Love story

I just watched a love story the other evening. We’ve always loved love stories. We both shared this love of romance. We couldn't help but compare it to our own true love story. He was 14 years older than me yet I never felt the age difference. He said he felt the same way. Our conversation encompassed philosophy, religion, psychology, history, or politics and beyond. He said that if I didn't know the subject matter discussed that I was quick enough to continue once given a little background on the subject matter. In sync, that's what I described in a previous post and there's no other way to describe it.

He was so secure and sure of himself. For a girl who only moved around a 10-mile area (bus and by foot because my parents didn't own a car) growing up, he represented adventure and filled my hunger for philosophy and psychology. I was trying to understand my place in the world and the trauma I was birthing from. I scared him a little also. He didn't know how damaged I was but he once told a friend of his who was concerned that I was too young for Charley, “If you're walking along the beach and find a jewel, do you not stop and pick it up?” That's how I felt when I walked into that room where everyone was either sitting or standing and he stood out. 'Why?' you ask. Because he was sitting on the ground. I knew he was different. I wanted different. I wanted enlightened. I wanted a seeker. I wanted a philosopher. I wanted someone with whom I could analyze and share this world. We have all kinds of descriptions like that for each other. A friend, my soul sister, asked me what were my last words to Charley? I didn't have to think. He had just told me to rest my pulled muscle so I would be healed for Burning Man. He gave me a couple of sitting projects for last minute costumes. We kissed and told each other, “I love you.”

Actually, we met at the perfect moment in time. Life had conditioned us for each other. A year and a half before we met, he left a marriage of fights which waned to indifference. Me? Well, if you've been following my blog you know or if you're just now joining this monologue of mine, I had a tormented childhood which I left completely in order to save myself, to save my sanity. So we were both ready for a life without petty mind games. Yes, we fought. Maybe, maybe once or twice a year and the cause was always determined to be displacement, stress coming from an outside source.

I almost married someone else. Actually, I was seeing him at the same time I met Charley. Someone who I would have had a more traditional marriage. He was offering me security in legal terms and the promise of motherhood and children. I already met his family and was approved. This union would have been more traditional in the sense that he had already told me that he had to have a weekly night out with the boys. Then one night, he picked me up and informed me that he and his friend joined the army that day. I was not even included in the conversation. Marry this guy? Really? I don't think so. So I chose Charley. Now, you have to understand that he did not want to marry me. His first marriage scared him. My choice: marriage, security, tradition, children, motherhood OR unbridled passion. I didn’t think twice. I chose the latter.

We did eventually tie the legal knot but that date was never significant since we’d been together for a few years. We always considered the month we first consummated our paralleled existence to be used in the timeline considered as 'Charley and Kamala.' So that's over 41 years ago.

Well, I have to tell you, I’m currently riding one hell of a roller-coaster ride, with mostly downward spirals. Staying busy is good in one respect, but I'm exhausted, emotionally exhausted. I just came home from a grief meeting. I look at the other women in the group and it's like I'm looking into a mirror. So lost, so alone. I mean, I could be sitting in a room full of people, which actually has happened at least 8 times in just the last week, but I am still alone. I go out, interact, laugh at jokes. Everyone says, “Wow, you're doing great.” Only a few see past my empty eyes into the cascade of sadness within my being. The other women in the group who work and have this timely schedule to fulfill are not any less distracted from this hurt, this betrayal of life, from this alone-ness. They, too, talk about being in a crowd yet still being alone.

He who filled me spiritually and physically is gone. I'm a shell. I paid attention to small details and he paid attention to the grander scheme. Together we were one. It's like more than half of me has been amputated, my mind, my spirit, my love. What remains is just a shell, a walking, breathing corpse, a facade. All emotions thrust down deep into my core where I scream in silent agony. I vibrate. I can't stop vibrating. All I'm left with is dealing with details. What's happening with the bigger picture?

This thing of grief of which I'm enslaved harnesses my deepest thoughts. Lost, that's a word I used earlier. Yes, lost. I'm lost. Lost in this familiar world that has become foreign land at which I look upon. The sun shines but I can't see for the clouds in my mind. Lost and alone.