Lea pt. 2

Why do we allow ourselves the illusion of hope. Why do we constantly open ourselves up to the inevitable pain that follows. We know that the pain will come. It's not a question of if someone will let us down. It's a question of when, and how hard will they let us fall. It has been my experience that not a single human being on this earth is capable of being completely true. Not a single one of us can fulfill the fantasy that others see in us. We are all inherently fallible and have capacity for cruelty. Most often, our cruelty stems from pain that we have endured at the hands of our human brethren and sistren. Sometimes it is just a result of personal joy. There are those of us who take pleasure in the pain of others, not because we were scarred as children, but because that is the thing that triggers our pleasure centers. I don't think that I have ever met anyone that this describes, but it wouldn't surprise me in the least if I were wrong.
I know that there is something wrong with me. I know that I seek out cruelty. I know that I am addicted to the hormones that are released when my heart breaks. It's one of the hardest highs to achieve, but it seems like I always give it my best shot. I just keep on chasing the dragon that got away.
Speaking of dragons that got away...
Lea was a military brat. Her father was a navy man, so she was well traveled and well educated. These are two things that always impress me in a person. Lea was also a theater geek. There is nothing in this world that will endear a person to me faster and more securely than a love for the arts. I was raised to appreciate the theater in all its forms. Lea was also a talented musician. She could sing as well as play several different woodwinds. I myself have been complimented many times for my voice, and can play both the oboe and the clarinet.
Lea never played for me, but we sang together in my car on many occasions. She told me repeatedly that she loved the sound of my natural voice. It is because of her that I have worked to develop the sound of my natural voice. No matter what Lea and I did together, it seemed that all she wanted to do was to make me feel like I could take on the world. Perhaps she did. Perhaps she wanted me to be more than I was, more than I am. Perhaps that would have persuaded her to stay. It's too late for that now, I fear. I've killed her too many times in my heart for any connection to be made no matter how far I go in the professional world. I will always see any attempt on her part as a reversion to plan b.
God knows how many times I ran my fingers through Lea's hair. God knows how many times she looked at me with those deep, passionate eyes, inviting me to kiss her. God knows how many times my face has been sprayed red with her imaginary blood. God knows how many times I've stood over her beaten and bloody corpse. God knows how many times and in how many different hideous ways I've defiled her. All of it is in my mind though, and will always be. It doesn't matter how much time has passed. It doesn't matter how disappointed my heart is. I still love her, and a small part of me will always be in love with her.
This feeling has faded over time, but more so to hide the pain that it still courses through me. The pain of this loss has perverted every relationship since. I have always since, sought out affection from multiple quarters. No one woman has ever made me feel as whole and liberated as her. I know that no woman that I have wronged will understand this. I know that they will not understand how I can still feel affection for someone who has done to me what she did. None of them will ever understand why it is her that I compare them all to. I don't compare women to my mother like most men. For one, I know that there is no comparison. For two, I had more than one mother figure growing up. Lea was the first woman that I ever met that measured up to all of them.
There is a photograph somewhere, of Lea and I standing next to my christmas tree. My right hand is resting on her right hip, and my left thumb is hooked on one of her belt loops. Her right hand is rested on my right hand, and her left hand on my left arm. She is leaned up against my chest so that she appears shorter than me. (We're the same height.) She has a contented and happy smile on her face. She is in the arms of the man that she loves, posing for his mother. I burned one copy of this photo. I don't know what happened to the other ones. I remember sitting in the car one night after work at UPS. I just happened to pop the glove box, and this photo just happened to fall out. I remember the tears streaming down my face as I burned her face out with the lit end of my cigarette. I remember tossing the paltry, flimsy remains of that picture out the window as I pulled on to 294. I remember thinking that it was over. I thought that it was over. I thought that that act of destruction had immolated the last vestige of feeling for her in me. Were that true, I might be married and a father by now.
I don't blame Lea. It wasn't her fault that I fell in love with her. It wasn't her fault that I let myself get so carried away with my feelings for her. It wasn't her fault that noone could truly satisfy me while she was gone. It wasn't even her fault that she broke my heart. It was my heart to be broken. I should have been more cautious. I should have steeled myself against the pain of disappointment. That is something that I have never been able to do with women like her. Some women have thought me cold and unfeeling at times. It is at these times when I feel the pain of my existence most pointedly. It is when I smile the widest that I long most for a shoulder to cry on.
No shoulder ever does though. No shoulder heals the pain. No amount of tears will blot out this ink in my heart. The words are etched there like on a diamond. The only release that they have it seems, is here on this screen. I will keep writing until the words no longer make me cry.