So, I woke up today thirsty for The Beatles.
I mean, playing entire albums end to end.
That was his favorite band. Not just passively, but to the point of identity. Beatles Kid. The hot, wild, loud one obsessed with Paul McCartney. Blackbird is how I knew he was awake. The first time he ever tasted me, I could hear She’s So Heavy through the layers of pillows and wine. He’d idly tap out the decrescendo from Come Together on the edge of my desk waiting for me to finish up work. It was what he sang while we walked home at night, shaking sand out of his hair. They were his blood, he was mine and at some point I came to associate sparse drums and slighly nasal tenors with the sound of life itself.
When the songs came on for the first year, I would lose it. Especially in public. Crying in the frozen food aisle, the elevator, into deli sandwiches at random kiosks. Openly and with no damns given. It’s really more of a testament to how prolifically embedded the Beatles are in the global fabric. I remember weeping in a foreign taxi somewhere once during Year 2. Mostly out of shock.
Somewhere last year I realized that I’d successfully hummed along to In my Life without my heart falling out. Accomplishment. It pissed me off for the longest that something so pervasive could be tied up as the watermark of something so personally sad. Not just a song, the entire fucking catalog of the biggest band on earth. Sometimes, I would scream. Loud. At nothing in particular while plugging my ears in public spaces, “WHY COULDN’T IT HAVE BEEN BUCKLEY”.
A few seconds before I my opened eyes in bed today, I woke up craving that sound. The simple chords. The warm reverb. John’s harmony lines. It was three albums deep before I realized: Today, exactly today, is the anniversary of when we ended. This is the night I came home to find him high and had to figure out what lie to tell his probation officer. When I threatened his dealer. And it was the night I realized he didn’t love me or him and that if I didn’t leave, one of us was going to end up dead. This is the first year I haven’t spent at least a week in advance dreading July 12th, yet something in my soul still knew it was George and Ringo season. The subconscious mind is a funny beast, no?
I don’t think I’m sad. Lots of work. Fulfilling work. I am fat and making career progress and smiling often. I realized the other day that for the first time in a long time I’m something close to existentially happy. Like, past circumstance. Happy in the soul. It’s been quite some time since that’s happened. So, those things are there and I’m grateful.
What I’m also keenly aware of is that I’ve not had another boyfriend since. I’ve fucked. I’ve admired. I’ve dated. Thirsted mightily over two different very handsome and very emotionally unavailable men who were at least nice to me about it over long periods of time. The “Oh, I work and travel too much for anything real” alibi has been faithful to me and I go to bed at night pissed or horny or aching more often than I do not…but, I can at least verbalize these issues enough to speak to a therapist and I’m making enough to pay one. All significant upgrades from where I started.
While I’ve not felt anything for any one even close, with the 20’s winding their way to a close, I’m beginning to understand that not falling in allcomsumingfirepassion may not be a bad thing.
I still think of it. Not with desperation or even really anger anymore. I’ve accepted that this markedly dark, shit-smear moment was a major part of the evolution. It forced me into a place of compassion, evaluative growth and marks where I had to grow up. Had to. I’ve accepted that I’ll never stop remembering. I’ve spent enough time in enough offices to understand that the severity of my breakdown had little do with him and more to do with activation of my primary childhood wound. I have laughed repeatedly at the phrase primary childhood wound. I know that I loved what I thought we were and that wanting may also not be a terribly bad thing.
Don’t really have a closing wrapup point. I’m still here. It still aches sometimes. Hard. The tambourine in the background of those records will always be here. And I’m trying. I am still alone. And it’s cool that I could love that hard. And it sucks that it fell through. It will always be his music. And this whole thing will probably never go away for me. And I’m almost settling into okay with all of the above being real. Almost.
Today. Year three.
i suggest we.
learn to love ourselves
before it’s made illegal.
YOU CAN NOT BALL IN A SUBARU!
why cant i stop it. why is your name on my chest. why dont you let me in. why cant i push you out. why do you stain me. why havent i made a dent. how do you just listen to me telling you i love you and sit there so plain. how is it that i always end up with a puddle of my heart stinking at your feet. WHY DONT YOU GO AWAY. fuck. why are there ties to you in everything inside me. why do you keep walking back over here. why do i keep opening the door. why dont you love me back. why dont i take back mine. why are you everything. why isnt it the same. why do you tease me. why do i take it. why dont you mean it. why do you keep saying it. why am i such a fucking fool. why does it feel so so delicious good.
i am a wild one,
tame me now.
runnin with wolves
and im on the prowl.