I am entering that phase where rejection has become necessary and pulling him out of my system feels like an exorcism of sorts.

That afternoon, the calm I used to bask in was suddenly gone and his mere presence was an earth-shattering disturbance that required all my deliberation to ward off. My heart raced to a speed that I could not bear with a force I could not endure. “Stop, enough” became a mantra that worked for a while to quiet my inner torment; but the struggle was wearisome.

Within a few hours, my agitation grew and my will weakened. In still chaos the air around me became thick and oppressive. Adrenaline flooded my blood until sitting still became impossible. In a snap, something pushed me to run, to flee, and to catch my breath and my resolve that had precipitously forsaken me. Without thought except to force air into my lungs, one foot fell before the other as tears uncontrollably flooded my eyes. I lost all hold over myself and I was filled with shame for this failing.

Then I realized that I was literally lost. Other people began to populate my world again, in particular those who might be worried that I have disappeared. I regained the concept of space and time, of where I was and where I needed to be. Keenly, I felt the solid earth beneath me, the cool air around me, and a new calm entered me.

It is not our time. He is not mine. He may never want me. I find these thoughts more palatable now, although it stings now and then. Our conversations in my mind have ceased and I think of him less, or at least I can now bring myself to stop the reel. I don’t want to be angry and I want to stop running. I want to stop tainting this with my sharp selfish desire. I want to stop holding on to the possibilities I have created in my head of what he and I could become.

It is not our time and time is something he and I may never have. I wonder if I should be the more assertive one, if I could move things along in our favor. Then I remember that that is not the love that I want.

I think that I want love to come to me in languid slowness, at the exact same rate I am prepared to unravel.  In love I want to learn patience and trust and perhaps some kindness. I have never been the fighting type; I am done with clawing and raging. I want love to tread quietly, to whisper in my ear, “I have come.”

photo credit: Alison Christine via photopin cc