With A Little Help From My Friends
"You're just too nice, is your problem," Morgan told me as she, Xtine and I embarked on one of our famous walkabouts through Uptown last night.
I don't feel very nice.
It takes a long time for the head to catch up to the heart. Days, weeks, months, year. No matter what your cognitive deductions end up being - the ones that are supposed to explain away the hurt, the sadness, the disappointment - someone out there is going to think they're wrong. That you're leaving out details. That you're being selfish. That you're editing to make yourself feel better. As if you had any choice.
Love isn't rational. (You know that, right?) Telling someone you love them is a dangerous thing, because no matter what, you've allowed them to make an impression on your heart that will never be filled in the same way by anyone else. Nothing they ever do will be without an additional impression, whether it be in love or in anger or in hurt.
It seems easier to villainize people and remember bad things. It elimates (temporarily) the ache and longing that's sometimes induced by remembering the good. It's a much slower road to recovery, though, I'm discovering. The impressions become holes, so instead of using them as footholds and trailmarkers of your experience, you fall in. Become trapped and mired down in negativity. It's heavy, and you sink.
"You should write a book," Morgan tells me. "I could," I reply, "my journal is full of all this stuff - I only write in it when I'm angsty." Christine finishes my unfinished thought "...and you only blog when you're happy, so..." So.
Lately, my heart's been feeling a little bit like Swiss cheese. It's no good, and I'm opting out of this method of recovery.
My eternal thanks, gratitude and (against my better judgement) love to all of the people that have made impressions on my healing heart.