold. A storm was brewing. I wanted her to come with me into my old, freezing house on the hill and climb under the thick covers with me. I wanted us to share some warmth and each other. She told me Im seriousIm leavingIm going to be famous one day and so will you. I stood outside the cab and she sat insidedoor opencab driver waiting. We just stared, neither budging from his or her position. I shut the cab door and watched her pull away. And then there she wasan image flickering on the TV right in front of me a mere six months later. Her flawless face being used to sell luxury cars. The close-upthe rain droplets falling in slow motion before her blue eyes. I felt it then. I would never see her again.
The internet has occasionally shoved a forgotten piece of my past upon me as well. The faraway girl. So many times in my life, a relationship has been severed by distance. They move or leaveno resolution to issues or feelingsjust a distance yawning between us. I saw an unexpected picture online one night. Just sitting alone and there she was; one of the faraway girls. I sat in the dark, transfixed. I thought of our last kiss. She had kissed me hard, as if she knew it would be the last. I had pulled away. I was unsure of what our time together had meant. Like so many other last kisses in my life, I had not recognized it for what it was. Seeing that photo had brought the old familiar feeling to my chest again. There was no way to reach her. Did she even know that I was still so fond of her?
Or the terrible thank you. I had seen her walk into a party unexpectedly. Her awful power over me had not diminished with the years of separation. She broke away from her friends and came over to chat with me. She had held my hand, thanked me for what we had shared together, kissed me slowly, and walked away. It sounded less like a thank you and more like a door closing behind me. I left the party early, wondering why I still felt these things for her after so long. What was it about her that could still hurt me? I had not seriously thought of her in years and now the wound was opened anew.
Or the even worse apology. Another model who was way too pretty for me, yet inexplicably took a shine to me. I had lusted after her for yearsand then the night when she unexpectedly took me by the hand. The stolen moments of passion in a public rest room. Then her apology to me on our next meeting. I was just an indiscretion that she could not pass up in an otherwise stable relationship she was in. She came to a party thrown for me a year later and informed me that she was single. I was not. I would not cheat on my new girlfriendnot even for her. We stole away and I bought her some dinner. We talked and hugged and she cried. I have never seen her again. Though we were always with other people, I felt that my heart had belonged to her from the outset. I still ache at the mere thought of her.
It also pains me to know that I have brought this feeling to the hearts of others.
I remember the night of the failed goodbye. She had arrived at my house drunk and crying at 3 in the morning. She came in, turned out my light and sat on the edge of my bed slowly weeping in the dark. She asked me to put on a record, so I put the needle onto what was already therean old scratchy CCR album. Long as I can see the light was playing. I took a seat in the chair opposing the bed and she got me up to slow dance to this sad tune. Perhaps she realized that she had wasted two years of her life on a man who could never love herperhaps she had come there, emboldened with alcohol, to break it off with me. She gripped me tightly, buried her head in my chest, and just cried as the record played on. Though we both knew it was over, neither of us could voice it. So we danced to old songs in the dark while she cried and I held her. In a horrible way, this is my most cherished memory of her; though we could not speak our minds to each other, the masks were down in that darkened room.
And there are others to be sure. The other European who I had shared a mutually destructive relationship with. All pain and strangeness. Why had we done all of those hurtful things to each other? Why do we still struggle for dominance every time we meet? What was the point of all of it?
And the girl who cried in our last moments together because I could not tell her I loved her. She wanted to hear it just onceeven if she knew it was a lie. I was angry with her and would not indulge even this simple request.
I think of my parents, staying together in an unhappy marriage out of obligation to children and church. Making everyone miserable in the process. Ideas of love and romance replaced with a sullen partnership of convenience and a subtext of disappointment and hostility.
It all sickened and disillusioned me.
And I think of my own chosen alternative; drifting through life, drifting through relationships, still hoping for fairytale endings and falling short every time.
I always remember Jack Kerouacs characterization of romantic entanglements; he termed them emotional combat.
I sit here in the dark at 4:30am, unable to sleep for the pain of heartache in my chestwriting this in a vain attempt to get my mind off of it. Wishing to get her face out of my mind and heart.
Though no one can hear it at this hour and distanceI apologize to any and all Ive left with this horrible feeling over the years.
And in the end, I am left with a question
Is hurting each-other this the best we can do?
This is very long and was written in the middle of the night to clear my mind.
IS HURTING EACH OTHER THE BEST WE CAN DO?
There are so many types of hurt you can feel; it seems their diversity is endless.
I remember the burn of falling into a fire at age 9. Far away from civilization, I had to sit with my arm in snow runoff for two days to numb the pain. My father would not cut his vacation short so I just had to deal with it until I got home. My mother quarreled with my father and rushed me to the hospital. My hand was swollen and filled with puss. The skin fell away in slabs.
I remember the broken bones. Usually unnoticed at first, until the pain grows and grows. I broke my arm early one morning and refused to go to the hospital until the middle of that night. It had swollen up until it felt like my skin would split. It seemed that my whole body throbbed with each heartbeat.
I remember the pain of fights. Long hours late at nightempty gyms. Being stuck in the ring with a professional for half an hour at a time. The blows fallingthe shock of their ferocity. Even in a hopeless struggle, my pride would never let me stay down. I would always get back to my feet and face up to whatever punishment was in store. The time in front of the huge crowd when the blood came flowing from me like raincaught in the glare of camera flashes, it seemed to be suspended in midair. The referee cutting the fight short when the blood could not be stoppedthe disappointment of technical defeat when I remained ready to fight on.
But tonight, I was reminded of the worst type of ache. I did not expect to see her. Not tonight and not in that placeand then there she was. Just the sheer sight of her made me feel as though someone had stabbed me. Her bright eyes, easy laughter, and sly little smirkall of the things that tore at my heart before, they all seemed to be even more pronounced than in my memory. She seemed so happy and carefree. I had hoped that the part of my heart that belonged to her had hardened, like scar tissue. But it had not. Her eyes did not see me. I watched for a moment or two, unable to turn my gaze from her horrible beauty. I knew that I was punishing myself with all of this. I retreated to my lonely bed and tried to sleep. That dull, stabbing pain in my chest had begun.
I can not sleep. I listen to the clock tick and try to think of something elseanything else.
They call it heartache for good reason. I do not know what form it takes in others but this is how it feels to me; an abrupt blowright to the solar plexus. From there, it begins to feel like something inside my chest is slowly caving in. Like a tiny collapsing star is pulling my insides into itself. My ribs begin to hurt. Then a dull, nauseous feelingnot really sickness, but a pang, settles in my stomach. This is not a psychological phantasm; the feeling is absolutely physical and real.
The pain of a burn is all pervasive and inescapable. You can focus on nothing elseit is immediateall consuming. It constitutes the very boundaries of your world.
The pain of a broken bone can either be dull and tolerable, or sharp and unbearable. It just depends on which bone has snapped. A broken rib can go unnoticedsave for the shortness of breath. A broken nose can either fill your eyes with tears and your hands with blood, or it can just prove annoyingsomething you can fight through.
The pain of a fight can even have a beauty. Your mind is working so fastyour body exerting itself at maximum level. There is little time to dwell on anything. Once the final buzzer has sounded, you can sink into a pleasant sea of endorphins and exhaustion. A profound indifference settles over you. The bus rides home afterwardslate at night, with a bloody nose or a black eyenothing seems to matter, not even the curious stares of strangers. The sleep that follows is devoid of dreamscoma like. Beautiful.
There is no beauty in heartache though. No solace in the focus on physical symptoms. Only a dull ache in the background. Only a focus on the human source of my condition. Only the replay of old words and deeds from the pastrunning on an endless loop in my mind.
I am reminded of the other times
Seeing the European model on television. I remembered our last moments together. The cab ride at 4am to my houseall kisses and busy hands across town. She whispered me that she was moving to LA to become famous. I told her she was crazy. I opened the cab door into the cold. A storm was brewing. I wanted her to come with me into my old, freezing house on the hill and climb under the thick covers with me. I wanted us to share some warmth and each other. She told me Im seriousIm leavingIm going to be famous one day and so will you. I stood outside the cab and she sat insidedoor opencab driver waiting. We just stared, neither budging from his or her position. I shut the cab door and watched her pull away. And then there she wasan image flickering on the TV right in front of me a mere six months later. Her flawless face being used to sell luxury cars. The close-upthe rain droplets falling in slow motion before her blue eyes. I felt it then. I would never see her again.
The internet has occasionally shoved a forgotten piece of my past upon me as well. The faraway girl. So many times in my life, a relationship has been severed by distance. They move or leaveno resolution to issues or feelingsjust a distance yawning between us. I saw an unexpected picture online one night. Just sitting alone and there she was; one of the faraway girls. I sat in the dark, transfixed. I thought of our last kiss. She had kissed me hard, as if she knew it would be the last. I had pulled away. I was unsure of what our time together had meant. Like so many other last kisses in my life, I had not recognized it for what it was. Seeing that photo had brought the old familiar feeling to my chest again. There was no way to reach her. Did she even know that I was still so fond of her?
Or the terrible thank you. I had seen her walk into a party unexpectedly. Her awful power over me had not diminished with the years of separation. She broke away from her friends and came over to chat with me. She had held my hand, thanked me for what we had shared together, kissed me slowly, and walked away. It sounded less like a thank you and more like a door closing behind me. I left the party early, wondering why I still felt these things for her after so long. What was it about her that could still hurt me? I had not seriously thought of her in years and now the wound was opened anew.
Or the even worse apology. Another model who was way too pretty for me, yet inexplicably took a shine to me. I had lusted after her for yearsand then the night when she unexpectedly took me by the hand. The stolen moments of passion in a public rest room. Then her apology to me on our next meeting. I was just an indiscretion that she could not pass up in an otherwise stable relationship she was in. She came to a party thrown for me a year later and informed me that she was single. I was not. I would not cheat on my new girlfriendnot even for her. We stole away and I bought her some dinner. We talked and hugged and she cried. I have never seen her again. Though we were always with other people, I felt that my heart had belonged to her from the outset. I still ache at the mere thought of her.
It also pains me to know that I have brought this feeling to the hearts of others.
I remember the night of the failed goodbye. She had arrived at my house drunk and crying at 3 in the morning. She came in, turned out my light and sat on the edge of my bed slowly weeping in the dark. She asked me to put on a record, so I put the needle onto what was already therean old scratchy CCR album. Long as I can see the light was playing. I took a seat in the chair opposing the bed and she got me up to slow dance to this sad tune. Perhaps she realized that she had wasted two years of her life on a man who could never love herperhaps she had come there, emboldened with alcohol, to break it off with me. She gripped me tightly, buried her head in my chest, and just cried as the record played on. Though we both knew it was over, neither of us could voice it. So we danced to old songs in the dark while she cried and I held her. In a horrible way, this is my most cherished memory of her; though we could not speak our minds to each other, the masks were down in that darkened room.
And there are others to be sure. The other European who I had shared a mutually destructive relationship with. All pain and strangeness. Why had we done all of those hurtful things to each other? Why do we still struggle for dominance every time we meet? What was the point of all of it?
And the girl who cried in our last moments together because I could not tell her I loved her. She wanted to hear it just onceeven if she knew it was a lie. I was angry with her and would not indulge even this simple request.
I think of my parents, staying together in an unhappy marriage out of obligation to children and church. Making everyone miserable in the process. Ideas of love and romance replaced with a sullen partnership of convenience and a subtext of disappointment and hostility.
It all sickened and disillusioned me.
And I think of my own chosen alternative; drifting through life, drifting through relationships, still hoping for fairytale endings and falling short every time.
I always remember Jack Kerouacs characterization of romantic entanglements; he termed them emotional combat.
I sit here in the dark at 4:30am, unable to sleep for the pain of heartache in my chestwriting this in a vain attempt to get my mind off of it. Wishing to get her face out of my mind and heart.
Though no one can hear it at this hour and distanceI apologize to any and all Ive left with this horrible feeling over the years.
And in the end, I am left with a question
Is hurting each-other this the best we can do?