Too close to home

It has been almost a month since my neighbour and I let our flailing relationship slide. It is true, I instigated the decision but all the signals were pointing in one direction – towards a dead end. And for the record he never fought, he never fought for me, and I would like to believe I am worth fighting for.

I tend not to move on quickly. A strange part of me likes to suffer in my sorrow, feel my heart shatter into pieces, choke on my breaths, wake in the middle of the night lost in mad thoughts of what was, feel the loss ache inside like a war wound that just refuses to heal up. I relish the pain because it makes me feel human and real and I know deep inside that these lows will eventually catapult me back high with a number of lessons tightly held under my wings.

The only thing I require is the space in which to do this. I want to feel I can walk the streets, drowning in distress, and slowly let the wind blow my spirits high again. I want it to take time and I want to feel that when I come out the other end, I am a bird, soaring free of all that cuts deep. Yet, this is not so easy when the one who still holds a piece of your heart walks the same streets with a new girl in tow, his arms casually laid across her shoulders, holding her close and tight.

I wish I could have been dignified and let it pass. Rationalised that these streets which I call mine are his also and can not be owned. Yet, territoriality is something that overtakes me and turns me into somebody else.

It first occurred on Saturday night. A friend of mine walked into them on the corner of our street. Their hands were clasped, he told me later.  I was livid. It could have been me who walked to that corner and was confronted by the sight of him and the replacement. So I sent him a message outlining how it destroyed me and finished it with a quite bold statement – ‘you are quite frankly, my dear, a selfish cunt’.

No response.

Today I saw them in the flesh. Three days after the last encounter. I reacted. It was inappropriate, it was loud, it was outrageous and I looked like a mad cat lady.

It occurred like this. We drove towards my house and I saw him. Pull over, I told my friend. Are you sure this is healthy Sierra? Yes, I need to see. I had to witness it, be exposed to it. I had to compare it to the image I had created in my mind.

I exited the car. He looked so different, his hair was so hipster - shaved and dyed with red, flopping to the side. He wore all black. He strutted. Then it happened. She walked up to the corner, her gloriously long dark hair blowing in the breeze. They embraced and he slipped his arms over her shoulders. It seemed so comfortable. It seemed so happy. He never embraced me like that. My guts spilled out onto the concrete.  

Some words flew out - from somewhere – something I needed to say, to expel. ‘Show some respect Adrian!’. They turned, I turned. I didn’t even see the reactions – I was already making my bold exit. It was a moment, a moment in time. I am not sure what my intention was. To let him know that these streets are my streets of mourning? To let her know that our romance still exists here, whistling through the trees? I have no explanation, no justification. The words just came. They just were.

A part of me feels guilty. As though I have crossed a boundary that many would not. I now also mourn the fact that we have moved from old lovers to new haters and this is not who I want to be. But a part of me feels it needed to happen. I needed to confront it, face it full frontal, publicly exclaim my pain and suffering to my streets of mourning. A part of me feels I needed to do it in order to let go and move on. We all need to get a little psycho sometimes.

Sierra x

“Help, I have done it again
I have been here many times before
Hurt myself again today
And, the worst part is there's no-one else to blame

…

Ouch I have lost myself again,
Lost myself and I am nowhere to be found”

Sia, Breathe Me.