sad stories

“You need to stop talking about Dave.”

It’s amazing how quickly my eyes filled with tears. Haphazardly I bring him up in random conversations. Sometimes I think I change the direction of the conversation just so I can bring a moment of his life up. Of our life. I have turned into one of those people. But when it comes to relationships and sex and describing what kind of comfort may lie ahead in mine or anyone else’s future, I feel like I have to say something. I have been to the brink. I have a voice. I have brought some knowledge back to this world, so I bring him up. I voice how most people only want to not feel alone in this tragic and confounding world. How most people just want someone to share their life with on the most deepest and personal levels. How so many people are still recovering from endeavours gone awry by throwing themselves into an endless stream of relationships that will obviously go nowhere so they stand no chance of getting hurt. I voice that I am lonely without Dave – that I feel the most lonely of loneliness because I know what it is like to have connected. That the connection I lost when Dave died eats at me like a termite infestation in my soul. And it’s like a bad habit. And I have every excuse to not do anything about it. To keep rambling on about what once was. But my friend is right. Aren’t they? It’s no longer about me and Dave. But I don’t see too much harm in talking about who Dave was. Of course, that doesn’t last long. Soon enough I catch myself back in the habit of talking about my loss.

“You need to stop talking about your relationship with him. You need to forget about him.” That was harsh. And I will not forget about him. But I’m sensing there’s some truth to my recovery in ceasing talking about our relationship. It’s over, right? It can never be. It was what it was and that’s all it will ever be. Some doses of reality are difficult to serve – and ingest, but when a friend sits with me and tells me matter of fact the one truth I really do everything in my power to ignore – it fucken hurts. What kind of friends do that? I don’t want to forget the feeling of Dave. I don’t want to come to grips with being alone. It hurts. Fuck it hurts. But I’m so tired of crying.

“It’s OK to cry.”

No, it’s not.

I’m sure that’s not the right answer, but in that instant I got terribly hard on myself – and hated my friend for their blunt objectivity. I don’t presume to be perfect, a little ahead of the bell-curve maybe, but perhaps I have been wallowing too long in my own self pity. OK, I know that’s the case. It’s not that I mean to be that person who can’t let go of the past. And I’m very aware, now more than ever, that we all have our sad stories. Many people are hiding the truth about what cripples them or handicaps them or makes them a just a little bit off. Every day I realize most of the people I see are healing from some wound right before my very eyes. Some are huge and some are small, but I’ve come to understand that to be in a state of healing is normal. To want to heal is normal. To resist healing is what dooms a person. To not move through your healing, to not take your medicine, even if it is honest words from a friend, will keep your wounds fresh and open and crippling.

“You OK?”

No. I’m pissed off at myself. I’m dejected. I’m thinking I’m quite pathetic. And as exasperated as I am with the world, I’m just fed up with this feeling. I’m fed up with crying. I’m fed up of feeling sorry for myself. I’m fed up of feeling like that person. But I really don’t know what the next step is. I really don’t know how to move forward at this point. I really am fumbling. I think my friend may have given me a good push over this one obstacle, but I have no idea how to make out where I go from here. And I’m thinking this may be the best thing that has happened to me in a long time.


About humanbeen

I'm a has-been that was. I'm a dreamer that does.
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