Tag Archives: storytelling

Just Like Starting Over

It has been more than a decade since I have been able to listen to without a cringing and, more so, to enjoy the Beatles or John Lennon’s songs by any degree. Ruined by a jealous guy who claimed to be re-born Lennon, the new musical messiah and my knight in a rug. I was 16. And soon enough I was letterswatching the wheels go round and round without ever mounting to anything except all his loving. No instant karma there, except as a torture device, excuse for bad behavior – a tool to twist and shout, order me to get back in line. How dare I buy chewing gum on a free period from school and not tell him about it? It’s
like how do you sleep at night, knowing a day in the life of someone like you made a woman like me feel worthless and insecure, scared and at the same time – curiously fascinated? You were the walrus, the nowhere man that was here, there and everywhere. I had no chance. You said all you need is love – and I gave you all my loving. We dove head on to helter skelter.

In our mixed emotions and thoughtlessness it never dawned that our life together could have been so precious, and we could have grown – spread our wings and fly – and it could have been just like starting over? It rather became the long and winding road, the pressure of constant demand of oh my love, love me do. I was 19. And I didn’t yet know how to say no, I can work it out on my own. I can be me and still be worth something.

For the decade after I used to walk out the room, leave the table for bathroom, change radio channels, skip the song on playlist, talk loudly over each song as soon as I recognized it for what it was. Nobody told me these memories lose their meaning over time, but I know I’ll often stop and think about them. Thinking about the time when you showed up in a rug under the balcony and sang Jealous Guy like your life dependent on it. And maybe it did. Sure felt like it. You were just a loser. you let me down. You did warn me; you were beginning to lose control, acted like a clown.

So how do you sleep? Now the sound you made is muzak to my ears, and you must have learned something in all these years. I know I have. I have learned I am strong, I am 2D11403865-today-beatles-140123.jpgworthy, I am smart, I am a loud mouth nasty woman that would never again tolerate what was said and done. I’m not 19 anymore.
Do I have to keep on talking
till I can’t go on? Well, now I’m 31 and I am no longer grooving up slowly, well over the joker who did what he pleased, and I am reclaiming the Beatles and John, too.

Hello, goodbye and welcome back, gents, I’m sure we can work it out!

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With no offence to anyone – But what do you in this situation?

2014-09-27 12.59.12 Is a “no” always a “no”?

Yes. Yes it is.

When it comes to something so personal. So precious. Almost vulnerable. There is no excuse for not understanding that word. When you’re in such an intimate situation – and believe me it has been a long road for someone like, me with trust-issues up to my eyelids, to even get to that point to put myself into that situation with someone – you are supposed to feel safe, pampered, relaxed. Ready to take a plunge, to share something of yourself that not too many (well, what’s many anyway?) have been able to share with you before. Have you ever been in that situation? The first nervous experiences and attempts, the first time you let someone so close, first time you’re willing to share a bit about yourself…

And suddenly it is something else. Turned into evil. Spoiled. The whole experience tainted. You were betrayed in the most ultimate level. It leaves a mark when something like that happens. It takes a long time before you trust again. Before you let someone so close. And the anger, the betrayal, the suspicions, the fear to let go and commit again – to ever allow someone so close again.

But you do. Because that is human nature. We are not meant to be alone. Social creatures as we are it is that very condition that is our curse. Some learn to choose wisely, some fall to the same types over and over again, never learning, not recognising the pitfalls that have been crystal clear since the beginning. Trust is a funny thing. Want and need to share is inherent with us.

So you start seeing someone new. You go out a few times. You share some anecdotes. Candle lit dinners. Walks on the beach. Fireworks. You have that nauseous feeling in the pit of your stomach that some call butterflies. You’ve learned to call it gut feeling. But you convince yourself you’re being paranoid. You talk it through with your very best friends who also convince you you’re being paranoid, and you should give it a go because you deserve to be happy. So you do.

And then comes that night. You’re comfortable. You’re about to share something extraordinary. You’re nervous, glancing around you, taking a fortifying sip of your wine. It’s now or never. Your hand reaches out and…

And then the bastard takes the last piece of pizza anyway like it’s no big deal. Pig.

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