I feel a strong sense of deja-vu as I write this; but I know the reasons behind the feelings are less than mystical and more because I write about it over, and over again. John is a common thread I weave in the things I write, I think because my feelings are ambiguous and sit in an awkward place - never moving, never ending - just stuck. So I'm stuck, and sometimes I become unstuck.
It is an uncomfortable admission, for me to say that a few nights ago I bawled my eyes out, weeping well beyond the stroke of midnight - all because I just didn't know how to sit with these feelings anymore. I still don't.
It is an inconvenient truth, but a truth nonetheless, that he is many, many hundreds of kilometers away - with no reason to return, no reason at all to think he left somebody behind.
I cried because I knew he was coming here this weekend - because I knew if I did see him, it'd likely be the last time. I cried because all I've wanted to do for the longest time is release this weight somehow, and be free. I've tried everything I can think of - I wrote his name on pieces of paper, set them alight and watched them burn; I've said the prayers, sought answers in the implied wisdom of books, magazines and even google; I read 'the book' and it didn't help. I've tried distraction, ignorance, substitution - but it doesn't work for long. It is not with pride that I speak of these feelings; I find no pleasure in admitting how 'this' consumes me, and makes me weak.
Amongst my crying, I decided it might be a good idea to get it all out - write him a letter and give it to him, spill it all out on the page - release the caged bird and come what may. When I woke the following morning, the idea had lost some of its lustre. The large risk with little hope of return; and writing it down with the mighty pen, making it real - so he could show his friends or my coworkers and laugh? Could I do it in person if I had the chance? Probably not, perhaps if I didn't have to look him in the eye.
And then, the unimaginable happened. I received a text, asking me if I might want to meet for coffee Saturday morning. And then the kicker - I couldn't do it. My Saturday morning was not free - I had a commitment I couldn't shift, even if I wanted to. His Saturday afternoon was not free... I think it's obvious how it goes. So, I missed out - again.
If I did write him a letter, I don't know where I would start. Perhaps I would tell him that when I saw him sitting alone in the staffroom after the weekend he had buried his Grandfather, all I wanted to do was hug him when he thanked me for my condolences. I could've mopped his sadness with a cloth it was so thick. But there has always been this space between us. A line I didn't cross because I didn't trust my feelings, because I didn't believe anything could be reciprocated. Maybe I'd tell him that. I would probably tell him I wouldn't write to him anymore because it's just too painful. I don't want my heart to be closed, but to leave it open is too much to bear.
My friend M tells me that when I go to Greece in a few weeks time, that I should "fuck around" with the boys "but just don't marry any". I don't think I have it in me to do that.
If time doesn't heal this wound in the near future, I don't know what I'll do.
SB xx
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