For all of them everywhere
There comes a point when one begins to regard the Ex with a certain detached passion and a, perhaps, much too romantic fondness. 44 must be that point and I’ve hit it hard. What is the meaning of this twisted desire for the past and all its miseries? It’s fairly simple really and it all boils down to the distance that is now and almost certainly will always be between me and the long legged, sweet fleshed, heavenly assed fantasy that burns as reality in my brain. She’s gone and will never come back and I celebrate my liberation from chaos each day as surely as I mourn for a past that was so tantalizingly close to fruition, or more accurately, that’s the way I like to remember it all now, now that’s it’s long over and well done.
First and significantly- I no longer have to dwell daily in marital Hell and once free from this particular form of servitude I find (and yes, I am aware that I may be alone) that with the passing of each full moon I can more easily recall the nights in sweaty Heaven as we shook our bed and our world rather than the days of being chained to frustration, lies and sick manipulations of everyone trapped in her poisonous orbit.
It’s becomes increasingly easy to remember her blue pilot light eyes burning through the night and leading me to the end of our physical, animal limits until, at last, she’d finally drift off into her blissful slumber (somehow always first) and I’d watch her leave the waking world, breathing in the scent of her lustrous flesh, as I settled into my own dreams of a pure future.
Her mother died at childbirth and her father was never in the picture. She’d been raised in her Grandfathers’ family and he was, by all accounts, a very decent man. Being a natural rebel she shook the dust of her 2 horse town from her teenaged cheerleading boots and headed for the Big City where she fell into place with a then surging music scene (maybe late 80’s) centered around hard, angry RAWK, a very convenient fit for her and she took to it like a baby to candy. She joined some tours, partied hard and I have no doubt that she was a convenient if minor pleasure to some fairly major players. Her tattoos outnumbered mine.
And then she caught the fashionably high end Heroin wave and found her one true love.
I never minded her past, my own was scattered with greedy behavior, selfish indulgences and woman who once loved me and now never wanted to see me again. With great good reason. My own history of drug abuse was fairly tawdry when compared to the glittering stage lights of hers but by the time we’d met I was done with everything chemical and ready to be the Rock that she’d always needed; I like to think that I was the most solid man she’d ever met.
I was a damn fool.
The drugs and the constant lying that must accompany them? I seem to not quite……..recall the tragedy of her as clearly as the beauty. This is my immature embarrassing romantic failing and I’ve never felt more of the silly teenager for thinking it yet now this illusion sits in my brain like a detective looking at the scene of the crime and finding nothing but innocence and excuses amid the blood and carnage. Stupid Old Man.
But, healthy or no, this age of mine also, gratefully, seems to more and more often lately point me into the direction of forgiveness, whether I can walk the path or not and I find no small comfort in that direction. We’re all human and aren’t the ones that we used to really love deserving of that little bit of compassion that I can manage to bleed out every now and again? Maybe….don‘t know…….hope so.
And, as of last sad report several months ago, her end appears to be approaching much too rapidly but- like most heavy drug users- it's coming like a train with maximum pain, humiliation, degradation and all too everyday horror for anyone still close to her to sickeningly witness and bitterly taste as they desperately try to spit it out. All her bridges burned to the waterline, every lifeline forever severed and all her lifesavers drifting far away with a tide she willfully created.
Me? I’m the soldier who’s been airlifted out of the battlefield with no fatal injury leaving all his buddies behind to catch the shit- safe, almost sound and so sorry in too many ways. Immensely relieved at my escape and gutted by guilt at my failure. Everybody loses but I’m hoping she can pull one last card out her worn out deck and save that luscious ass and that the next moon brings a better word.
So I decided to share a bit of fiction for no particular reason other than that I’ll always love her and believe that she can be worthy of love and maybe they all can and, more hopefully, they all will.
Not for nothing but the fiction is below just in case you have a few minutes to spare and you like raw stories........