“…before things stopped making sense, before i’d ever had my heart broken and sewn back together with shaky hands, before i’d ever broken any hearts myself with careless and stupid flicks of the wrist, before i had a head full of ideas and theories about love and relationships….”
–Amanda Fucking Palmer
things stopped making sense six and a half years ago. two people i thought would never leave me abruptly exited my life without explanation within one month of each other. the month before that, my wife had moved three and a half hours away to attend grad school (instead of choosing the more prestigious grad program to which she had also been accepted only an hour and a half away). i was shaken, i was hurt, and i was angry. but i was angry only because my shattered heart left me stranded in a shattered life that didn’t have space enough with its fallen roof and cracked foundation for me to stand upright and survey the damage. a few months later i had a breakdown on the floor of soul friend’s condo, melting into a muddle of body-quaking tears that would not cease accompanied by soundless guttural screams. a few months after that, in a messily complicated austin-incestuous divorce-impending relationship, soul friend coupled with a soon-to-be ex-wife while i slept next to the soon-to-be ex-husband. things devolved into an ultimatum and two year silence between me and soul friend.
things had stopped making sense.
things have not yet started making sense again. i don’t know if they will. i don’t know if ten or twenty years from now i’ll be able to point to the series of events which led to a re-emergence of sense with the clarity i can point to the series of events where things stopped making sense.
it has been three and a half years since soul friend and i re-entered each other’s lives. in that time, more people have exited my life, people i thought i couldn’t live without. in the first few months of reconnecting with soul friend, i felt shamefully guilty. when faced with an ultimatum, i had chosen wrongly, but i couldn’t have chosen differently at the time. i’m rebellious by nature, and therefore any ultimatum will be met with irreverent “fuck you” derision. it’s okay. he’s forgotten most of these things and forgiven the rest. he has a gift for forgetting the worst that happens. i admire this about him and wish i could be like him in this aspect.
he offered me a motorcycle ride to mount bonnell this afternoon. if i had any hours to put on pause, i would have gone. i would have gotten on the back of his bike in spite of swearing off motorcycles for the rest of my life. i would accept any offer he extended, if i could.
things have stopped making sense. it doesn’t make sense why i have chosen those i’ve selected to love in the past several years. it doesn’t make sense how i’ve hurt others and been hurt by them. it doesn’t make sense why soul friend returned to me and i left my wife. i’m grateful for one and grieve the other and wait for something to begin making sense. i sit and write my life in fiction stories thinly veiled and nonfiction blog posts, letters, and emails. i sit in the brand new magic chair that wizard bought me a few days ago to hold and comfort me when the stories, blog posts, letters, and emails prompt my tears. the magic chair rests on a firm foundation. the roof above me is supported on high beams. i have plenty of space to survey the damage and can confidently pronounce that my heart and my life are no longer shattered. they have been sewn back together with shaky hands that belong to the people that have stayed with me, returned to me, or come to me with much-needed sewing skills. i am grateful. there is always more to be grateful for.