Diaries I Read:
The following words came from the journal of Eliza, who has dealt with heartache with much more strength and grace than I could ever muster given the circumstances. Anyway, I just thought they were so perfect and summed up some of my thoughts so well that I copied them here. She writes:
�What sucks about being estranged from your ex, even if you want to be, is that you're alone in your memories. You can't share them with that person even though that person is the only one you can ever really share them with, the only one who understands.
�Because what a loss. Not only to lose your present and future with someone closer to you than anyone else on earth, but to also lose your past. To have it be like it never happened. To never be able to laugh about those times with that person or to recollect, �Remember that? Goddamn, that was awesome,� or crazy or wild or scary or romantic or sexy or sad.�
I�ve talked about J here before (see June 23, July 17 & 17, November 19, 2003), and he really doesn�t exist to me anymore and I�m totally over it in a way that I wasn�t a year ago. I�m OK with that. Finally, I�m OK with that. But there�s always been that little something that tugs at my heart every once in a while and lets me know that, no matter how OK I am with it, it still sucks and it�s still sad. And I�ve never really been able to explain that, explain why that is, but I think Eliza nailed it on the head.
It�s losing the memories, losing your past. Of course, you always have them, but your memories become painful. And they almost seem to become insignificant because the only person who really gets it, who was there, is gone. There doesn�t seem to be much use in remembering because you can�t share it with anyone else.
And it�s almost like I�ve lost a little part of myself, too. Of the five years that J and I were close, four of them were my college years. So almost all of my college memories involve him, in one way or another. If I were to look up �college� in my personal life dictionary, there�d be a picture of J next to the definition. College and J are inseparable. You can�t think of one without thinking of the other.
So now it almost seems like those years have disintegrated into something that resembles my life but doesn�t feel like something I actually lived. And what vital years to lose! For me, they weren�t especially happy times, but sometimes those are the most critical. It�s like there�s this big chunk of my life � this big chunk of me and my heart and my spirit � that�s missing.
Is it possible that we can never really see ourselves? That we can only see ourselves as reflected through others? Well, I wouldn�t say NEVER, but I�d say that those times of truly recognizing our selves all by ourselves are rare. They are quiet moments when we are truly in tune with our spirits. Otherwise, I think we depend on others quite a bit to define us, explain us, make us matter by reacting to us.
And that�s what I�ve lost in losing J. I�ve lost that version of me that was 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23 � not all of it, but a lot. Maybe it�s OK that that version of me is gone � like I said, they weren�t particularly happy times and I didn�t love myself very much back then.
And it�s not true that I�ve completely LOST those years. It�s just that now that self only exists in the form it takes when I alone react to it and reflect it back to myself. I don�t know � maybe that�s even better.
I had a dream the other night that I went back to UC Davis and I was walking around the campus. It had changed a lot, as I know it has, but there was one thing that commanded the dream. Where the Quad used to be � the great, big expanse of beautiful green grass where students would sit or lie in the sun studying, eating, talking, romancing, sleeping, dreaming � was gone. It had been paved over in concrete and buildings had been placed on top of it, and it was all very gray and white, very cold, very hard, very cement. And I was DEVASTATED. I cried and cried in the dream, heartbroken that they had taken away this place (which I guess, if I had to think about it, is the place I identify with most when I think back on my Davis days) and turned it into something unrecognizable and ugly and it would never be the same. I sobbed like I had lost an old friend, a cherished pet, a beloved family member and could never get it back.
I didn�t get it at first. It didn�t make sense. When I woke up, I could still feel the emotion of that dream, felt like I�d really been crying, felt like I�d actually lost something. And I have.
Working at home - Wednesday, Nov. 17, 2004
Toronto - Tuesday, Nov. 16, 2004
On the way to Toronto... - Tuesday, Nov. 09, 2004
A Good Day - Monday, Nov. 08, 2004
Another letter - Thursday, Nov. 04, 2004