I prayed a new prayer today (surprisingly, the first time I’ve prayed it). As it left me, I was shocked. I hadn’t meant to pray it, hadn’t even thought it. In truth, to think it now hurts and makes me feel like a traitor.
I prayed for help in getting over him, to put him behind me. I don’t really want to get over him or put him behind me. I want him to wake up and remember that he loved me, remember how great our life was together (at least from my side of the journey). I want my love and faith in him to be proven right. That can’t happen if I truly get over him, if I put him behind me, if every ounce of me looses faith in him and who I knew him to be and who he truly is.
Maybe (I’m sure most would align with this thought) this is a good thing. A good sign. A testament of freedom from constant ache and pain in the foreseeable future. Maybe a sign of health. Or (This is where my heart goes, if not my mind), it simply shows how weak I am. How easily I give up and just want relief. He is worth hurting for and worth saving my heart for.
Whatever the reason or the result, as in everything else, it is what it is. Whether God sees fit to assist in this unintended supplication (this would be the one He’d listen to, not the other ones, of course) or not, it seems that a part of me at least is heading in that direction—or at least needing to head in that direction.
If for no other reason, I suppose it’s a good thing—maybe I’ll look like less of a fool if I can move on and begin to stop the extended torture and tears. It’s just pathetic to have this all be one-sided. There were two of us building a life together. Two of us in love (or so I thought). It’s weak and sad to only have one side lamenting and missing the other half. He sure isn’t. Of course, I guess if it were two-sided, there wouldn’t be reason to hurt after all, would there?
I may not experience again what I got to have for a little while. But life can’t continue being all about what I don’t have any longer. I’ve tried so many things in order to force myself to keep ‘living,’ ‘feeling,’ yada, yada. They aren’t real like that was. As a result, I’ve stopped feeling real to myself. Actually, the only time I do feel real and honestly fully present, is when I do give in the hurt and lamentations. Everything else is forced. That’s not how it should be.
Black Coffee Tables
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