BLINDSIDED

I cried about it today. Not about him, but about it: The situation. About how hard I tried, how easy I thought it would be, and how just when everything seemed to be going so well, the Universe conspired against me. I never have those kinds of conversations (at least never from my end); you know the ones, the kind that are choking and unsure; filled with unsaid emotion; and dirty with delayed introspection. And yet here I was sharing water, fresh baked bread, and Insalata Caprese, on the patio of an Italian restaurant in ..West Hollywood.. in broad day light fighting to breath between the breaths; and drowning from the bubbling forth of lingering liquid hurts I did not know were flowing below the surface. Me!!! Mr. Corey Consciousness!!! The guy who knows every emotion he feels at every given moment; why he is feeling it; and what the fruition of that emotion will eventually bring, while simultaneously processing the validity of continuing to feel that particular pathos, was BLINDSIDED; overwhelmed by the utterance of a simple compound-complex sentence: “I tried my best, but my best wasn’t good enough.”

It didn’t work. And it wasn’t my fault (which by no means means it was his). It’s always my fault . . Or at least I'm often partially to blame. But in this I am completely absolved. My hands are clean. I'm not talking about responsibility; that’s a burden that is never lifted. Both people always contribute to the trajectory of the relationship regardless of who did what to whom and why. It is the simple mathematic equation found in the ripple effect. Chaos and Order intertwined. I no longer use the word blame. I no longer judge the situation. And I no longer wonder what’s wrong with the other person. Because they like me, are perfect.

This is about me and God. This is about God and I. This is about us. About the Promises I made, about the bargains we negotiated, and the unspoken vows that bend my pocket of reality into something that I can comprehend long enough to purposefully and knowingly offer my portion to the trade. And I was Abel. I gave my best fruits; I gave my firstlings; my purest milk, and my most gilded piece of mettle. I gave the best of my best’s best! And still my body lay broken and bleeding in the forgotten fields.

“Where is Abel?”
“I do not know.”
“What have you done?”
What do you do when your best is not enough?
I guess that is when the tears come.
That is when you release the reigns and let go.
And I do.
I have.
I will.

It is a familiar lesson of which I recollect the process. But I did not know how much it would hurt this time; how profoundly it would affect me, and how humbling it would be. With all my skills; all my “feminine” whiles, all my rules; all my ability to affect, manipulate, and fascinate the male species I cannot make them do that thing.

Not Love.
Love is easy.

That I mastered in my Twenties. My mother taught me when I was twelve. That I can do with my eyes closed. I can make a man adore me, buy me jewelry, move me in, purpose marriage, change his religion, and alter the way he sees the future. Love I can do. But there is something else: some illusive magic that I just can’t seem to weave; some lesson of legerdemain so ancient that my tongue can’t touch the dialect. It is lost to me. It is not mine. And perhaps it never will be.

Today I cried about it.
And it felt wonderful.