It feels like there’s oceans
Between me and you, once again
We hide our emotions
Under the surface, and try to pretend

– Seafret, Oceans

I did a stupid thing today.  I looked her up on Facebook.  I guess in the wake of the whole “fighting for what’s worth fighting for” thing and trying to cut out my habit of cutting people out, I thought maybe I should try and reconnect with her.  I mean it’s not like I haven’t been thinking about it every day since I first cut her out, because I have.  But it’s only now that I’m starting to give it serious thought.

I don’t know what I was expecting.  Maybe some sign that my amputation had had some effect on her, some sign that she missed me too.  Maybe I was hoping for a reason not to contact her, an excuse for letting things be.  Maybe I just wanted to see her face again.

She looked… normal.  Happy.  I didn’t stay too long, mostly because it felt kinda stalker-ey, and I was uncomfortable with the whole thing.  But she looked good.  It was like nothing had changed.

Seeing her photos, reading what she’d been up to, made me realise something.  It made me realise that she is a person who exists outside of my mind, outside of my ideals.  She has her own thoughts and aspirations, hopes and fears, loves and hates.  Her life went on even after our friendship ended.  Both our lives went on.  And I think it’s time I started acting like it.

She’s not perfect.  No one is, really.  And she doesn’t exist to serve my romantic notions of true love, to conform to my ideals or the outline of her I’ve drawn up in my head.  The person I’ve fallen in love with only half exists.  I don’t even know the other half.  I filled in the gaps with things I hoped to find, with pieces of personality that would only ease my steady decline into head over heels in love.

Maybe I needed to see her one last time.  To remind myself of the person behind the image in my head.  To remind myself that she was only human.  To bring me back down to earth.

For a long time now I’ve put my happiness in the hands of others, and then blamed them when things didn’t pan out.  I stranded myself out at sea and then put it on her to bring me back.  I made her out to be this perfect person, someone who would come along and squeeze all of my broken pieces back together again, and in doing so completely shirked off any responsibility for my own happiness.

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully get over her, and I don’t know that I won’t just fall for someone new and make the same mistakes all over again.  But I feel like something’s changed, like something inside me is different.

At least I hope so.

“I want you, and I always will
I wish I was worth
But I know you deserve
You know I’d rather drown
Than to go on without you
But you’re pulling me down”

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7 thoughts on “Oceans Apart

  1. “The person I’ve fallen in love with only half exists. I don’t even know the other half.” The other half is you. Our ideals for others are just an outward turned-spotlight version of what we consider the best in ourselves. That means the first half is also you. Sadness at her absence is your higher Self calling out for you to embrace what you loved in her within yourself. As incredibly arrogant as this will sound, once I finally realized that my romantic “ideal” was nothing other than me with different dirty bits, I declared to myself, “A-ha! I’m in love with ME!” and was then able to move onward with a much more casual and fun attitude towards romance that is also, paradoxically, less self-involved than the mindset with which I used to approach it.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I’ll meet you halfway: I agree with the idea that the parts we fill in are parts of ourselves, but I think (in my case at least) it’s more a matter of things we wish we were better at, or are lacking in. I don’t know; maybe with my self-esteem issues it’s hard for me to accept that there’s anything good about myself worth projecting onto anyone else, but that’s just my opinion. If I met the gender-opposite of myself I probably wouldn’t like her very much, because I’m not such a big fan of regular-gendered me in the first place. They say you need to learn to love yourself before you can love someone else, and maybe they’re right. Whoever “they” are.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. 4 years ago, I fell in love. The pain associated with it was unbearable, and at times paralyzing. She didn’t love me, never would, and that knowledge contributed to the pain I felt. The courage and strength I was forced to muster each morning when I awoke to face another day filled with pain from loving her, was exhausting. The tears were endless. Despite the hurt in my heart, and the constant battle to not crumble, I remained focused and committed to my quest for happiness and discovering who I was. I began to view my affliction as a gift because it made me realize my strength and feel that I was capable of getting through anything. It was, is, a love I have never known, and I am convinced that my last thought before leaving this earth, will no doubt be of her. But I had to let her go. I had to say goodbye. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. It has been 16 months since I last saw her, and 14 months since we last spoke. In those 16 months, my love for her has never wavered, but space has allowed me to rise high above the hurt and discover the best version of myself. And it has ended my tears. My heart stops beating when I see someone who looks like her, and I am always hoping for a glimpse of her beautiful face. Deep down, though, I know that I am ok and that I will continue to be ok without her. I am so thankful for the pain my love for her has brought to my life because it forced me to grow. I love her. I will always love her. But I am ok. I wanted to share this part of me with you because as I read your words, it was so eerily familiar to what I have felt. And I want you to know, that you are going to be ok. You are strong. In time you will reflect on the pain and appreciate it as I do now. It never goes away, but it will change you if you let it. And it sounds to me, like you already are.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Thank you for sharing this. I can’t begin to tell you how much this means to me. I struggle with how petty all of this sometimes sounds, but to hear that you’ve gone through -and continue to go through- something similar, and that you understand what it feels like, means the world. You’ve given me hope that things might get better, something that seems to be in short supply these days. Thank you.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. I am here to tell you, the way you feel is not petty. When people die, we as humans are built to find a way to cope with the loss and process the absence they leave behind. As painful as it is, most times we find a way to move forward, and we even begin to celebrate the life of the one we lost. We come together and laugh at the memories and give thanks for what that person brought to each of our lives. It hurts like hell, but we slowly heal. The pain I feel from loving her is as though I am in constant mourning, all alone, suffering from intolerable pain. I am thankful for her and appreciate what this experience has taught me, but it’s like a gaping wound that never fully heals. When it begins to heal one thought can rip it wide open and cause pain to flood over me. I long to see her, to hear her voice, and to know that she is here and I can’t is devastating. This comparison may sound dramatic, but I have dealt with my fair share of loss, and have had to say goodbye to many, and the pain is the same. Memories of her rip my heart out because I wish so desperately there was a way she could still be in my life. She is here, but she is gone. I hope that makes sense. Please know you are not alone, I get it. Embrace it and let it fuel you. Find your power. It’s there.

        Liked by 1 person

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