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Yesterday, I drove around for three hours in my city. I downloaded Lady A's new album in celebration of the CMA's and I felt Tennessee for the first time in forever. This time last year, I listened to them all the time with Thomas. I think it's interesting how they've put something new out in this "re-birth" of my life. It sounds like a re-birth.
I love "Cold as Stone". It's so fitting. That's how I feel. I always feel so tender-hearted. Everything hurts.


"Wish I was cold as stone-
Then I wouldn't feel a thing.
Wish I didn't have this heart,
Then I wouldn't know the sting of the rain.
I could stand strong and still-
Watching you walk away.
I wouldn't hurt like this,
Or feel so all alone...
I wish I was cold as stone."


I dropped by the Barns and Noble at Vandy. I was sad the second I walked in. Thomas always hated Borders, but the truth is...I hate the new store. It's cold. There's an entire corner sectioned off for E-books. That was the same corner Dickinson's work used to be in. Everything changes. It's almost as if, not only do I not get to finish my book, I'm having pages ripped out, God's redacting the story...everything is marked out and written over...perhaps his goal is to erase my memories too. It wouldn't be the worst thing. Sometimes I wish he would take that whole fragment of time out of my life so I wouldn't hurt.

The truth is, he gave me Nashville once...and when I got into that relationship, for awhile I helped Thomas love it. But he was never happy, and then I was never happy here. It wasn't his fault...but he was always preparing to leave. And I wanted to leave. I even considered going backwards and moving back home. God gave me this blessing, and I spit on it. Now, I feel the city alive again...while I'm devastated...at the same time, I'm grateful. When Thomas left my life, I was given Nashville again.
He was obviously given what he needed too! He has friends now. He seems happy. I'm sad he never had friends when we were together...because I think that would have made our relationship better. I wanted to have friends so bad! I wish I could have made him happy. But if losing me was what it took to bring him the true joy he was always searching for, I'm glad it happened. I'm sad I couldn't give him what he was searching for...but ultimately, I've come to understand that's not my job. Leaving him behind is what makes him happy. So that's what I'm doing.

This week has been really hard. I've cried a lot at the drop of a hat for no real reason, my journal is coming apart at the seams...my painting is coming along well. That's what I do. I don't really eat anymore. I've lost fifteen pounds. I don't have the stomach for eating. But I suppose my system has detoxed, because my skin...is finally perfect. Isn't it funny how the things we chase constantly allude us? I used to strive for outward beauty and nothing was ever good enough. Now, I strive for peace...and all the things I avidly chased were given to me. I regret wasting so much time griping about my appearance and hating myself when I could have been investing in my relationship. I think Thomas will always hate me for that. But I'm okay with myself. I forgive myself. I was imperfect...and at times completely terrible. But I loved, I loved with every bit of me, that was the problem...I loved too much, and i didn't want to share. If that wasn't good enough for him...he doesn't deserve me. And that's the truth.

Lau said to pray it away...pray the anger and the sorrow away when it comes and sits on my chest. I need to start asking for reasons why. She said that the second she started asking for reasons why it happened, God started revealing things. I tried that in the beginning because I wanted to be angry enough to be over it so badly. When I did though, all the things I found out were gray. Nothing was black and white. What is cheating? What is "talking"? What is "just friends"? Where is the line, and where is it blurred and was it crossed? There was so much. Everything hurt. But I'm ready now...I'm ready to just wash my hands of it. Lau said it's the remedy...it will make me fall out of love. I must.



Nathan J. Bond said something great...he said "Love = Effort, if someone leaves you they don't love you. Love doesn't end. We don't just quit...we don't just stop working at it. It doesn't fail."


I agree. I wish I could have fallen out of love as easy as he did.


But again like Elizabeth Gilbert says


"This is a good sign, having a broken heart-it means we tried for something..."

One of these days, I'll be like Cameron Conant, and I'll write a book about how sin can destroy a relationship. These compositions, especially the ones of which I have written in the past month have only been derived from hurt...with the intention to hurt. "People only hurt when they are hurt", he says...their story, is ours. "With or Without You"...read it. I found it at McKay for .75 cents. It's about us. The truth is, it sat on my shelf for a year, perhaps...if I had read it...if I had read my fate before it happened, I could have stopped it. If only I could have handled things differently. It doesn't matter what close friends say, it doesn't matter what anyone says. I was so deeply in love, and he made a mistake. Big deal. People make mistakes. The fault is mine. I destroyed our relationship. I ran us into the ground with words, and a heart full of misunderstanding and anger. Conant writes about his wife Sara in the book:

"But she was so hurt, so wounded, that these accusations and threats came spilling out of her almost uncontrollably, as if there were a hole in her heart and she could no longer hold back what was inside."

That's how I felt, that's how I still feel. It hurts my feelings...breathing hurts my feelings. On adrenaline I ran for a month, I basked in the new blessings God showered me with. I'd convinced myself I'd moved on. And I have...in some senses. But now, there's pain...there's so much inexplicable pain. It's a new hurt...it's a different kind. It's a void that nags, this position of not knowing what to do with myself. Life has been tasted, but the distraction has died. The emptiness without him is still here...as empty as it ever was. And there is so much sorrow over wounds that will never have the opportunity to be mended...the chance to fix it that was never really given...there is a corpse that can't be revived...this is healing. It's going to hurt...and hurt...and hurt...it's now, the pulsating dull pain that is almost worse than the expected excruciating one. It aches...it aches today...it will ache tomorrow...it will ache next Thursday...it will ache through the holidays...it will ache. Then, when he leaves in May, I will be naked all over again...and the pain will change...and it will ache.
I've stepped forward. I'm doing all the right things...I'm going on dates, I'm keeping myself busy, I'm setting new goals...but my heart is still wrapped up in him. How can I be so cruel as to lead anyone else on when I know who I love? I know who I love. I know where my heart is...and though it does not choose to be there...it's there. It's the quiet ache...the lonely house with the lights on late...anticipating any sign of something. I sit on the porch with an extra cup of coffee made...just incase. I always make six cups. At first, it was because of my mom and I...then, it was because of us. I always make six cups...two perfect canisters.
I was given up for understandable reasons. I wasn't what I could have been. There are so many sides, so many broken pieces...but I pick every single shattered one up and examine it. I want to examine it...even if he doesn't care...I want to examine them. They were once mine...pieced together or not, I love them still.
Even in the broken, oh, my heart is too soft, and my love too forgiving, my hope too big for the circumstances, my sorrow too deep for breath.
Move on?

Yeah...I have-
But my heart?
It doesn't seem to be healing so well.

"Don't you let it break your heart..."

Bernie to the Moon

Seeing Morgan was wonderful today. We went to Casablanca in the gulch and got Americanos and hummus. It was so great to sit down and talk. I cried a little, and it felt so relieving. I told her how bad I missed him today, and that I was ashamed because I've made so much progress in getting "over it". I suppose one step forward and four steps back will even out somewhere down the line, or maybe eventually the backwards steps will decrease and I'll bound forward in a new direction. Today, was a fail.

I discussed with her the sadness of having someone take phenomenal care of you, then telling you to never speak to them again...and how it feels that our entire relationship is summed up in avoidance/the occasional glance/the avoidance of the occasional glance. This person, that I was so certain was my forever...shares with me now...one common thing-the avoidance of the occasional glance. At least we still have that in common. When Thomas leaves in May, I'm going to feel raw all over again. Most of the time, I pathetically feel like I'm in this dog and pony show. Make-up, hair, make-up, hair, clothing, make-up, hair...in preparation for this "moment" that I have in my head where he passes me and actually notices me...actually sees me...or maybe even misses me a little. And perhaps it's only because it's late and I am willing to admit how pathetic I am. But the truth is...I am. Nomatter how much I want to hate him, I love him. I love that I hate him and I hate him for not loving me. I hate him for not being sad over us, and I love him in my mind like he's still some kind of charming prince. There's this line in a Cold song:

"I can't hold on, this happens all the time-I still find my faith in you."

I can't wait for the day that I can stop lying to myself...I can't wait for the day that I actually don't love him anymore, and I actually don't have faith in him. I hate myself for the faith I've always had in Thomas Howard. It's like this wildfire inside of me that continues to burn...burn down even my own vineyards. At the expense of myself, I love him.

I am so angry about the lack of sympathy he has, I am enraged still, by some of the things he said. But overall, I still remember the good more than the bad. I wish I could be more like him. I wish I could remember only the junky things over the good. I wish I could make the worst of what we had. If I did-if I could stop loving him, the way he stopped loving me...all would feel so much better. But even then, I probably wouldn't take it. It'd be the option I'd pass up...just to love him a little bit longer. I think I always will. I always did. And even though, now, I don't feel like I ever really meant anything to him. He meant everything to me. And what we had was beautiful. Even the hard times. Days with him, were never bad. The fighting made me weary, but...he always made me happy. He was my best friend. But I have forced myself to adjust to the concept that I wasn't his. He's better now...without me. And I've adapted to that being okay. He just didn't want me. He won't be the first...he won't be the last. It just isn't so easy...because I loved him...even, if he never loved me back.

"This is a good sign, having a broken heart-it means we tried for something."

-Elizabeth Gilbert

Atlanta

"I had to describe your style the other day to someone...and I had the hardest time...it's very unique."

-Nathan J. Bond

"You look like a little bohemian poet. I just want you to read me a poem so I can snap for you...[only if there's chai tea]..."

-Autumn J. Fitzgerald

“God never withholds from His child that which His love and wisdom call good. God’s refusals are always merciful —'severe mercies' at times, but mercies all the same. God never denies us our heart's desire except to give us something better.” —Elisabeth Elliot

I've got pretty hands...

"Artists' hands"

Autumn tells me.

Ciera says the same thing.

She used to draw sketches of

My hands when she was bored.

I once had a nail tech tell me

As a young child,

I had the prettiest fingers she'd ever seen.

I honestly don't understand.

My mother's hands are much lovelier-

Full of grace, slender...patient.

My hands grip hard,

Hold on too tight,

Smother

And smolder

People

Prismas

Pastels

And my brushes.

Thomas used to make fun of me for typing too loud.

My hands just...play.

I can do nothing else.

I suppose they fidget.

They love to be held.

Thomas used to love to hold my hands.

Now, they grasp the handle of my morning coffee

In a lonely way...

There is a feebleness to my hands

That I'm sure no one has noticed.

When I'm around him,

They fall often limp into my lap...

Or they hold tight

Things to my stomach-

My laptop,

My books...

My...scarf becomes armor,

If that's all I have.

They fiddle and write to release energy.

Today,

I was playing in my new letter box.

I'd had an hour off so I pounced

Leaves all the way down Richland.

I then made my way to the library...

I noticed someone walking towards me,

But I didn't glance up until it was too late-

Involuntarily

My body shot up the hill.

I had to restrain myself from breaking into a run.

My hands held my letter box tight.

I distracted myself by saying hello to Jamie.

I never thought I'd physically run away from someone I love so much...

But time has just made it worse, not better.

I can't face him anymore.

The pain has gotten worse.

Not better.

So, I got sick to my stomach,

And sat down to write this.

I noticed my hands and

I thought I'd compose...

Autumn says my hands are beautiful,

And if Thomas won't love them anymore-

At least

She does.

Autumn's house

Feels like

Up North.

It's simple,

hidden inside of a hill,

With huge trees that drape

And cradle it.

I tried to escape...

Oh, but it's cruel,

There's alway something to miss you with.

They chatter chatter chatter

Words drip like gasoline,

They're clumsy with their matches,

And the dissonance in me,

Is all that remains-

After the ignition.

I'm showered in the ashes

Of our condition.

Strep Throat

Dislike.

If I could have anything in the world it would be

That incredibly THICK brown leather bound sketchbook from Barns and Noble

Without lined paper,

And the cool round silver emblem on the front.

I think it's 40 dollars.

But I'd spend it.

And I'd tell our story.

I might need two.

Devon

Got me soup today,

Because I was sick.

I'm pretty sure,

That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.

I'm so lucky.

A Confession:

Now, I see the unhealthiness of it all, and it wasn't what I would have chosen. I'll never believe we were defected or that all of this was intended to be the fate we came to. I believe-I'll always believe we were meant to be.

We took a wrong turn somewhere, and I'm not sure where spats turned into arguments and arguments turned into the civil war. I'm not sure where water became toxic and we were out for blood every day. I'll never believe it was supposed to end up that way. I don't believe we were bad for each-other. I will never believe that. It was...a course of actions, that were taken...it was...words that were never meant to be said.

If you hadn't-

And I hadn't-

We'd still be just as in love as we ever were. And I believe we were. I say a lot of things in anger to destroy what we had in my own mind so it doesn't hurt so badly that I lost it. But the truth is, what we had was exactly what I wanted. It was when it became what I never wanted that I couldn't adapt to it. I don't feel like that is my fault. But I suppose it's not yours either. It's the nature of the beast...it's the contamination of sin, the blackness of sorrow...the dagger of truth.

If I could go back to last October, I'd do everything different.

If only I'd known then, what I know now.

I wish I had respected myself. I wish I had loved myself more than to constantly complain about my body and my inadequacies, I wish I would have been as secure as I am now. I wish I could have seen myself for what I really was; I wish I'd realized my sufficiency was in Christ, and that I was whole...and I think, everything could have been different. I wish I had been older and wiser...I wish I had been more patient. I wish I would have talked less and listened more.

I can't blame you for anything you did. I wasn't the best. I wasn't desirable, because I was so broken. In my new lessons, I am sad. I fight looking backward all the time. I can't go there. I often wonder...if I could, would I? If I could choose you again; if I could do it over...would I?

Yes.

You're still the only one I want to spend the rest of my life with.

But I know that can't be. And I've made myself content with it. I cry sometimes, but it's a small casualty when you've lost your soulmate.

I stay progressive so I can run right out the door

Without looking your way,

I flee yesterday

Or attempt to before it ensnares me.

I'm starting to spend less time wallowing and more time working.

If we can truly choose our own paths...I hate that ours ended.

But it ended. It will never be again.

Thinking about it is exhausting.

You quit me.

But I forgive you.

I suppose now, that's all I can do-

Because I can't control time.

But if I were wishing...

I'd request to rewind it.

I'd give anything to feel you again.

"My yesterdays are all boxed up and neatly put away-
But every now and then you come to mind.
You were always waiting to be picked to play the game,
But when your name was called, you found a place to hide...
When you knew that I was always on your side."

We're off to Georgia today, for a new adventure.

I can't wait to see Nathan J. Bond

And meet Esteban, Blake and Jordan.

It'll be nice to escape this place,

For awhile.

Oh,

You use your heart as a weapon,

And it hurts like heaven...

#socoldsocoldsocold

-Coldplay

When I watch movies

That are set in places

Where we talked about living

It makes me wish

I had lived that life.

Maybe if I had just given everything up

And agreed to move to Boston,

It would have been okay.

Or if I had been someone else...

If I had been her...

Maybe it would have been right.

I miss you today. That's my favorite shirt-on you. And I love your cowboy boots too. I wish you didn't hate me.

There's a constant exhaustion that veils my eyes. I've surrendered to it time and again. The paths of the neighborhood know it well-I have frequent conversations with them. Weary in heart, weary in mind-weary in soul. I ache to have a place to go down to drink. I enter with my Bible in desperation, and I come out still waiting on anything. Oh, I pray that I might have rest.

Rest.

To Autumn

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

-Keats

I met my own reflection

In a pool of shattered glass,

But I didn't have the courage to piece myself

Back together again.

Recollection now,

Has become a different kind of foe-

Like the luke-warmth of a facade

That sends daggers into you.

My eyes were separated,

One looked up and one looked all around,

And I had no expression at all-

There were only the sharp shining

Pieces of who I was-

Oh,

I never knew her either.

The pieces of me have no mercy

On me...

So I recoil and

Pause

In a stagnate disbelief.

I cried today,

For the first time in awhile.

It happens randomly,

And usually in inappropriate places

Like the checkout line at Kroger

Or while pumping gas.

I go into full blown weeping episodes.

But I'm proud to say

The couch is up for grabs...

For new tears

To be shed over boys that

Aren't worth it.

I'm officially

Okay.

Not great-

Not yet,

But I survived

All the things I thought I wouldn't...

I lost you

And I lived.

I once wrote in my journal:

"The cruel thing about God, is that he's able to forgive and forget. We are commanded to forgive...but we have to remember everything."

If I could choose to forget would I?

No...

Newton's Third Law:

For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

The Melancholy First Step

It should have rained the day I left Detroit for the last time. The northern sky owed me that much. I composed “The Soundtrack of Rain” while flying over Ohio. I made entire notebooks of lists in an attempt to describe the sorrow that waded in my stomach; the broken-ness of my spirit. The dreariness that devoured our precious departing was all encompassing. I stared down at the contrast of my rich, crimson moccasins against the cold, black tile. It was so shiny and slick I gazed into the soul peering out of my reflection…all I remember is my berry lipstick and oh…those weary grey eyes. Even then I didn’t understand the entirety of what I would later compose. The past seven months have been a melancholy progression, throughout which I have recorded small vivid portions that have, until recently, been seeking a name.

“The Melancholy First Step”, that is what I have encountered in some way, shape or form every day since April came and demolished everything; destroyed compassion with vicious truth leaving no room for recovery.

This low introduces itself in peculiar ways. It is the division of entanglement, the chain-link barrier between two broken, brow-beaten friends, the shift away as one body drifts towards the static frenzy of the terminal and the other stands barren and lifeless. It is the motion of weary toes, as they angle outward and the miles begin- when distance shrouds every sense, when the impending first breath apart arrives. It hangs heavy in still air, when one body inches further away from the vibrancy of yesterday-when the intertwined grew together rather than mangled, when the ignited breathed together rather than stifled out. It is the pause that courses through the space between words, and it is the waiting that steals breath…for eyes to be out of sight, before body escapes then spirit, then memory. It is the ocean between quiet houses that pours itself into the jars of a last kiss. It is as immanent as death; it is unpredictable and unforgiving. It plays the minor keys that wrap themselves up-that drift to sleep on the heart, weighing heavy so as not to be forgotten. And when it is done with its song, the tired course comes…and all that words are left with is wonder.