Three Objects

I was looking through the big green box today--yet another failed attempt at creating organization in my life. Somewhere near the middle of the box was a letter dated July 25, 2009. It's not even two years old yet, but there are a few small holes in the middle of the page where the paper had been folded over, and the edges have already begun to feel soft, like tissue paper.

I read letters like this now and don't understand why they make me want to cry so much. But I don't know if all that I am feeling is sadness. Nostalgia may not be quite right in this situation, but it comes fairly close to representing my feelings on the matter. But the words feel like lies now, and it's almost as if they are mocking me.

This isn't reality. This isn't my life anymore. In reading this, I am reminded of once being able to be something for and with someone, regardless of who that person is, in addition to specific memories triggered by the text. I feel like that specific kind of someone or something or whatever I was capable of being has been beaten out of me. And I don't think any one person is to blame for that. And I'm not entirely sure that there will ever be a way for me to get back to that. But things have been happening lately. In general, they are good things, but I am scared because I know there are a lot of conflicts that could arise. I know I'm not making sense, so I should probably back this up. I'm experiencing my first real crush since breaking up with my ex a little less than a year ago, and that alone has caused me to start feeling happy again--like I'm moving forward in my life. But that's about as far as it'll ever go, and that makes me really sad. I read this letter and get images of myself as being that person again. I can see myself being that comfortable with another person and can feel it happening. And that is both exciting and terrifying.

"I think about what could happen eventually, but I don't worry about What Comes Next. It is so easy to take things as they come with you, and so easy to believe that things will unfold as they should. I don't know what that means either, but it's so comfortable I can't imagine any reason for changing it."

I suppose that still makes sense. I do believe that things happen as they should, but I have a funny way of interpreting the meaning of that word. What does happen is what should have happened: It doesn't make sense to say that something should have happened when it didn't. Because what should have happened, happened.

Comfortable. It's a word I've been thinking a lot about lately. I miss having that as a constant in my life. I have managed to find a few people who just automatically make me feel safe and comfortable. And everything starts to be okay when they are around, even just sitting there in silence. I have met fewer than ten people in my life who have had this effect on me. But even fewer people have ever been the kind of person who is allowed to touch me when my mind has created a very clear barrier to block out the rest of the world. And this is something that is beyond my control. I don't know how it is decided that those three or four people can be allowed in when no one else can even speak to me without my getting more worked up. Their presence relieves tension I don't have access to. The connection is so strong that I can feel it even without touch, and it makes me feel so...happy.

But those kinds of connections can be broken. And letting people in, allowing them to be that for you and experience this with you, means exposing yourself to the pain that may result from a future parting of ways. Those are the most agonizing breakups. Those are the breakups that destroy pieces of your soul--the pieces so intensely connected to pieces of another that the split causes them to shatter. And it takes a long time for the soul to heal from something like that, and it can never be the same when it finally does.

I've been waiting for myself to heal this whole time, somehow believing that I could eventually get certain parts of myself back to the Dylan I was this time last year. I've slowly come to realize that this will never happen. Things are just different now. I am different, and I can never be that person again. I can't make anyone love the old me because that person doesn't exist anymore, and I can no longer shut out the rest of the world while I wait in vain for him to return. What you see now is what you get. I'm starting to expose more of myself to the people I value in my life and devote less time to the people who cause me unnecessary pain and stress. And I'm starting to feel happy and focused again, and I have a suspicion that a few people are actually on to this.

I have another letter here. It's very different, written instead in the summer of 2010. It is not handwritten but typed and considerably longer. I don't know what to think of it yet. I have to try very hard not to insert recent memories into the computations going on in my brain. This processing is definitely going to take a little longer.

Then I found a little green notebook, and when I opened it, it took me back to last July at Harris Grill. I have no idea why these three items were so close to one another and so easy to connect. I don't really know if I feel like thinking about it anymore right now. That's good. What's the past is the past, and while I recognize its importance, it's definitely becoming clear that it's over. I'm not feeling the same things I used to when I read these things now, but I am glad I have them. These records exist so that I may evaluate my own progress. Even this current record will serve the same purpose someday. I think I just get sad when I legitimately forget what it feels like to hold and be held that way. I sometimes do forget what love actually feels like. And maybe that's my brain's way of protecting itself.

I'm tired. Goodnight.