She told me that I would have been ashamed to tell my family or my therapist. But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t true because I would have explained that I loved her.
I loved her when she told me that when I left she cried for so long she threw up. I knew then she must have seen something special in me just like I saw something special in her.
I loved her when she made me laugh and smile at the stupidest things. I loved her when we would banter back and forth with insults.
I loved her when she told me that I needed to tell her when I got to my hotel late in California because she was scared she would lose me.
I loved her when she sent me a playlist of songs, beautiful songs, handpicked by her.
I loved her when she tried. Even when I made her uncomfortable. Even when I was mad at her.
I loved her when she was tired and would open up about the things in her life that troubled her. Things about her family. Things about her life.
I loved her when she told me she read my blog every morning.
I loved her when I was needy. So annoyingly needy, but she was nothing but caring and reassuring.
I loved her when she would ask me why I was ignoring her, if I was driving and couldn’t respond right away.
I loved her when I came back from a meeting and would find so many messages from her, like gifts waiting to be opened.
I loved her when we used to talk on the phone for hours, and it never felt longer than a few minutes.
I loved her intelligence, her passion, her humor, her taste in music, her compassion and warmth, her emotions, her feminine side. She understood everything I said to her. Whether it was a dumb joke or my life philosophy. She had a deep emotional intelligence. She knew when she was avoiding the truth and what the truth was. She was immature at times. She gave up easily. She was self-destructive. She preferred to avoid her problems instead of dealing with them. She liked distractions. She was vindictive when she was angry. She liked to cry. She was embarrassed easily. I loved her for all of that.
She tells me now everything was a lie. What a beautiful lie to love.
Writing Prompt: What is a pet peeve and how does that relate to your shadow?
Today I was listening to a Youtube video about the Harry Potter houses and turned off the video because I could not listen to the voice of the YouTuber any longer. The way he was talking was so affected it felt like I was drowning in discomfort.
He would have an extra lingering syllable that would stick at the end of each word. Griffindorrra instead of Griffindor and thennnnna instead of then. I felt like his proclivities were clawing marks into my heart.
I was thinking to myself. I hate him so much, but I bet all the comments are people praising him and encouraging him to continue with this horribly affected speech. And then I thought, maybe some people actually like it. He did have a nice British accent.
I wondered why I couldn’t stand him.
I just felt this cloudiness this lack of clarity in speech and I despised that. The fakeness also made me feel uncomfortable. Do I judge myself for being fake or unclear? I don’t know but I suspect I do. To me, those two traits speak to the worst fate in the world, mediocrity.
I ran with the ideas last night, of dance and music and I can say I feel extremely sad. Something about how much I miss this part of me. I feel sad about the weight I’ve been carrying around for so long. I feel sad because sadness acknowledges the pain in the world without shying away from it.
I watched this video last night:
I remember in art there is no right or wrong way to go about something. Just like in life. I feel we forget that a lot.
For some reason, I feel the desire to write stories. Here is a space for some freewriting:
A shark was washed onto the shore. That was the day when I asked my next door neighbor Amy to marry me. We were both 12 at the time. Amy was a quiet sort of girl, not shy, just took a while to think about things before she talked. When she did, she didn’t say much.
She looked at me up and down as if she was trying to size me up.
“So what do you say Amy?”
I wonder if this is how the shark felt. He was already dead when he was on shore, but his eyes seemed to look at you as if to say…well? What’s up?
“I don’t know,” Amy finally responded. Her fingers figeting.
“You don’t know?”
“Yea.”
“That’s ok!” I said. I was 12 and I felt invincible…
I feel sad because of how much of this I repressed within my self.
In terms of work, I feel I’ve done the experiment and I can officially say to myself, working on too many things at the same time does not work towards my strengths. I think I need to focus on one focus every day. If I get to a second one, then that’s good. Also, I can have many low effort progress toward every goal, but it can’t be the main focus.
In doing one main thing, I might be able to go to bed much sooner which is something of great concern to me.