Skip to main content

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!


  1. Brooke, I think we are living parallel lives. I love your blog. Please don't ever stop writing.

  2. I love this post, Brooke! It is funny, wise, and brilliant. Wonderfully quirky yet universal, too. I love thinking of Jesus and your absent/present love passed out on the couch together amidst the beer can! I think I will go stock my psychic fridge right now!

  3. Jesus, this is brilliant!

    Seriously, it is! I so love this post and the way your mind works and how your words come out so damn eloquently; with flow and grace, and, especially in this post, humor.

    You kick butt.

  4. Thank you all for these beyond wonderful, inspiring and supportive comments!! I can return to these in those moments when I am asking myself why do I blog again?

  5. You are so funny and wise beyond measure- I could see this as an article in O Magazine. Seriously I am in awe of your writing and insight. You are lovely.

  6. Tremendously powerful and Self centered-truly rooted in the big "S"
    It's lovely to witness and share in our magical boundless leaps and Brooke you literally leap off the page. You are transforming "He loves me, he loves me not" into "I love myself, I love myself even more."

    Blessings to you. I love you, I love you more. Shell

  7. Nice brief and this fill someone in on helped me alot in my college assignement. Thanks you for your information.

  8. Thank you for sharing your beauty with us, Brooke! For those of us still aspiring to achieve more peace, willingness to let love in again, and find inner expansion - the experiences you share give me hope and encouragement. Your writing is so graceful and full of openness and love. Your light attracts more radiant light. Never stop!


Post a Comment

♥ Thank you for taking the time connect with me here. ♥

Popular posts from this blog

Here With You

Photo by Daria Obymaha on Sinking lips into your tiny round cheeks, I'm home. Holding your tiny head to my heart, caressing my chin to your downy baby 'chicken fluff' we'll come to call it later, I'm home. Taking in your baby magic scent, I'm home. Pressing nose to nose, forehead to forehead, staring wide-eyed into each other's eyes, I'm home. Toting little bum and dangling legs around my middle, I'm home. Filled with purpose as you point where to go, what you see, I'm home. Your eyes, new windows to a world I thought I knew, I'm home. Holding you with fever, picking you up when you fall, I'm home. Navigating the years between, boxes of your firsts, every paint brush and pen stroke a miracle, I'm home. Saving pottery penguins, turtles, shiny red roses, a burrito with all the fixings immortalized in clay, I'm home. Kid sister fruit and craft stand on the corner, change clinking in coin purse, mag


Photo by Ben Herbert on I’m standing on a cliff overlooking the water’s edge. The sky is present, hanging there in its vastness, holding this moment with symphonic strains of gray and electric buzz. Watching, suspended, sensing. I see to both sides of me vast white cliffs carved out by relentless grasping of the ocean extending down the coastline. The earth where I am standing up above gives just the right yield and welcome, with its soft grass and dainty yellow flowers, falsely giving the impression of delicacy, when anyone can see that they are hardy to withstand the harshness of forces here. There is an undeniable tightness of gravity here, pinning me down, tugging at me, slowing down my step. I feel as if this force could just sweep me away with the littlest of a flick, like an ant off the table. It screams danger while it beckons. My life had been recently taking on new grander design dimensions when this place and I met. Dating a new man, after being a singl

I want to remind me...

My thoughts drift back to when I was a child. I had a little toy kitchen sink and stove, no nouveau riche set, à la pottery barn, but very basic and snap together. It was set up in the unfinished basement on top of orange Muppet shag rugs that covered some of the cold concrete. There was a giant TV that looked like it had been built in a giant dresser. One top of its console lifted to play vinyl records and the other to play LP’s. Look it up. My kitchen was set up in the corner by the window well, where I could see cobwebs and spiders filtering the outside light shining through. I don’t remember playing much as a kid, but I do remember cleaning up the toys stored in giant Tang cans down there--organizing and reorganizing them at my mom's bidding, to rest the perfectly sorted toys in glowing metallic green cylinders, on pastel yellow metal shelves, the quiet yellow that sort of softened the Muppet rug domination, but added a utilitarian feel to the unfinished basement. I shoul