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It has been brought to my attention that I am making slow and steady progress.
Really?
This is a “can’t see the forest for the trees” moment. As much as others believe I’m making progress, I am having a difficult time seeing it. I recognize I am slowly emerging from my “shell”, enjoying lost pleasures now that My Love and I are no longer together. I am enjoying afternoons at the movies, playing rock n roll on the stereo while cleaning my apartment (it’s the music I enjoy, not the cleaning), and other stuff I can’t think of at the moment. But is that progress? Should it take so long to heal? How long will it be before the pain goes away? I am getting to the point where I feel like I’m stuck in a rut, that I’m trying too hard to break free and do something different, but all I do is slip backward.
I am attempting to manage my emotions when I think of My Love. Sometimes successfully, other times not. But she is tough. She has hung on longer than any former girlfriend in my life, in that I cannot shake the thought of her. I don’t want to let go. As much as I want to move forward, I recognize that she has helped me reinvent myself, so to speak. There are unanswered questions. Such as…
WHY? Why couldn’t she talk about her issues with me? We have there for each other all along, why stop there?
WHY? Why could she just walk away? Did she fall out of love with me? Did she not want me in your life?
WHY? Why does it seem so easy for her to walk away?
These questions may never be answered. They may be answered only when the time is right . Here’s another that I need to consider:
WHY? Why have I hung on so long? Why can’t I forget her? Why won’t I let it go and get on with my life?
It’s not because I enjoy feeling this way. It’s not that I am trying to be a martyr, suffering in my self pity. I am not taking pity upon myself, allowing my emotions to get in the way of living my life. At least not outwardly and not as intensely as three months ago. I recognize that the end of my relationship with My Love didn’t end in a conventional manner. The only issue that was familiar was that she broke it off. I have ended up on the short end of all relationships with women.
I guess I’m just lucky, he says with tongue planted firmly in cheek. This time, it was old boyfriends and ex-husbands that did me in.
How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You).
That song has the ability to stop me dead in my tracks and trigger a “highlight reel” of memories, all of which make me smile and causes my stomach to churn. If I could, I wish I could keep it from being played on the radio, in a restaurant, or in a store. I like the song. It’s a great song. But it was “our song” and it makes me think of My Love. It’s hard to get over her when I keep hearing “our song”.
I can come up with some very good reasons why it continues to bring me to a dead stop. We used to dance to this song in my apartment. I used to sing it to her while holding her in my arms. I would it if we heard it on the car radio. We would look knowingly at each other and grin, remembering an intimate moment.
The lyrics say it all:
I needed the shelter of someone arms/There you were/I needed someone to understand my ups and downs/There you were/You were better to me than I was to myself/For me there’s you/And there ain’t nobody else.
Those lyrics encapsulated our relationship and what we needed from each other, which makes it all the more bittersweet. My Love ended our relationship because she felt that I was being shortchanged, that the balance of love was leaning more to her side than mine. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: what she gave me was far superior than anything I’d experienced before.
I will never stop thinking about her or wondering if she’s taking care of herself. There is so much that I possess that brings back memories of My Love. It will be sad, though, when all she is in a faint memory and a smile on my face whenever I hear “our song”. She’ll always be with me whenever I hear James Taylor or Marvin Gaye.
The song remains and the thoughts bittersweet.
I am wearing “the Boyfriend Sweater” today.
I had never heard to the term until I was dating My Love. She had bought me a maroon sweater from JC Penney. The purpose of the sweater was to retain my smell, my fragrance, my odor, whatever. She explained to me that I was to wear it a few times, then give it to her so she could wear it and think of me.
The hard part was I didn’t have a “fragrance”. No cologne, no aftershave, nothing. I was fragrance-free. The good news was I didn’t stink, either. I had gotten out of the habit of wearing a manly scent that would drive women wild.
Just reading that last sentence makes me chuckle. I picture the Marlboro man, macho and muscular, with a face full of character. He would wear something manly to attract women. That’s why men wear cologne, to attract women. I didn’t wear it in college. I had tried Old Spice in high school. Very cliche. My grandfather wore it. Maybe that’s why my sex life was in the pits. Wearing the cologne your grandfather wore isn’t likely to appeal to women in their 20s.
Wearing the “Boyfriend Sweater” was almost a moot point, except that My Love helped me pick out a fragrance that she liked. She found that the sweater worked its magic with something to stimulate to her brain.
I am wearing this sweater for practical reasons. It’s chilly here on the coast, and it’s a light but warm sweater. It’s doing nothing for me at the moment. Except maybe bringing back some old memories. A good friend told me that she wears an old gray tee-shirt that belonged to a former boyfriend. She told me she had been wearing it while at home recovering from a nasty case of flu. She said that wearing it had made her melancholy and she was thinking of this man, and wondering why they weren’t together anymore.
I could relate. There are a few articles of clothing that remind me of My Love. She used to wear my fleece bathrobe when she finished her shower. Whenever she would spend the night, she wore a blue pajama top with a pair of striped pajama bottoms that belonged to me. She also wore one of my oxford button-down shirts around my apartment. There is nothing sexier than a woman wearing a man’s shirt as a nightshirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the first three buttons left undone. I can see her, lying on the bed reading, with a comfortable, yet slightly rumpled look and come hither look on her face. It makes me go weak in the knees thinking about it.
No doubt there will be other episodes when my memory will take me back. The question is how to deal with them. The triggers are unpredictable; I never see them coming. My stomach doesn’t churn they way it used to a few months ago. Since I carefully placed her photograph in a box with her love notes and cards, I have a difficult time remembering her face. It’s as if she’s a shadow that drifts across my memory. I remember those legs, her lips, and how she would nuzzle into me whenever I would come up from behind and wrap my arms around her.
Writing has become a challenge all of a sudden. I’m having a difficult time concentrating. I need to settle my brain.
Sorry.
I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.
When is this roller coaster ride going to end? Because I’m in the last car and about to lose my lunch.
My heart has been battered, bruised and stomped, and it’s all been self-inflicted. I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with Tyson. It’s all because I can’t get over losing the woman I love. I can’t just let things go because I let Hope stick its nose in my business. Hope is preventing me looking at things realistically. Right now, Hope sucks big time. I get a whiff of possibility and I throw any rational thought out the window.
Why can’t I just move forward? It’s been two steps forward, one step back for what seems like an eternity. I feel like a rabbit with Turret’s: I have no idea which direction I’m going , I have no control and I couldn’t stop if I wanted to.
It would be so much easier if I could come to terms with the idea that I have been given an opportunity. There is a woman out there just waiting for me. Now is not the time or place for me to find her. I have more work to do. My heart needs healing.
I noticed something interesting whilst looking at my post stats. Whenever I write on the everyday stuff in my life, the numbers are down. But when I write about my struggles recovering from the breakup with My Love, the numbers go through the roof. I guess it proves that folks like a good train wreck. It’s compelling stuff. Reading about someone else’s love life gone askew somehow makes one’s life much better. It’s like “The Truman Show”-my life is live and in living color. Good thing there isn’t a camera following me 24/7. Here I am, warts and all. I bleed, cry, laugh, sing, wonder, ponder, anger, and everything in between. Some folks offer their support. They coach me from the sidelines and give me encouragement. Most of them silently look on.
But, seriously, why are most of you here? I am here to put my thoughts down so they keep my brain from clogging. Does what I say have meaning to you? Is there genuine concern for my wellbeing, or do you just look in from time to time? Do you read my posts with empathy, seeing yourself as I chronical my life? Are you cynical and waiting for the train to derail…again? Or are you a voyeur, lurking out there in the shadows, anonymously finding pleasure in the ups and downs of a fellow human being.
As I scan down the list of destinations in my blogroll, I see folks from all over the world dropping in to see what conditon my condition is in. I want to be able to reach out to you. Maybe talk to you individually. ”How are you? Where are you from? Why do you return repeatedly to my blog? Tell me something about yourself. How’s life in your corner of the world.” I sometimes wish there was a chat function. Not some silly space full of misspelled words and cryptic abreviations, but a place where kindred souls and reach out to each other. How are we all alike? Are we both looking for the same thing? Is there something missing, and what do we want to fill the empty spaces with? One of the reason why I am here is so I can have someone to talk to, albeit a silent and unresponsive listener. I got tired of talking to myself. I couldn’t seem to find the answers to the questions I was asking myself.
Most writers write anonymously. They don’t give anything away except for some choice bits. Maybe the names are changed, but the facts are real. Sometimes it’s all fiction. For your information, everything in this space is real. I do give my subjects pseudonyms.
Now, the crux of this post. I’ll be honest with you and tell you why I am writing. It’s the same reason I wanted to be a radio DJ: I wanted the attention. How many people have this opportunity? We all feel we have something important to say, but is anyone really listening? Do they care about what we’re saying, or do they just nod their head and smile? Do our opinions matter to them are are we being given lip service?
I realize that, like the televison, if you don’t like what you’re hearing you can change the channel. If what I’m saying here doesn’t appeal to you then you move on. If you’re curious enough to keep reading, maybe you read another post or click the “About” tab and find out some more.
Do you care? Maybe. Maybe not.
Why am I saying all this? Because, up until the point, I have been afraid to say the things I want. Now I will.
I am hurting. I hurt because the life I didn’t want was ended, because I was too afraid to do the dirty work myself. I am hurting because I thought that the one true love that came into my life is no longer there. I don’t know why she’s not there anymore, but I am having difficulty adjusting to life without her. And I hurt because I feel like I am going through this difficult time by myself. I have found my identity through others and am finding it difficult to recognize who I really am.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
If anyone wants to step up and make this a two-way exchange, come on down. We all could use a few good friends, and misery loves company.
I just want somebody to talk with, and who will listen to me.
p.s. Memo to The Rommate: I see you’re back. If all this is more than you wanted to know, why do you come back?
I have been thinking about my life and the transitions I have encountered. Sometimes I feel like my life is constantly in transition. Maybe I’m lost in transition. Where’s Scarlett Johannsen when I need her?
Oh, that’s Lost in Translation. Sorry.
I have been told by a close friend that my experiences in the last three months are quite healthy. She tells me that most men go from one relationship to the next without “mourning” the ending of the previous relationship. Despite the pain and anguish, I am in a healthy place. She likes the fact that, as a man, I can honor the emotions, that I can feel.
She makes perfect sense. I strongly dislike living alone. I would rather have the option of having time alone and be able to return to my partner, instead of having the situation forced upon me. It’s all about choice. I would rather have someone in my life, but not have my life defined by being in a relationship. It’s one of those transition things.
I came to the conclusion awhile back that sharing my life with someone is alll that I’ve known for the last 22 years. I was married and shared a home with my ex-, then I shared a relationship that sometimes felt like living with someone. That lasted 20 months and that brings us to the present. All I have known is the feeling of having someone sharing space with me. When that changed, I found it difficult to be home alone. I am better accustomed to the situation now, which is how it should’ve been all along. Ideally, the transition should’ve been adjusting to a single life again, then let the relationship gods do their magic. But need to re-establish my life by continuing to finding new passions, like writing, and rediscover older passions that have been pushed aside. If you want to get somewhere quickly, you must do it slowly.
I still think about My Love. We would’ve been together two years October 14, so that has me thinking. I think of her within the context of being a loving and caring partner who is sharing her life with me, and vice versa. I miss that. But I’d be a fool to deny that I didn’t miss the sex. Oh, boy, do I ever. It still makes me sad when I hear certain songs or hear certain phrases, when I go certain places or do certain things. I am still nervous at the possibilty of encountering her and how I’d handle the situation. But I would imagine she is in the same place. It’s normal. It’s also a matter of how to manage those feelings and thoughts. I don’t let thoughts of her consume me as they did 3 months ago. You might say I’m moving forward.
I have to put in a plug for a great new website: www.wbcn.com. I was a huge fan of WBCN when they were the Rock of Boston, playing the best alternative rock in the late 70s/early 8os. Their format mirrored that of the college station I DJ’ed while at UMaine. It was really good British stuff like Elvis Costello, Echo & The Bunnymen, U2, and The Smiths, mixed in with good mainstream rock, and good local bands. Since undergoing a format change and moving to a different frequency, WBCN is offering a free-form alternative only on the Internet. It is AWESOME! If you love rock, and I know you do, check it out. Long live Dwayne Ingalls Glascock, the Big Mattress and Michegas!!!
That was quite the bomb that was dropped on me yesterday. It actually ruined my mood for the entire day. Yes, I know..I am the one that’s in control, and I am the one that can make changes so my day isn’t ruined.
But, when I read the email from The Housemate, it just sucked every ounce of energy from my body. I went through my day in a somber mood, not saying much to anyone. I was glad that I was working alone for most of the day because I was not good company. As the day progressed I began to feel better. After leaving work, I had my glasses adjusted and spent the better part of an hour wandering around the mall. I would walk into a store, roam the aisles, looking at nothing in particular, then wander out and move on to the next store. I did that for the better part of two hours, just wandering.
I was able to determine that I am wounded, not broken. I would be useless if I tried to start up a relationship. It’s a matter of putting pieces back in place and moving forward.
Maybe a f@#k buddy isn’t such a bad idea after all.
Wanderlust is a wonderful thing. It usually creeps up on me every 3-4 weeks, giving me another opportunity to dream. It’s another possibility presented to me by Life. I can tell when wanderlust is coming on. I begin to think about places I’ve been or where I want to go. It used to be I would get it to avoid a painful situation. Now I use it for motivation.
I got the travel bug bad during my senior year in high school. Before then, I had been to Boston and New York City with school or church groups, and it was enough to give me a taste of what was outside my world. I grew up in small towns and cities in New England. There were people areund me who had never been more than 50 miles away from home.
Despite what John Mellencamp says, there is more to offer outside a small town. However, it’s easy to appreciate what a small town offers, but you have to leave it before you understand. If never given an opportunity to see what the world has to offer, one could be satisfied to remain where they are.
During my senior year, I participated in an exchange with an all-girl German gymnasium (high school) for one month. In the span of one month, I was exposed to a new language, customs, attitudes, opinions about my own country, and had an opportunity to visit The Netherlands. Granted, it was from a Northern European perspective but I never would have known it if it wasn’t for that exchange. It gave me the sense that there were more opportunities waiting for me. At one time I had a dream to backpack around Europe. I almost put that into play when I flunked out of college.
The first time.
Since then, I have visited: Paris, London (twice), rode a National Express coach from London to Dundee, St. Andrews (twice, once to play golf with my friend Adam, the other to attend the 2005 Open Championship), Germany, Las Vegas (I went with My Love to celebrate her 50th birthday), Miami, Aruba, Dallas, Washington DC and Phoenix (jumping off point to the Grand Canyon).
The wanderlust I’m experiencing at the moment has alot to do with wanting to move my life in a different direction. I have been taking small steps towards that and I’m exploring ways to do that. I started with my weekly movie blitzes at the library. I then moved towards taking my relationship with my children to the next level. I am happy to say that I am communicating with them much more openly, and they are doing the same with me. I am volunteering with the football boosters of my son’s team. I have been helping out with bingo.
The next challenge is to continue to do all this and not do things alone. I am resolved that this process is slow moving. I am not actively looking to date anyone. I am not holding out for My Love, though. I know she reads these posts and that’s much safer for us both. It eliminates the emotional piece. She reads about my stuff without having to contact me. I can let her know how my life is progressing. I can also let her know that I miss her without getting verklempt.
I am not so sure I want to date for different reasons. Actually, I am not ready to date. As much as I want the gentle touch of someone’s hand, a passionate kiss and to share my bed with a woman I deeply care for, I don’t want it be be for all the wrong reasons. I am not ready to fall in love again. I want to be with a woman to satisfy my own urges and desires, and that is a temporary experience. I am not ready to open my heart and be vulnerable. The pain in my life is still fresh and to throw romance into the mix would only turn out badly. If I am going to give my heart to someone, I need to prepare myself.
What I want is a f@#k buddy. But I couln’t handle that either because I find it difficult to separate love and sex when I’m not in a caring relationship. I’m just not cut out for sex for sex sake. There has to be an emotional bond.
Here we are, gentle reader. All dressed up and no place to go.
Actually, I have somewhere to go tonight. It’s the home opener for the football team and my son is playing. I am so happy he’s playing football again. He enjoys the game . My son is just dressing for the game. The JV game is on Monday afternoons. It’s a great way to spend a day off. But I’ll go to the game tonight to have something to do.
Maybe I’ll win the 50-50.
If you’ve been keeping up with the comings and goings of this little universe, I had asked what The Woman Who Broke My Heart should be called. I didn’t want to give her name, nor did I want to give her an alias. I also didn’t want to use the initials because they sound impersonal.
I believe names are a sacred thing, just like one’s birthday. Each of us has a name that was chosen for us, and we should be using it when addressing that person.
Except Frank Zappa’s daughter. C’mon, who names their kid Moon Unit unless they have a bazzarre sense of humor. Need I say more?
So, with the aid of some thoughtful input (thanks, Marge!), The Woman Who Broke My Heart will now be called…..
My Love
Because that’s who she is. I was able to do with her what I have never been able to do before: spoon. Our heights and body types were so compatible, I was able to lie on my side and melt into her. It was one of the sexiest things I have ever encountered.
Every night, before drifting off to sleep, I would cuddle up close, put my arm around her and whisper, ” Good night, My Love. Sleep well”. Of course, through the course ofthe night, we would move away from each other. But we would always repeat that little ritual every night we spent together.
I found a quote from Gloria Steinem last night while surfing Facebook. This quote seemed to define my state of mind and being over the last three months. Ms. Steinem was talking about the death of her husband and was asked if she felt depressed. “I don’t feel depressed. I feel sad. Depression is when nothing matters. Sadness is when everything matters.”
That means that what I’ve been feeling these last three months is a deep sadness. It is what it is.
I had a peak at the stats this morning, just to see who’s checking me out.
Biddeford is back.
I know the world is a big place, full of interesting things and people. But I don’t know many people in Biddeford. Actually I only know three. TWWBMH and her two housemates. One wouldn’t care less. I chatted with the other while on Facebook last week and I didn’t mention this blog. Although she does a fair amount of surfing the Net, we had a casual relationship.
That only leaves TWWBMH.
I believe in kharma. I believe that The Cosmos speak tto us, but we don’t always pick up the clues. Some people call them Godwinks, where you are given a sign that is appropriate to your situation. They are usually unexpected, but not always recognized by the person. I’ve been getting better at seeing those clues and that became very apparent this morning.
After checking my blog and noticing that Biddeford had paid a visit, I went back to work. In my work area we stream music during the workday. Sometimes we select one of the local stations. I’ve streamed my favorites from the UK, but this morning we logged into Pandora.
I like Pandora. It’s the online music site that’s like listening to free-form radio from the 70s. You never know what will pop-up within a particular genre, and sometimes the genres overlap. This morning, it was Motown and other assorted oldies. Here’s the first four songs I heard after checking the blog:
1. Smokey Robinson – Cruisin’
2. Diana Ross and The Supremes – Someday We’ll Be Together
3. Four Tops – Ain’t No Woman (Like The One I Got)
4. Al Green – Let’s Stay Together
Talk about a Cosmic Dope Slap. If I heard Marvin Gaye “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You), I’m not sure what my reaction would’ve been. That tune was “our song”; I used to sing that song to her.
If you read this blog regularly, you’ll know I’ve resolved myself to the fact that TWWBMH is not coming back. After today, though, I’m not so sure. I have one foot on either side of the fence, wondering which way to lean.
Nobody said that this process would be easy. I didn’t expect the emotional impact of the breakup would be this intense. I am happy to say that I don’t sit home, surrounded by letters and photos, doing my best Miss Haversham impression and waiting for a love to return that won’t.
But I keep encountering these Godwinks that tell me that could be different.
It could all be just my perception of the situation. That I see what I want to see and believe what I want to believe. I am not delusional. I am trying to be very realistic about the situation. The last thing I want is to be is to ride an emotional rollercoaster.
But where does reality and possiblity blend, or do they?
Some things are just out of my hands.
Gentle reader, I need your input. Come up with a better reference to The Woman Who Broke My Heart than TWWBMH. It doesn’t sound or look good.
Just think when Prince changed his name to a symbol.
She deserves better. Get creative. I’ll be curious to see your suggestions.
Thank you
Light breaks on Marble Head.
Or in this case, a Middle-Aged Head.
These a-ha moments come at the most inopportune times. It’s usually when you least expect them, which also makes them more relevant. You can receive the solution more clearly than when fixed on the problem.
The Woman Who Broke My Heart will NOT be coming back.
And HOW LONG did it take to figure that one out?
Sometimes it takes awhile for the inevitable to manifest itself. I remembered what she had written to me concerning my heart. She said that she wanted me to have someone love me the way I had loved her. She couldn’t love me the way she wanted, the way she felt I deserved to be loved. It was true love, but not the “happily ever after” kind of love. She is concerned for my wellbeing and, as painful as it’s been, she needed to let me go so I could find what I deserved.
Yes, it’s still scary because I do miss her and care for her. But it was also the fear that something great was slipping away. It was great for it’s time. But now is the time to move forward.
I still fear the idea of being alone, but that won’t be forever. There is someone out there for me.
Now begins the journey to find her.
p.s. To the Woman Who Broke My Heart: you are my friend. I have been truely blessed having shared my life with you. I hope you are happy and are finding the balance you deserve. I still love you with all my heart, but know that you want something better for me. Thank you.
