3.10.2012

The Purge Part 1: For Keenan

This is a post about the things we are reluctant to purge.


I remember a day last November or so, I don't remember exactly what day and it doesn't even really matter what day. It was a day off for me, and I got out of the shower and strolled through my empty apartment naked and actively daydreamed about living there alone. I thought about all the garish victorian-esque illustrated roses that I could paint on my walls and how much cooler my bed would be if it was hot pink rather than red. I thought about finally hanging my M collection on the wall instead of staging them on my shelving unit. I thought about painting a mural of everywhere I've ever lived and omitting where Chase had. Funny. I got that fleeting wish within six weeks.
I was still, however, reluctant to let him go. Decisive, but regretful that it had to be over; that is, until about the time the back of my head hit the linoleum covered concrete of my kitchen floor, twice, while he screamed at me about how I couldn't possibly break up with him. By the time there was blood streaming through my fingertips the indecision was gone. See how that works? We say we give chances, but the truth is that I'd been frightened of him every time he touched me since he knocked me down in the street last June; my knee wore the evidence for a week, but my sense memory still hasn't forgotten. I knew then I would never be able to let this go way back in June, so why didn't I let him go? Oh, theres an algorithm for that.
My answer to Keenan's recent post:
Miranda Moure said...
Oh dear. Boys making silly mistakes under the influence of alcohol. Been there. Recently. And what did I do? I sat him down, sweetly (I doubt he would use this adjective) described why he wouldn't work in my life anymore, asked for my house keys back (long story) and sent him back into the world to enjoy his 20's with the occasional friendly text message from me.

Women can switch gears like this incredibly fast, and the swiftness is set on a curve against 3 things: 1. The longevity of said relationship so far, 2. the toll said relationship is taking on the rest of our lives (read: time) and 3. the relative idiocy of the offence. Men are constantly blindsided by the logistics of this, and women never care to explain.

So here's me explaining.

Is there hope? Well, that's verging on a post, so maybe I owe you one
--M
This, I suppose, is that post that I owed.

I wanted to say something about hope and forgiveness and persistence, but I'm reading this back and realizing that as much as it may suck to be the one quietly suffering, it's way worse to be the one unknowingly imposing. Shouldn't we want better for ourselves than to stay with someone who doesn't want us? To do the reverse? 
I'm looking for it, Keenan. I'm looking for crazy, uncompromising love. I want fantastic life affirming love, inspiring love; validating love. I may find it a few more times before I die, and you may too--but I guarantee we will not find what we don't seek. In the meantime, I suppose we will purge and be purged by those who don't quite measure up--people who aren't available enough or are too available, people who can't handle our MUI's and people who steal our house keys (that is oddly specific, no?).

In the meantime we will revel in those people who show up at our doorsteps with six packs and new doorknobs, and we will share those six packs and remark not on what we have lost (metaphorical keys?), but rather our good fortune. Because we are love! And we are fortunate.

--M

p.s. to Keen--I will never forget that doorknob and that six pack. Ever. Until I die. XO.

1 comment:

Keenan said...

Thank you, Rands. Of course there is hope. There is always hope. I hope the current ex doesn't come back. I hope one of the old exes does. I hope someone else falls out of the sky in a Prince tshirt with a bottle of whiskey. I hope we both find that crazy, uncompromising love. And I hope to always be the one who will show up with a doorknob and a six-pack.

I love the shit out of you, and by that I mean doggie.

-The K in KLM