Perhaps it’s because it’s Valentine’s Day, or because I find writing cathartic, but I figured why the hell not write? I could throw a bag of pre-written and overly saccharine cards off of a building, but that would not only be horridly expensive, I also happen to be stuck in bed.
I recently found myself falling out of a relationship that had been one of the most intense and important of my young life. During this time, as those of you who follow this blog know, I was in and out of hospitals and doctors offices trying to figure out what it is that has ailed me for most of my life yet only really becoming a major cause for concern at the beginning of last year, and finally going back into therapy for OCD and for various other issues that have been supposedly attributed to PTSD.
As much as a part of me blames something that as far as I’m aware is out of my control for the downfall and almost inevitable disconnection from someone that at the time I was certain was the companion I had been searching for – I can’t allow myself to believe that entirely, as it’s bullshit. Simply put. Yeah, stress gets in the way of being able to enjoy a lot of things in life and when one goes through waves of being slightly worse at times, or you’re in dire need of affection, support, and appreciation to pathetically validate your own permanent existence of pain and discomfort – mental and physical – that stress is usually almost a constant. It’s enough to put strain on any relationship, whether it be romantic or platonic. But my body is not to blame, and I am not to blame, and neither is he. There is no place for blame in this, and each moment shared was an experience of which will go into a special box and dusted off on occasion. Revisited for reminders as to what was, what can be, and what is.
I unfortunately have a nasty habit of blaming myself for most things even if I had absolutely no part in it, or little to do with it, and I also have a nasty habit of trying to justify the actions of others’ due to some twisted core belief that there is some good left in everyone. I think there’s a reason I refer to myself as an optimistic pessimist. Or rather, a realist is what others may call me. When trapped in the greys, it’s difficult to see people as inherently good and/or bad. So I see the entirety of the human race as bad, with little sprinklings of good thrown about and scattered through all the different veins and brains that walk the earth.
To sum up the above paragraphs in three words: I regret nothing.
As much as I am ambivalent towards the actions, the reactions, the inactions, the non-actions, and so on – I still remain positive that this sudden and painful chance of change will bring about what I have needed and have been trying to achieve for so long since the end of tragedy and a life of long traumas (which I was recently once again told to write a book about…) in a long life of short traumas thrown in; I’ve been trying to rediscover myself. And sometimes I can catch a grasp of that self I seem to lose at times, like a vague shadow following me, trying to burn away all the masks. There are hands to hold and bodies to break my fall, and for those faces and the words exchanged; I couldn’t be more grateful.
And while my memories remain like smoke in a windowless room; they drift towards the ceiling, fall to the ground, hang mostly stagnant in the dead air, sometimes slightly thicker and stronger than another passing cloud of a remembered action or word. I remember it all, yet can never catch or hold onto the drifting fog for very long. I remember everything and nothing.
I do not regret anything.