A story stuck on repeat

Dear regular readers, this is just a stream of consciousness piece that came out of me last night.  It is not based on my marriage although it is loosely based on something that happened in my life, but I would call this surreal beat poetry fiction…HA!  Just had to write it, so I did.  Not my usual style of blog, or my usual style of writing.  But sometimes these things just have to come out…so I am putting it out there.

Deutsch: Tonabnehmer eines Plattenspielers (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I heard a story tonight, from a good friend.  It sounded so familiar that it felt like he was telling me a story about myself.  But this time the story wasn’t about me, but it could have been me.  One time not so long ago the story was about me.   As the words of the story fell out of the mouth of my friend, I felt the shard of  broken glass stabbed deep in my heart dissolving.  The pain and the wound had been long forgotten, but this story made me realize it was all about him, all the time.  I was just an easy target.

A man becomes obsessed with a girl, runs around and tells everyone, calls her his steady…brags to his mother…meets her parents…all of it happening too soon…too immediately…but she doesn’t care as he tells her he is head over heels, she is the girl of his dreams and she perfect in every way.  All of his other girls, and there are so many, were nothing compared to her.  He is like a child in a candy store grabbing as much of her as he can hold.  The girl can’t believe her luck, she is on top of the world, free-falling out of the sky with nothing more but her spirit to break her fall.  She doesn’t need anything more than that because he will surely catch her.  And then just as suddenly, the same man who was so in love, so happy decides he is not.  He can’t put his finger on it, but his love is gone.  He devoured her both in flesh and spirit and now he has had his fill.  He must move on, he needs his space…can’t be tied down…even to someone so perfect.  This time it was the same story, my story, but a new girl.

It was as if he had set up a trap for the girl and she didn’t see it coming.   She had already thrown herself off of a roof and no parachute in sight.  So she is falling, and falling hard until she hits the sidewalk below.  People walk around her motionless body and wonder how she must have ended up like that….poor thing.

The man walks away dazed and confused and begins to search for the next savior, the next thrill the next girl who will truly save him.  But nothing will save him, he is so sad inside and hates himself so much that he is always looking for something that does not exist.  That is what happens when you treat a lover like a drug.  They will never be enough, the craving cannot be filled.  He needs a drug, but the drugs will kill him…they nearly killed him…so he looks for salvation in the eyes of another….and he is always let down.

This time the story was not about me, although it was my story.  I hit that sidewalk so hard I cracked it to its foundation when I fell.  I nearly broke myself in half.  But I picked myself up, brushed myself off and kept moving.  At first I thought the man could save me, after all he let me fall in the first place.  He let me jump without a net, and turned away as I hit the ground.  Maybe if I could start over and try again the story wouldn’t repeat.  But then I saw his face, not the one he shows to the world but the one he tries to keep hidden.  The more he descends to the bottom of a bottle and a sea of self-pity the more he reveals his true face to the world. The one that actually enjoys inflicting pain on another.  Hurting others makes him feel strong.  He is  just a scared little boy who wants respect and love but doesn’t know how to get it.   He wants someone sweet and perfect he can worship, but still craves a dirty whore he can disrespect.  What he doesn’t understand is that neither example exists.  Women are a combination of innocent  and sinful ways, and he will never be happy with either extreme.

I removed him from my life.  First it was his photos, and then every other trace that we had ever met, ever loved, ever spent more than a moment in each others presence.  Then it was his words, I erased them from my memory.  I renamed the man  as “the one” that I try hard to avoid.  I rewrote our history because the true story was too painful.  He does not exist, only a vague shape remains in his place.  Like a grave marker worn down and re-engraved.   He still might try to blame me for his sadness and emptiness but I could never hurt him in the same way he hurts himself.   No matter how much poison he offers me in the form of wine, I will not drink it.  I will see beams of light when he showers me with his darkness.  Because he does not exist and our story does not exist.  He is just the one who keeps writing the same sad tale over and over again.  I won’t be his fix.  If nature is truly kind, some woman will do the same to him.  And he will find himself standing there asking how this could happen, trying to erase her memory from his brain.

He is stuck on repeat and he doesn’t even know it.