It’s got me going crazy. My words are hazy, I’m feeling lazy. Got me wishing I could throw out like Scorsese. Stories not films but just as impressive. One after another, aggressive and successive. Expressive of the musings in my head that the umbra has fed, they’re as heavy as lead, I’m immersed until they’re dispersed or at the very least escape through a momentary outburst, I’m cursed. I’m broken. Like a record that just keeps skipping, my sanity is slipping, out of my mind it’s dripping, it’s stripping, taking any talent away I possessed, I’ve digressed, and now I’m obsessed with a miraculous return, one so hot it’ll give you heartburn. I will rise up so don’t fret with your concern, I’ve learned where the passion sits and I swear to never be call it quits, regardless. There’s always a darkness that once wordless becomes paved with catharsis and lives. It breathes. And through the haze it seethes while you grieve. It heaves becoming my saving grace to once again show face with words that were once misplaced, erased, and misconstrued. I’ve been subdued, not lazy, maybe I am hazy for now I’m thinking if I can’t throw out like Martin, why not Swayze? Yeah, I’m crazy.
Im a rebel without a cause, or more importantly, Im a writer without words. Actually, for all intents and purposes, im not a writer at all. Im just a person that occassionaly decides to write. That doesnt make me anymore different than any other person out there. I have ideas so I suppose you could call me creative. A writer though? I dont even know what that is anymore.
I thought I had a passion like no other for writing. I even have two permaneant tattoos that grace my body that pertain to that passion. Some how though, even with my body donning those declarations, the most important tattoo of them all, faded. While it wasnt created in ink upon my skin, it was one I never assumed I would see go. The portrait of passion had been etched across my heart since I was a child. Now, The only remnants of that portrait is a scar left behind from being stratigically lasered out while I wasnt looking.
Some where, in-between different hobbies and family, I allowed myself to let it go. I allowed myself to cut out what I once envinsioned to be my most important tattoo.
I still think about the passion I had. Thats all I ever do about it though, think about it. The thoughts rarely become words and I go back to asking myself why? I used to say that I just didn’t have the time. Then I just said there wasn’t motivation to do anything. It was then I realized that the idea of motivation had more to it. That it was passion that fueled motivation. It was then, that I understood that the passion was gone.
I had already cut ties with other blogs I participated on and any other networking I was doing outside of my Twitter account. I knew it was fading then. I had no responsibilities to the writing world anymore except for those I created myself. It was actually freedom. I had one less thing to worry about outside of my every day life. That right there speaks volumes as to rather or not I still carried around the passion. The answer was so obvious. It’s still so very obvious. I have the scar there to prove it. And yet…
I still get that inkling. Just every once in a while. The ideas still pop up and my fingers become itchy. My mind roams and my thoughts land on writing. I still think about it. I still want to do it. But not always. Hardly ever. It’s still there though and it bugs the shit out of me.
I honestly wish I could erase the memories of the passion I had for it. How enthusiastic I could be when I was putting my ideas into the written word. I wish I could stop the ideas from coming. Since I can’t, it just leaves me confused.
What does this mean? Is the passion truly gone or just being over shadowed by life? Are the ideas just remnants of the creative bone that is now broken? Cause let’s be honest, I could never seem to finish a damn thing I worked on.
Am I writer on hiatus or just a person with a random hobby? Do I lack passion or motivation? Do I fight to bring it back or do I just let it slip all the way until it’s gone?
In all honesty, my confusion is due to my incessant depression that tends to loom over my head. Most days I can’t tell if how I am is due to that or if I just blame that because it’s easier. Is my lack of passion for anything because of that or have I become lazy and uncaring as life continues to move on?
It seems like a million questions without a single answer. I’m left with only speculation because even I don’t know myself well enough to give the answers. The only thing I know for sure is that at this moment, the passion, the life force that made my writing enjoyable and easy, is gone.
Honesty is the best policy. Right? Well I think now is a great time for a little of my honesty.
I have been attempting to run this blog for the past couple of months. I say attempting because I really don’t know a whole hell of a lot about doing it properly. It is what it is though and I have tried my best to continually post things on a schedule and even recruit others to join. I have failed on occasion. Including this week actually. I haven’t posted anything yet. No “Poem of the Week”, no submissions from other writers, not even anything I have written. I suppose that makes me somewhat of a failure. Maybe it just means I don’t care too much about the blog. Could it possibly mean that I don’t give a shit about writing anymore?
What it really is, is that I am tired.
I want to be a writer. “But you are” you might say. I suppose that’s true but really, there isn’t much I have written lately. Almost everything I have posted with my name attached are older works I have previously written. Recently the only thing I have been good at doing is simply editing, pushing the publish button, and advertising. I would no longer use the word “writer” to describe who I am anymore. Though I wish I could. I’m sure the writer is still there but it doesn’t like to come out when it’s asked to. Therein lies the reason why I am tired.
I’ve never been a fan of deadlines. I have always despised schedules. Yet here I’ve been, trying to force words to come forth when I just haven’t had them. I have always believed in writing when you felt like you had to. Writing when the ideas came. I never wanted to be someone that wrote because they were “made to” but solely because they wanted to. For the simple reason of feeling that passion building within and words begging to be scrawled. So now, I am tired of trying. Tired of trying to force the ideas when they aren’t ready. I’m tired of conforming to a set schedule that my mind and heart just aren’t in sync with right now.
So as of right now, there is no longer a schedule to the blog. At least not one I will be implementing for the time being. What used to be posts on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, will now be posts whenever I have them and can publish them.
The email address is still open for submissions to the site. I will post them if and when they come in. That will not change. My work however may become scarce for a bit or it may all of a sudden become abundant. It’s an unpredictable force of nature.
The bottom line is that I don’t know when the words will come, and honestly, that’s kind of the best part.
#writer #amwriting #writing #honesty #update #musings #thoughts #schedules #ranting #blog #blogging #posting
Drinking is my ultimate downfall. Some days it turns me into someone I’m not. Or at least someone I like to hide. It kills certain demons just long enough for others to emerge. For that alone is a demon in itself. One that gets stronger every time I give in. Every time I stop fighting is another step closer to a final demolition. An internal destruction. A battle that I lost long before it started for my strength diminishes with every taste of temporary bliss. It flees at a moments notice and cowers within the darkest depths of my soul. Strength, which I now know as a permanent weakness, will soon flounder among the ruins of myself that get left behind. The demons will soon feast on remnants to make them all but non existent. That’s what drinking is. It’s a killer and one that most days I still happily allow entrance. For a simple taste of death is all it takes to want it to be a permanent residence.
I had a diary once. The only problem was, I never used it. There was no one, or no thing, to contain my thoughts. My fears, my wants, my needs, my hopes, and my dreams, were all sealed within my own soul, my heart, and my head. Eventually, because I could not take advantage of the diary I had in front of me, everything that was kept within began to become too much. The tomb that I had created within myself was actually starting to burst at the seams. A slightest crack in the foundation that I had manifested had begun to creep into further areas and rupture the membrane that supported the tombs structure. Slowly, and then all at once, every thing that was once kept inside was now in the open. It was now sitting in front of the world for them to see and begin to critically judge. The reasons for my actions and for who i was had finally come to light but yet no one could see past the initial fabricated facade. The damage had been done and I was only left with a single decision. Did I allow everything to remain sprawled out before me or did I pick up the pieces and cram them back into a half ass fixed tomb that was bound to break again some day?
I had a diary once. It was neglected and left with empty pages. It begged to be filled and I ignored it. I ignored the outlet that was bestowed before me; because of that I have broken the only part that used to be whole within. To allow the contents to remain in front of me, my hope is to finally compile them within the given pages. To put them forth where they may be seen, instead of stored in the darkness. I reached for my saving grace to no longer find it there. My broken tomb has broken my outlet and thrown my chances away. My negligence has cost me all of the options I once had. Broken inside and alone on the out.
I had a diary once. Now its nowhere to be found.
Two more pills and another day complete. A whirlwind of medications just to stay standing on my own two feet.
A force fed mixture with only one single purpose and goal,
Is my deadly cocktail that’s meant to commit encroachment upon my very soul.
Who am I, I don’t even quite know. Maybe just a shell of a human now with nothing left inside to bestow.
Unrecognizable from the inside or the out, there’s no questions left, qualms or any doubts.
The path of bottled help will keep you sane and subdued, but in the end it’s only the real you, you elude.
Alright ladies and gents, I want to try something new. If you have noticed, I try to find a picture to go with most of my postings. Now, what I would like, is for you to participate in what it is I write about. I would like you to find a picture (Please keep it appropriate) and send it to me. To go with the picture you send I would like it if you could request either a poem, short story, or even a small excerpt to be written to match the picture.
I feel like I have been losing some inspiration lately and what better way to get back into things then to listen to those around you. Please participate. I will be very grateful for the help and interest and will also respond to everything that is sent. Thank you so much guys! I look forward to seeing what pictures come my way.
Email me at: firstname.lastname@example.org
or fill out the below form and add a link to the picture you find
Her eyes were usually a smokey bluish gray but now with tears forming I could see them change to a glassy ice blue in an unusual way.
They gleamed in the light and shined with pain and as they stared at mine I could see through them into her eternal thundering rain.
Her moans were getting louder and my ears were catching it all; every single sound pierced my heart like an urgent siren’s call.
I wanted to help her but I had done all I knew that I could, if only that small bit of sentiment was enough to comfort her as I wish that it would.
So I lay her head on my chest and held her body tight, knowing the only thing I could do was to stay with her through her fight.
Hopefully my presence alone would be enough to dry her tears, so those icy blue eyes could turn back to their normally colored, grayish spheres.
It feels like months and yet it’s only been a week. I haven’t felt like writing a single thing nor have I even felt like messing with any social networking on behalf of my writing either. Does my lack of motivation make me any less of an author? Does it show signs that maybe a writers life is not one that’s meant for me? Am I meant to be doing something else just because I’m not chomping at the bit with every spare moment I have to scribe words into existence?
I don’t know the true answer to those questions but the answers that I feel within me say yes to all of them. I feel as if I am a mere shadow in the writing world when all else is corporeal. I’m no one and nothing in the scheme of things because I can’t produce what I feel is being looked for. When every day turns to night it yells to me even more. It makes me realize where I don’t belong because I’m constantly fading away. It seems so simple…
When a shadow is in the darkness it becomes non existent while all else shall remain.
I’m a shadow.
A heart as dark as onyx was thought to be abandoned to the pits of hell and lost forever. There were rumors however, that it could be found. Even if it were though, it would be so undesirable that it could never be repaired. It would never again pump the flowing red blood that it was made for. It would never pulsate within ones chest. It was blackened for eternity and it would never feel again. It was a rumor started of uncertainty. A myth to scare those from the chances of darkening their hearts to each other. The fear of never again to be allowed to feel had made them distant from one another instead of the closeness that they had once desired. No one dared to cross another in hopes to keep their hearts pure. Those who thought they were pure though would never understand that the purest of hearts were the ones that had once been a victim of the darkness. No one knew that the onyx hearts could be saved for the myth spoke their truth. A blackened heart turned pure red once again though, was the sign of purity. It was the real sign of hope and love. Coming back from the pits of hell took strength and courage. It took the love that they all sought. Instead of ever knowing this, the majority remained aloof in their world of distance. Instead of risking the dark to have happiness and love, they lived in the shadows of uncertainty and mediocrity. There were very few that risked for love and only they had discovered the truth in living.
My strings have been let lose instead of straight and taught. I’m hunched over with my face to the ground. Without the one who pulls my strings my body is destined to stay a pile of broken and useless pieces. I am incapable of maneuvering on my own but the one that controlled so much of me has given up. I’m alone and now must find a way to straighten my strings once again or find the strength to cut them completely. I am useless without a master and yet I still will hold the hope to survive.
‘He was right. I was broken. There was no denying that fact any longer. I couldn’t even hide it if I tried. The only problem was… I wasn’t just broken any longer. I was shattered.
There wasn’t a glue in the world that would be strong enough to keep the pieces bound together. And even if there was, pieces were already missing. ‘
My mind slowly breaks as the noise within becomes louder. The walls become weaker as they are penetrated from the inside out. An explosion is expected momentarily from the pressure building up. Louder and louder and then a small faint cracking sound finds it way through. Slowly the loudness seeps out around me becoming an echo in the wind. A continuous stream of echoes make their way forth as the once small crack becomes a huge hole and the noise that was once apart of my mind is now apart of the world.
What happens when they leave. When your heart is hurt and your smile is broke. What happens when you are alone and lost with no one who understands. What happens when there is nothing left? When existence itself is no longer in sight. What happens to the pain that never leaves? It festers and then it eats away at everything that is you, from the inside out. It destroys. Any piece that may have remained intact will now be disintegrated into ashes. All of it, eventually, will be nothing. You will be nothing. Absolute blackness will eventually engulf everything there is to you when you allow it. It thrives where it is least wanted. This is what happens when you lose a part of yourself, you lose it all. No amount of trying will bring them back so going with them is your only option. Slowly, painfully.Desperately.
My day was spent at an art museum and then a baseball game. I didn’t get any writing done today but it was still enjoyable nonetheless. There’s always tomorrow :).
My heart aches to think of you. It cries forth with pain. As the tears stream down my face my hearts blood does the same.
Drip by drip the pool expands. higher and higher with haste. it overflows as it grows over the max, blood haphazardly displaced
Drowning. Drowning. No will to tread the seas. Sinking to the unknown depths with sheer determination and ease.
Lost. Forgotten. Pain bubbling and searing. Blood congealing, no healing causing any humanity left to start disappearing.
Now being encased in coagulated remnants of my heart just proves my innards were always meant to fall apart.
Aching. Crying. Falling. It’s all over now. Options that a lost humanity chooses to disallow…
*I always liked this one but I never did really give it a proper finish.*
And as the night was nearly over and the world had turned its head, it was finally time to lay in my already made bed. It was made with pain and heartbreak and a side of fear, for it held my every single dropped tear. It held my dreams of the future, my present, and my past, every single little thing from the first to the last. Now as I lay here, it holds my last breathe tonight, for there is no longer anything that’s worth the effort to fight. My eyes will slowly close and dreams will ensue and finally every single one will finally come true.
I would love nothing more than to be able to say that the tears that stained my shirt were justified, but they weren’t. Not even close. There was no fathomable reason for a single drop to be shed. And yet they just kept falling. The sadness I felt had no roots to even plant and yet some how it still managed to flourish. It overtook my ability to resonate with any current situation and instead found the power to drown me in its growing and disturbed beauty. One tear created a million and though there was no initial cause, in the end there will be a reason for all that had fallen. In the end, everything will be clear once again.
I had to swallow my pride to speak the truth. There was only one revelation and it would be the end of my self preservation. Realization that i alone would never be enough to make my world remain afloat as it sat in the depths of the darkest pits in the furthest galaxy. I needed your strength to become the gravity that keeps me grounded. I needed your smile to become the brightest stars on my darkest nights. Your arms to provide warmth when my seasons need a change. Your tears of joy and sadness to become my rain when my own is merely not enough to sustain life. I even need your anger, pain, and determination to feul the storms that my world so desperately needs to continue its natural cycle. Recognition that my world is nothing without you is the only way I could survive. Your love alone is what Is needed to keep revolving and pride is just a minor causality compared to the lose there would be otherwise.
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
By far one of my more favorable quotes that once came from Hemingway’s brilliant mind. It’s a daunting truth really. Writing is simple. It’s pure passion. It comes from within. What makes that a hard pill to swallow is when people shy away from what you write. When they think your blood staind on the paper isn’t enough. When, to them, there is too much blood to see a message, not enough blood to seep through or just having a non compatable type. To bleed with no acknowladgement is how a writer dies. Once it flows there is no stopping and soon there will be nothing left but a hollow shell unless there is someone willing to donate their own blood to the cause. I believe that most writers are victims in need of transfusions. Passion for passion. Those who crave to read and those who bleed to write. One does not simply exist without the other which in turn makes writing far more than nothing. It makes it challenging and frightening. It seems like no work at all to slice a vein and let it bleed, and in reality, it’s not, but when no one knows how to make it stop, or give you more… Death will be emanant. Writing is tretourous and it’s a hard thing to handle.
There is no love in my heart. It’s as cold as ice and as hard as stone. There is no light left upon my soul. It is as dark as the night and as empty as the shell of the body that surrounds it. There is no life but a memorial. A spec of rememberance that still hides itself within. A shriveled piece of hope that refuses to be snuffed out by the icy darkness. It holds vigil daily and never gives up. It clings viciously to the outskirts of the horrid internal black hole. A lone memorial, fighting. So even though there would seem to be nothing, there is still everything.
A writer and his dreams are nothing to take lightly
It no longer mattered. There was no one there waiting for her to feel better. They had all left when she needed them most. She was too much for anyone to handle and now she could no longer even handle herself. It was only a matter of time before it had come to that really. It had already been some time since the tears were able to be contained within her body, for her soul had managed to form a hole that could not be patched. The inevitability of this situation was beyond predictable from the beginning. Now a reality, at least she could say that something finally went according to plan. Now the pain was finally snuffed out.
I have a serious love hate relationship with words. I have a tendency to live by my words alone because sometimes that’s all I have available. I put everything I have behind the words I speak and I always mean every one of them. So of course, id like to think the same for the words of others. That’s where I go wrong. Unfortunately, not everyone has the same relationship with words as I do. As much as I adore reading, and the creative writing aspect of words, I should have realized it was a poor mistake. It is far too easy for any one person to just put words together without them speaking of any truth. It is far too easy to lie with mere words with no one the wiser. I have been fooled too many times to even count because I have given clout to words from people that were undeserving. So even though I put everything behind the words I create, coming from others, they are just that. A creation. Maybe they are a creation of truth and sincerity but how will you ever really know? I guess that’s where faith and trust come in but ive lost all of mine. There are days though that I know something that is said is a blatant lie, but I still devour every word because everyone wants to hear those words that just secrete absolute beauty. The words that make you feel good about yourself. No one ever wants to believe they could be a fabrication because the moment you do, everything crumbles. Lets not forget all of the obvious hateful words. All the ones you wish were a fabrication of creativity but never turn out to be. Yea… words. They can become pure bliss but also such a pain in the ass when you cant figure out what’s worthy enough to be believed in. My secret… believe in nothing.
The whiskey felt as if it were seeping through my body and into my bloodstream. I may as well have hooked up an IV straight into my veins as strong as i was receiving the liquid. My head was quickly becoming incapacitated and i loved every single bit of it. My thoughts were no longer even my own and that aspect alone had me giddy with the notions of outlandish possibilities. My thoughts, They belonged to Mr. Jack. He controlled what started to spew from my mind and the words that were sprouting forth from my fingers. For I knew that once i woke in the morning i wouldn’t remember any of it. All i would have was my written work to remind me of what kind of drunken human being i was. Hopefully an amusing one because god knows i need to have some sort of talent. If it isn’t depth than i surely choose laughter as a second. Which was good since laughter was the only audible sound to be expelled from my numbed lips. The world in itself had just seemed to be filled with hilarity and absolute obnoxious, yet realistic, properties. Nothing would bring me down from my short lived internal high. If it tried, I wouldn’t let it anyway. I needed to disappear and let someone else take over the reins for a bit and if Jack chooses that responsibility than ill let him. At least there will be a part of me that will be in complete bliss. Complete happiness. Absolute utter irresponsibility at its best and I didnt give two flying fucks. Inebriation was all that mattered and all that could be depended on to be a constant. Relishing in my bad judgments has just made life more interesting as my eyes begin to flutter and then clamp shut for their final time. The only thought that gleams through my mind is “beauty”, as my mind disappears behind the liquid that was flowing through its passage. “Pure Beauty”.
You were self destructing, unwillingly falling prey to your minds deducting. It was reconstructing every bad memory it recalled. It made you appalled an allowed you to become enthralled with the idea of not existing. Despite my interjections you were insisting and constantly resisting to the point I felt useless and lost. You were beyond the idea of coexisting with your minds view that your life began to go askew. I wish I could make you see, this didnt have to be you, there were other options you could persue. Renew yourself and not erase. Take your pain and fear and let me replace it with my embrace. There is no reason for your self disgrace, it’s beyond misplaced. Lean on me and allow me to help you see, there are other options to set your soul free.
Sometimes talking to you makes me feel idiotic and down right neurotic My seriousness is never matched and instead disregarded. There’s a solution for that and it’s to officially have my feelings discarded so that I’m no longer bombarded by the pain that’s pumped through my body like a narcotic. my heart is now permanently safeguarded and has lost it’s ability to be quixotic, it’s comatose and will only awake with a healthy dose of its antibiotic. Thats symbolic for your heeding. I’m so tired but please, one last time, I need you to stop my bleeding. No more disregarding, I’m pleading….
My eyes can see and yet they are blind
I have ideas and yet I know I’ve lost my mind
My heart it feels even though it’s been bled
I hear sounds even though my drums are dead
You have no idea how my mind works.
Behind every corner something else lurks. It’s dark and dreary and it’s blind to the world. Ideas floating around in it’s own little dreamworld, being twirled in a colossal tornado. whipping through with no place to go though. I don’t know. Either do you. My minds an enigma times two, so fuck you. Stop trying to get me. You won’t. If you keep trying there’ll be things you’d wish to unsee, so please, just save face, just back off and leave me be.
I’ve got these thoughts swimming in my head. To be alive or to be dead were the ones that were mostly said and force fed to my soul. With those thoughts, my soul turned black and permanently formed a hole that began to take toll on any light that was left. With the overwhelming darkness, the answer had become clear and without fear i shut down my body with only silence left to hear.
Though around me there was white
All I saw ahead was a red just as bright
And though my skin had been frost bit
The pain I felt was from the fires that were lit
Instead of the fluffy white snow that was here
I found myself standing alone in a blizzard of fear
The flakes became my scattered thoughts
Surrounding me no matter how I fought.
The realization had finally occurred
The scene in front began to blur
For it was hell that I was truly in
Paying for all my past and future sins
My mind tried to create a sweet escape
Alas though, it just came too late
The walls had crumbled as the flames reigned high
Scorching my body with every little lie
Gone are my beautiful snowy dreams
Permanently ripped from my mind at the seams
A helpless, fearful soul, wandering alone
With silenced words and force fed moans
The devil, my friend, began smiling with grace
As he watched my own smile being burned from my face
His laughter arose through the depths of hell
As each and every part of me turned to ash and fell
What was inside, now no longer lives
For dust in the wind is all I have left to give
Reduced to nothing by my friend
Kept here for his amusement until the end
“You finally killed me”
“I killed you? Really? You’re standing in front of me looking pretty alive to my eyes”
“You would say that. Just because someone is physically in front of you doesn’t mean their soul is present.”
“So the fact that you are a soulless bitch is my fault how?”
“Dammit Jake, you just don’t get it. You never did.”
“Then why put up with something that bothers you so?”
He was right on so many levels. Why do I continue to fight over the little things that bother me? Why not just walk away so those things are no longer there? The answer to that is why I’m still here. Some days I feel dead inside but the answer has always been enough to hold onto hope that the dead could once again rise.
“Because I love you. I fucking love you. Despite every little thing that you have done or not done, to hurt my heart, it still loves you. I still fight because you say you reciprocate that love. Maybe this makes me the idiot here but I believe if that’s true, than you would want to fix the parts that are harming me. I hold onto hope that you would want to help mend the pieces you’ve had a hand in destroying.” A tear rolled down my cheek even though I tried to reel it back in. My emotions were an uncontrollable wreck. “I can ask you to change but it’s useless unless you actually want to. You should want to though. You should want us to be happy.”
“I do want us to be happy. I want you to be happy because I do love you. Leah baby… We aren’t happy. Love does not create happiness. We’ve had our problems. The same ones repeatedly. I’ve tried to change. I’ve tried to give you everything you’ve wanted but I can’t make it last. I am but one person and I can only do so much. You have always been the center of my universe but baby, you aren’t the entire thing. If you could be, I’d make it so, but the universe is filled with other obstacles. Our obstacles are different from each other so it’s hard to imagine what we both go through separately but I know it’s not the same.”
Jake was trying to hold back his own tears as he reached for the side of my face. “If we both cannot change at the same time, for each other, than maybe our love shouldn’t be the only answer.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that we aren’t happy. You are never satisfied with what I can offer you even though I’m trying my hardest. You deserve to be happy and if that means cutting me out of your life for someone else that has the ability to give you what I can’t then that’s what should happen.”
“So you’re done fighting?”
“That’s the thing Leah, we shouldn’t have to. Not like this. I don’t want to let you go but what we’ve been doing lately is just going in circles. Accomplishing nothing but hurting each other.”
“You know that I would rather continue to hurt daily than to lose you. ”
“I know you would. That’s why we are still here like this. That’s not healthy. Like you said, it’s killed you. I want you to live, I want to bring you back. I just don’t think I can. You’re putting too much into me and nothing into yourself.”
“I want it to be you,” Leah breathed.
“Wanting and needing are so very different things. I want it to be me too, but maybe it shouldn’t be.”
I collapsed to the ground in defeat. I didn’t know what to do anymore. He was right. He’s always been right. We both had our issues but I always expected him to change without changing myself. I expected him to be my only savior and relied on him to stay breathing. What I should have been doing was saving myself. Putting time and energy in other things that mattered like he would do. I made jake my everything, my entire universe instead of just the center. Whenever he left me for his obstacles, I was left with nothing. My nothing was what has killed me. Not him.
“You’re right Jake, it shouldn’t.” I sighed loudly and looked up into his eyes. “I hate that it takes arguments like this one for me to see what’s really going on around me. It’s not just you. Most of it is me. I’ve been living for you and only you and have been expecting you to do the same. It’s the wrong thing to be doing on my part. I’ve been too afraid of losing you that I’ve been holding on too tight. I’ve always been and all or nothing type of person. It seems that has done nothing but isolate me. I don’t want us to go our separate ways. I want to fix this. Fix me. The thing is, I don’t want you to feel like you have to take responsibility for it all.”
“Okay… What do you want?”
“I want your help. I want to do it together. I need to be able to see outside of you. I don’t want the only way to be able to do that is for you not to be there though. So I want your help if you are willing to keep fighting with me. I’m not willing to let you go so I hope you are willing to stay.”
“What keeps this from happening all over again? From us falling right back into the same routines of not giving each other enough or giving each other too much?” He asked.
“Nothing does I guess. There is no such thing as a guarantee in a relationship. Things happen. Emotions get in the way. The difference is that we are both aware of the issue. If we both try to be patient with one another and open to our mistakes and learning curves then maybe it will make things easier. Make us happier to know that we are trying for each other. I never want to stop trying.”
“Okay. We try. We fight. I will do what I can to continue to help you and us. You really need to cut me some slack though.”
“I know. I’m so sorry for all of this. You’ve been my whole universe instead of my stabilized center. I’ve ignored everything else when I shouldn’t have. Help me change that. Make me see that I won’t lose you by letting other things in and accepting that you already do.”
“Baby I’ll do my best but most of it will be a fight you need have within yourself. I’ll be here though. You aren’t losing me. No matter what obstacles occur, the fact that you are my center will never change.”
He reached down for my hand and pulled me up to his chest. In his arms once again, I knew that this was right. I would fight a million times over to continue to feel this, right here, for the rest of my life. Even if it meant fighting an internal battle daily. I at least knew I wouldn’t be alone and all I had to do was remember that.