yobech505

I over think too much.  Or I did. But I am so proud of myself, because I overlooked imperfections.  I went for the heart of a person, not their shape, appearance, or even the baggage they carried.  I managed to delve deeper, and saw that the beauty of an individual is not in the skin and bone, not in the hair, the face, the smile, not in the shapes and physical features, but inside the soul, the spirit.

I feel more mature that I did before.

It made things more alive, less inhibited; in the way I acted, responded, and enjoyed what was there.

It doesn’t remove the blinds from love.  But it does make the time when the love is there much better.

Of course she loved me and I don’t doubt that she firmly believed she was in love with me.  At least for a while she did. She wasn’t.  Infatuated, perhaps.  In love with the newness, the adventures that we had, the risks we took, the sex; more than likely. But not in love with me.  I’ve had too many experiences in my life, and have learned so much about love, dealt with way too much heartbreak and have been in similar situations enough times to know.

She didn’t have the capacity for it and wasn’t emotionally prepared, at least not at that time and not for me.  I was a kick she needed.  Re-enforcement.  A bad previous relationship (or two) and here I come.  Self assured and self assuring, willing to upload the things she needed to hear, wanted to hear, putting her on a pedestal that she may not have been on before. She absorbed it, took it in.  It was an ego boost, a morale builder, a shot of self confidence that she had lost, or, perhaps, never had and desperately needed.  And I was likely the most mature relationship she’s ever been in. A stepping stone for her, a lesson she needed to learn?  Probably.  Glad to oblige.

The damnation of the whole thing was that I did fall in love with her.  Oops.  Bad idea?  Of course.  But I had no control.  Do we ever?   I know some who, when the feeling starts to truly creep in, they run like hell.  I’ve never been able to do that.  I love being in love.  Always have. I’m a junkie for it.  So I tend to jump in, unabashed and without much hesitation. (or foresight for that matter)  Good way to hurt myself.  And damned if I don’t.

So, once again, I have to go through the withdrawal pains of losing a relationship.  The chemical defenses jumped into action immediately.  The amygdala and hippocampus, the emotional aspects of the brain, have kicked in.  My psychobiological centers, ever changing, have gone into protective mode,   Unfortunately, they open the door to anxiety, sleeplessness and weakened biological defenses when they do.  Hopefully, my natural opiates, endorphins, will refresh themselves quickly.

She’s gone.  Stepped out of my life a lot more easily than she stepped into it. So I have to fold the pages of  what was another damn good chapter of my auto biography.  And I’m closing the cover myself, putting it on the shelf of my used book store and forgetting about it until it collects so much dust that the pages fade to yellow and crumble.

The memories won’t go away.  I have two others that are similar, that bring a recall, of being in love, to the forefront.  But the chapters my mind wrote don’t get opened any more.  To protect my psyche, I repress them, stay away from the archives and the reminders. So I add her name to the list that will linger for my lifetime. Only two others there, but now they have company.

Page 3 preview. I remember a book I read years ago called Love Story.  A line in it, “…love means never having to say you’re sorry…”  I disagree.  Love means finding it easy, necessary and even desirous to say ‘I’m sorry.’  It also means we’re willing to accept when others say it, without condition and without expectation.