He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Recently, I fell hard in love. I wasn't looking for it, so, when it came out of the blue, I was caught unprepared. I was surprised to find myself wide-open to it. However, as is often the case with many enduring love stories, this love was impossible, as this gentle man was completely and utterly unavailable.

It has been a couple months of ear-deafening silence, which amazingly, I have come to accept as the correct and natural order of things, even as my mind shifts between lighter and loving feelings of understanding, and darker, sadder feelings of betrayal--and then, of course, the shattering fear that what we 'had' was only in my head. Mostly, I hope he is happy and doing well.

However, what I have found is that whether or not this man exists with me in the flesh, somehow he's pushed his way in, and taken up, at least for the moment, permanent residence in my psyche. And this is where it gets interesting.

The other day I was writing a blog in my head, trying to surrender to his persistent presence, that by no choice of my own, moves with me all the time. I finally decided to just throw out the welcome mat, tell him there is beer in the fridge, and to make himself at home if he must--if he is really that intent on staying. But that I need to move on, live my life, despite his noise.

Yes, I have to continue to live my life, even if the tirades of my mind now have an actual name and face. Surely my mind was on the prowl for something so specific to ground in my torment anyway.

So, what has been so interesting is the kind of mind trip that this has taken me for. With absolute silence, my relationship with this man has existed only in my thoughts, and on those days when I love myself, he loves me--imagine that. On the days that I don't love myself, when I feel sad, lacking, or loserish, he hates me, and realizes he was lucky to escape. Then there are those rare moments when I transcend both lines of thought, and feel fully free to just allow what was, what is, and what will be, or never be.

I've been calling these darker moments of reproach from this newly named thought system, (with a little tongue-in-cheek) moments when Jesus is pissed. No offense to any of the devout. As most of my friends know, I have developed quite an affinity for the J-man, but not due to any religious training, rather by getting to know him as more of someone I can relate to.

What I am talking about here, with the idea that Jesus is pissed, are those moments when my mind becomes judge and jury, functioning from remnants of an archaic religious construct I used to subject myself to, that included an angry God, ready to chastise my every move.

So, just as I go around the proverbial daisy, saying he loves me, he loves me not--so, do I also go back and forth between Jesus is pissed, as in angry, and Jesus is pissed, as in the British sense, with empty cans of beer strewn about him.

In the most beautiful of moments I feel a clarity and can call bluff on my thoughts all together, about Jesus's disappointment in me, as well as this man's disapproval.

Eventually, I begin to laugh, because there really is no other response. Jesus, nor this man, are in my life in a physical way, and yet, they both exist to illustrate the duality of my mind.

Well, as long as I keep the fridge stocked for both of them, perhaps it will keep them occupied for long enough moments, even passed out on the couch to sleep off their wild nights trashing my living room--so that I can continue to live my life, continue opening my eyes to the truth--that I really am onto something: a love that transcends any mind games.

I'll drink to that!