Was it your lips?
Was it the sex?
That’s left the aftermath of you
Still pounding in my chest

This song I wrote for you
This song’s what got me through
This song’s the only weapon left
To get me over you
Lesson learned
Love ain’t fair
Even burned the bed we shared
This song’s in memory
In memory of when I cared

Our tears of joy
Raged like a flood
We made a vow we would stay together
Blood on blood

But I’m still here
Just like a ghost
Feeling your skin against my skin
That’s what’s killing me most

What i'm listening to:

In Memory (Of When I Cared)
The Bacon Brothers
Erato

I am broken. Lost. Heartless. Soulless.

Mindless? Maybe. Maybe that’s next.

The best way to describe what I’m going through is an operating system crash. Too much information. Unable to process it. To reconcile.

Kate. Oh, Kate. What are you doing to me? What are you trying to show me?

Last week, Kate tells me that, as humans, our capacity for self-deception is our greatest curse. That things are not as we believe they are.

You see, for the last month, since Clarissa and I parted ways, Kate has been trying to convince me that it was never love. Clarissa never loved me—to Kate’s credit, this may be true. How will I know? And that I never loved Clarissa.

Because I have had so little love in my life, that this relationship wasn’t love at all.

Kate is investing a lot of energy in this. Why?

Am I a fool for refusing to believe this? Am I worshiping an idol of Clarissa? Lord...

Knowing and loving are never simple. We are creatures of delusion and we are tempted by idolatry. Knowing and loving demand choice and resolution. There is a detachment in every attachment, an emptying that precedes every filling, a death in every life.

And then, there was Amy, who took a turn roasting me last week as well. Amy insisted that I bring nothing to Clarissa’s life. Or the life of Clarissa’s little girl. Nothing.

I need male friends. Women are highly emotional, and I can see Amy projecting her needs, wants and desires onto Clarissa. Clarissa knows what she had, and what I brought to the table. That isn’t the reason for the split.

Or is it?

I cannot speak for Clarissa, yet I know I showed her genuine love. I saw through this woman’s façade, and she blossomed for me.

Yet, we’re told if something is too good to be true, it probably is. Plus, she was ashamed of me. I get it. A significant age gap is hard to sell to your peer group.

We tell ourselves stories all of the time. Why not tell myself she’s into me?

It certainly made for a better story.

She was. Into me. I know this woman better than anyone. And she knows me. Is this a delusion? Maybe I should ask her?

So, I’ve been bumbling through this transition, believing the relationship was real. To me, it was. Do I hope she finds a love that sees her like I did? Absolutely! Do I want to be around to witness it? Not a chance. In hell.

The love we shared on our last night together was real. I’ll die on this hill.

And I have yet to kiss another. Is that weird?

Then, they say everything happens for a reason. Another old axiom. So many use it as an excuse to escape accountability. Are our choices really ours? Perhaps not.

My sister recently celebrated a birthday—one year sober. Congratulations, Melissa. This is a tremendous accomplishment! And certainly not an easy one in the world we live in. As such, she invited me (and the family) to her baptism yesterday morning. I was thrilled to share this with her!

Some days, I wish I could find solace in scripture. Community in church. What happened to my operating system? All I see is indoctrination. Thinking instead of feeling. I was reminded why...

Yesterday’s sermon was around the first letter of Paul to the Corinthians. Chapter six. Verses twelve through twenty. I remembered it instantly. It ruined my life when I was young.

¹² “All things are lawful for me,” but not all things are helpful. “All things are lawful for me,” but I will not be enslaved by anything. ¹³ “Food is meant for the stomach and the stomach for food”—and God will destroy both one and the other. The body is not meant for immorality, but for the Lord, and the Lord for the body. ¹⁴ And God raised the Lord and will also raise us up by his power. ¹⁵ Do you not know that your bodies are members of Christ? Shall I therefore take the members of Christ and make them members of a prostitute? Never! ¹⁶ Do you not know that he who joins himself to a prostitute becomes one body with her? For, as it is written, “The two shall become one.” ¹⁷ But he who is united to the Lord becomes one spirit with him. ¹⁸ Shun immorality. Every other sin which a man commits is outside the body; but the immoral man sins against his own body. ¹⁹ Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God? You are not your own; ²⁰ you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body.

There I was. Standing in shame. Finding myself envious of the Greeks who enjoyed sex as part of worship. Imagining every curve—every inch, every pore—of Clarissa’s body. And feeling enormous, useless guilt for it. Recalling countless conversations with Clarissa. And with Kate. About shame and sexuality and no answers.

We ARE animals. We have these urges and impulses for a reason. We are horny—often! What are we to do?

Think our way out of it?

No wonder everyone I know is mad!

Unhandled exception, indeed.

So, here I sit. Unable to do anything. I can’t eat. I can’t concentrate. I can’t read. Trying to “reason.” Trying to “feel.”

Was it an illusion?

Did I waste her time? Did I waste my own? How do I find love without knowing love? How do I gain experience without experience? How do I start again with someone new when I am still so deep with the last one?

How do I process this? Do I process this?

“You don’t want to be my friend?” she cried.

“Babe, we’ve never been friends,” I replied. I could feel my own tears welling up inside.

How did we get here?

Oh, I can identify some missteps along the way. None of them matter, because here we are. She doesn’t have to buy what I’m selling. And I don’t have to settle for less than I desire.

“Don’t look at it as the end of the book,” the social media warriors chant. “Look at it as an exciting new chapter!”

Fuck that, frankly. I don’t want to keep reading this book. It fucking sucks.

Not to spoil Mockingjay, but there was a point, midway, where I threw the book against the wall and didn’t look at it again for a month. Anyone who’s read it knows why.

That’s how this feels.

I can’t believe I walked away from the most important person in my life. Yet, she can’t give me the love I crave from her.

“Right person. Wrong time.”

That old chestnut is all over the social media as well. Hell, we even mentioned it last night.

Fuck. I know she loves me. I know she needs to focus on herself. I know she’d like me by her side while she does it.

Yet, I can’t. Not anymore. What a waste of time. Resources. To be downgraded to “friends.”

I chose myself. I’m not a social being. I don’t need a friend that I will always be in love with. How fucking heartbreaking is that?

Now, we’ll find out if I can find, within myself, a reason to live beyond her.

Are we the soulmates we claim to be? Will we find each other again? I suppose we will see, but I’m no longer counting on it.

Damn, I just don’t want to be here anymore. Hearing her cry last night, knowing there’s nothing more to do at this moment in time. She didn’t see this coming.

Her sobs caught the attention of her mother, so she left the call before we were finished. Maybe nothing else needs to be said. Maybe...

Afterward, insomnia paid me a visit. I knew this would tear me up. Maybe that’s why I entertained the notion of “friends.” Maybe that’s why we both let this drag on for so long. Better to keep each other close. Because we do love each other.

One of us just isn’t “in love” any longer. Which sucks.

She can’t have me if she doesn’t want me.

And I’m not being honest with myself if I accept friendship. Not when I yearn for the excitement we had last summer.

I wasn’t looking for you to reenter my life. Now, I don’t know what I’ll do as you exit it. I am grateful to share bits of our lives with each other. You know me better than anyone else.

Including that I am weak where you’re concerned. Which is why we can’t do this. Not without going for it.

Fuck the next chapter. I don’t want to read anymore. I just want to taste you again.

What i'm listening to:

No More “I Love You’s”
Annie Lennox
Medusa

I don’t want to talk to you anymore either. Bye.

It doesn’t take much. A glimpse. A word. A titty.

The smallest distraction, and it’s gone. Whatever I was thinking about. Whatever I wanted to get down on paper. Gone. Poof. Not even a puff of smoke.

Writing is hard these days. I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t know why she’s here. This poor, tortured soul whom I’ve gotten to know. She has beauty. Inside and out. Dancing with so much ugliness.

The beauty? Innate. The ugliness? That was given to her. A gift.

A profound, disappointing gift. Yet she accepted it.

We’re taught, it’s impolite to refuse a gift. So we accept... everything. Even if it harms us.

Can two lost souls ever find happiness? Probably not.

Yesterday, there was so much hate in her eyes. She’s angry at life. The world. And yesterday, she took it out on me. It wasn’t the first time. And it won’t be the last.

She knows I see her. That I’m the only one in her world who does. I reminded her of that. Not to take out her frustration on me.

Not five minutes later, the apology. She knows. She really is a storm of emotions. Of conflicting desires.

Aren’t they all, though?

Simply a storm. Or maybe the sea to my shore.

My own will to live is inside this woman. Deep, deep inside. Each time, I can only hope to plug in deeper... yet I still cannot reach that which eludes me. Thrusting with the essence of my very soul, striving to penetrate her spark.

What i'm listening to:

Stormy
Classics IV
Mamas and Papas/Soul Train

What do people do?

Is this where the bad decisions come from? Idle hands and all that?

Here, I find myself with a day off. And nothing to do. At least there is nothing I have to do. Today.

I can stay in bed. All day. Glorious, no?

Except, that is what I do. All day. Nothing.

Clarissa calls me. “What are you going to do today?”

I have no answer. Other than, “I can come over.”

“That’s not what I want,” is her reply.

Here, I lie in bed. With nothing to do.

Yet, people do things. Have I always been like this? Just sitting in neutral with no tasks at hand?

I joke. “My hobby is sleeping,” I say. It’s not wrong though. It’s no joke. Some days, I don’t leave the apartment. Or the cottage. Or the house.

At times, I adventure. No city is too far. Nor countryside. Nor attraction. Nor mountain, nor monument.

But why? For those Marriott beds? Perhaps. Because I will sleep on “vacation” too. Hmm.

No drive.

Yes, I will wander into the out. I will find something to eat. Likely a sandwich or a taco. Preferably a taco, but again she doesn’t want to see me. I will go get some things from the store. Fabric softener is at the top of the list.

I need a haircut. The bedding needs washed. Or warshed, depending on your dialect. I used to exercise—walks, lifting at the gym, runs. Hell, I used to eat far more protein than I currently do. My back hurts, so a trip to the chiropractor definitely won’t hurt. I have more books to read than I can finish before I die. I’m tragically pale—and unhappy—so a few minutes under the happy lights is an option as well. I used to write. More. A lot more.

And there’s plenty of time in the day to do it. But there’s television. And doom scrolling. Clarissa will call again and we’ll talk—probably for hours. She is also doing nothing. Sitting in the dark. Thinking. About everything. About life.

When did we become so lost? So idle? Devil’s playthings, indeed.

Yet, I am so comfortable. Lying in this bed. Typing this out on a laptop. I can roll over and go back to sleep. And it will be glorious. Satisfying. I’m so relaxed.

What if comfort is an indication that I am less? The key indicator that I am NOT doing the right thing? What if it’s my drug. Not unlike her. This euphoric sensation of the next narcoleptic wave that will whisk me away to dreamland. Where adventure and sex and love and action await.

Seriously, what do people do? And what will I do today?

I don’t know how to not be Superman. Even though I’m not a… super man. I know she’s hurting, I can feel it. And as much as I wish I knew what to do, I really don’t. I don’t even know if being there for her is the right move.

Is she depleting me? If she is, I don’t feel it. I am never more at peace than in her presence—even during her moments of chaotic turmoil.

She doesn’t fully believe that she can escape… no, that’s not the right word… affect her life. Her lifestyle. All she has known is being sexualized. Which is a tragedy, because she is a beautiful woman. And confident… most of the time. But she only knows she doesn’t want life as it is right now.

And escape. Escape is tantalizing. Life is long and hard and mostly dull. So, this is what attracts us to new experiences… someone new may come along, and we like them, so we trust them immediately. A couple of drinks later, we’re opening up to them. Next thing you know, we’re friends. Maybe a little bit more.

We all have demons—some we control, some we ignore, yet all are dangerous—but we try to put on our best mask. We smile. And, Lord, the drink helps here. Because, it is so much easier than full honesty.

Ask how I know.

In seven years, we both harbor secrets. Yes, honesty is important. Yet I don’t want or need to know everything she has (or wants) to share. Or not. All I can do is be here for her to listen. To help her through this struggle. Maybe more, but we’re starting here.

Does she want me to share more? Possibly, yet I have no way of knowing.

Over the last several days, she has shown me that I matter. Yet she is so slow to trust. Maybe it’s because we’re taught that anyone who is too good to be true must be. I’m not the ideal candidate, yet we share a genuine affection for each other. Even if we don’t exactly know what to do about it.

No, I’m not Superman. I cannot save her. I may not be able to save myself. But I cannot leave her to face her demons alone.

Right now, I’m more than her friend. Right now, I cannot be her lover. Right now, I can be her champion. I can listen when she wants to talk. I can take care of certain things with her and for her. I can show her how much she matters. To her daughter. To her family. To me. To herself? Maybe. Eventually. That may take some time.

It’s true. We can only heal through radical honesty. With others? Yes, but that falls flat when we’re not being radically honest with ourselves. That’s when the victim mentality sets in.

Are we sure we did nothing to let this happen? Sometimes we only have to open the door… and discover that a friend is not really a friend. Yet closing ourselves off is not the answer either.

She’s sleeping so peacefully right now, and I weep while I wish for her to hold onto this peace while awake. And at night. Nights are the hardest, I know, my love, and it’s terrifying when one of the demons follows you into the daylight. I know you want to understand why it happened. How anyone who professes love to you can betray you. Some answers are not ours to discover… only karma or the universe can sort it out.

Yet this is her dark night of the soul. I suppose I can accompany her, but ultimately this is her path to walk… alone. And all I can do is stay on my own path and offer support within my means. Will there be moments of tough love? Times when I’ll have to wait outside the dark cave while she does battle? I have no doubt.

I am learning a lot about love. What does it mean to be there for someone? When she’s sick? What if she loses the battle? What if the demons win?

And what about me? I am the way I am, because I never wanted to take care of anyone in my life… hell, let’s be honest. I never wanted to care for anyone else in my life. This. This is way this young woman blindsided me. Was there an initial attraction? Yes, but this was more. It’s like our souls touched. And entangled.

So, I couldn’t let go even if I wanted to. Herein lies yet another lesson. Because I have to hold on to myself. No matter what happens with this woman. I have glimpsed her life. Getting sucked in can ruin me. Pulling her out will require effort on her part… something she possesses today, but the past has a strong hold on us. Limiting beliefs. Indoctrination. That shit is buried deep in our psyche. And we trend lazy. Working on growing every single day is exhausting. If only we just grew… without thought. Like the plants. I wonder, do the plants feel pain? And what if growth didn’t have to hurt? Or healing?

So much of our past is comfortable. And there have been great times with people who ultimately betrayed us. And it sucks. I believe it is important to remember that each new day is a fresh start. That our sins can be forgiven. And that we can find peace.

Today marks an anniversary of sorts. Kind of.

On this day, nineteen years ago, I was writing about the demise of a three-ish year relationship in the spring and my recovery. I recalled my girl, 26, had left me for an older man, 53.

And, out of curiosity, I had to sit and do the math. Because I didn’t note their ages. At the time, I was 33.

I’m reading this piece and marveling at how... offended... I was at this. Of course, I was the lover betrayed.

Then, I find this li’l nugget:

This morning, i had the horrible thought that she is setting me up to become her "ideal" , single, fifty-something who has to seduce twenty-somethings to get his rocks off... because at this moment, it feels like i will never find anyone like her.

Incredible.

Here we are. Today. I am fifty-two. My current girl is twenty-seven. I adore her and cannot imagine life without her and... “it feels like I will never find anyone like her.”

Interesting.

What i'm listening to:

Bad Dreams
Teddy Swims
Bad Dreams

I’ve got regrets... but I don’t regret a single day I spent with you.

Wait. I regret one. The one that changed the course of the entire relationship. The one you could never let go of. The one day/morning/moment I can never take back.

You wanted it to work. We both did.

I frustrated you. In that critical first moment. And I broke your heart. And our relationship...

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