Postscript Re: Sarah

All, Journal, Writing

I don’t mind saved drafts, they are vital to the writer’s journey to psychic wholeness; for the alchemy of maturity must be performed alone, in private; however, lately, I have been saving too many drafts in what I can only perceive as an attempt to avoid writing about what I have been meaning to write about: my Sarah – not Sarah, whose loan on my heart is long overdue and accruing fines (As evinced by my last two poems) but my Sarah: her doppelgänger ghost, whom I will always love. Because my Sarah never left. Yes, the Sarah who left a year ago is unknown to me – and I dead to her. It’s a ghost story all around.

But I have to tell it or my memories will be my Shutter Island, a personal abyss. But even the darkness of her ghost wasn’t always that dark. Just sad. Me walking up the hill alone, bringing back a bottle of tequila and a few IPAs, so I could hang out with her ghost and commiserate. Got shitty drunk and listened to the Lana Del Rey catalogue till I was gone enough to feel that both Lana and Sarah were here with me. It was just a girl’s night: a painfully sad, massively lonely, self-deluded girl’s night.

This was one of the stories I recounted in a long letter I wrote her, after I got sober alone here in the mountains. The handwritten letter ended up taking up most of a spiral notebook. I never sent it. Nor the letters I typed to her parents. I just couldn’t carry the truth to her: that I would always love her fiercely.

I couldn’t give her that gift in the face of being perceived as absolutely valueless by her: worthless. She never directly told me to get fucked, but that certainly would have been the kind thing to do. Go back and read some of my poems, it’s a fucking sad story. And she had the right to disown me in the end. She was justified – but not in her means. Still, I wanted her friendship, I wanted to be able to safely love her forever. But it was not safe for me. Is not. I still have the mind-mushing pills they gave me. A kind of break-in-case-of-emergency parachute, which I think I’ll never need, because I’ll never be writing her songs and sending them to her again like I did:

Baby baby come over
You know that I’m sober,
I know that we’re over

It’s a three hour drive, up the I-5, don’t say you’re tired,
I know you’re lyin… I know your line

No, I will never look to her again for an iota of love. But I wanted to. She knew. I told her repeatedly, when we last talked, in an emotionally strained tone of voice:

“It didn’t have to be like this!”

And it fucking didn’t.

Of course, forgiveness is accepting that the past could not have been any different. And I have accepted that Sarah did not wish to remain my friend; I have accepted that we are not friends – will not be friends. In fact, my animus toward her is that of the person who checked themselves into the psych hospital following her refusal to see me last Christmas after we had been apart five months…. But with Sarah, it is all my fault. And some people will never apologize because they will never feel they have anything to be sorry for in light of all you did to them.

And even if I were wrong and Sarah contacted me to tell me I am wrong and that she does care for me and wanted to mend the fence today or in seven years, I would politely tell her to get fucked. Because I am a gentleman. And I don’t fuck with people’s emotions.

So, in regards to Sarah, whatever matters to her in the world, whoever she is, I have no clue. In my subjective perception, she wore the mask I projected onto her from day one, and I never feel I got really far behind it, other than to see near the end that I was really out-gamed and that my mask was not a fit at all.

As a wise person once said, “Pick someone who will make a good ex.” Had I been cogent of this and other things, there would have been no Daniella, no Shannon, no Sarah. But it also ought be said that I was a better ex than I was a longterm partner for any of them. But, from 34 year old me, and from all the poems I have written to my formative loves: fuck you all. Srs fr fr.

My inner-child just high-fived me for that one… but hey. I really had no backbone hitherto. I can tell story after story of my putting up with things that I would have noped the fuck out on from three miles away today. I see you Shannon, not staying with me at my new apartment in the shores on my 27th birthday. Yes that was seven years ago. But fuck did that suck. And a ton of my actions in my relationships fucking sucked too. Where alcohol was always the common factor in my failings, perhaps the common factor in their’s was the vitriol I caused them to feel for me. I have no problem taking responsibility. I’ll take all the blame. I have.

Obviously this isn’t about Sarah. It’s about me.

But I would be lying if I told you my Sarah was not a big part of who I am. And I would be lying if I said my love for Sarah Sarah didn’t make me hate her fucking guts. But you would have had to miss her like me to know how that feels, you would have to love her like I do. And I don’t think anyone knows how deep that love runs.

I always carried the torch. For all of them. Two years after my first love of five years cheated on me and ghosted, I took her back, when, in Gatsbian fashion, I became financially successful in order to do so. The romance is not lost on me. But it was on her.

I carried the torch for all of them. The night Sarah and I met, I said to her, “I thought my story was over.” Sarah was the greatest thing that ever happened to me.

As had been Shannon and Daniella before her. In a way, it was all the same “eternal woman” I was seeking.

But with Sarah there was more magic because I was older. Fuck I loved her. The morning I woke up next to her, I said to myself, “Is this the girl you are gonna marry,” and it wasn’t a question. Sarah. Her hair. Her skin. Her spirit. The energy of her consciousness was my favorite I had ever encountered. Her skin.

I recall listening to countless plays of an incredibly poetic Yung Lean song titled ‘Agony’, which told his own story of recovering after a stay in the psyche ward. It felt like I wrote it.

“Isolation caved in,
I adore you, the sound of your skin”

I have it on now, and it still resounds – minus the “take a pill and go to sleep” part, though the pill would help me sleep – were I less inclined to smoke a QP a month of cannabis instead.

But Sarah. I told her in my letter that she would be the queen of my heart forever. I even have a kind of Jungian model of the space she occupies in the canon of my love, based on the four stages of anima development.

She is Mary. After her came Sophie, the goddess of wisdom, whom – instead of projecting – I have personified as Lore, my Self. Not that binary Jungian models for male and female contrasexual inner development are entirely valid in an emerging post-gender world, but my own anima (inner feminine) development seems to have followed a series of stages culminating in the individuation of the feminine in myself via a trans non-binary femme identify.

Further, I could not project love any further outward beyond Sarah. Where she ended I began.

Another anecdote from the unsent book letter I wrote Sarah was about how much I felt like her after she left, like I was her. Drinking ginger tea. She gave me the first admirable model I had ever known of how to be an independent human. This is so painful to even write. But fuck. I would just drink ginger tea and listen to Norwegian Wood because it reminded me of her.

There is so much more from this last year alone, but suffice to say, I feel sexy in my bike shorts because Sarah was sexy in her’s. And I evoke her spirit constantly in my conscious mind in myriad little ways. And even then, I find it so easy to pine for her. I feel sick to my stomach now. The silence kills. Alexa play “To Zion” by Trevor Hall.

So, do I think Sarah is “cool”, no. I think she is amazing, but she is not cool at all. She’s too cool for me.

Gah, what do I even do with all this. I guess now I decide whether to save it as a draft or to press the little publish button.

I fear I have been too callous, and my expression of love and gratitude too tame, but Jung said perfection lie in the tension of opposites.

And I’ll have to love Sarah for the rest of my life. I don’t think I will ever not miss her or hate her for it.

It’s so fucked but what can I do. I spent this year alone. I went through it all on my own, and only I’ll ever know the dark days of not having a single friend in the world to talk to. There were eight months in the mountains when I didn’t even have a car. I went fucking through it.

So excuse me if I have lost the will to project love outside again, but I have gained the ability to feel it within, from myself, and that’s worth as many fuck yous as my inner child feels entitled to.

And I hope I never feel the need to write about Sarah again for many years. As the sheer amount of emotional energy I have expended on my love for her has been enough for a lifetime. The letter was never meant to be sent. But this Postscript was.

And I really hope it helps me move on. Because the truth is, Sarah doesn’t know me either.

Pps. Found this today looking for something else:

God these two were Legend.

I’m a Bit Glad Even

All, Poetry

Come all the way in a year
To myself, to no more fear; and I know I’m pretty now…

Of fact, I must mention her here, who left a year ago, for whom I already broke my heart – back when I was without a friend and desperately in need of one –
Yeah, I learned a lot in the deep dark,
Singing “Dive in the water’s fine!” while they watched me on camera;
The mental health system kept me alive,
And cannabis gave me comfort when I had none – had no interest in life, when all hurt, and I wanted to die –
Months stuck at home in the mountains alone
Days and mornings Satan would have cowered from – I was Kylo Ren, a real dark, wounded one
Till Rey (The Feminine) saved me
Got sober at 33, after crashing and burning on my own, reborn
Mary Jane > Sarah Jane
LMAO
A bitch-boy no more
Bless my self-respect and the ability to spare my life such ungrateful blameful, shameful loathing as I knew –
And of self-knowing alone I will never open myself their way again
Oh sweet Lawrence
The dogs missed the best of you… (indiscriminate mumbling)… faaaaaaaaccccccckkkkk….
I hope she kisses them once for me,
And I hope she loves her self too,
Always all ways
But not once from me, never again like before, projected Madonna on Magdelane, she was Mary for me
Until the pain of discrepancy withdrew the projection for we (anima, inner-child, hairy-man [shadow]) – SELF sum emerged from the dungeon
Yeah, your boy did some heavy alchemy over thousands of hours spent listening to Lil Peep
And isolated for a long spell, in my loneliness, I magically absorbed her spirit into me, now I evoke her thighs in my bike shorts, her ego in my worth,
But I will never see myself through her eyes again, the thought hurts, lies again
What more can I say, I loved her and love all of me she released –
But she can forget about that friend shit forever
Now I know it is not she but my projection that is dead to me
RIP – I loved Lawrence’s Sarah –
And she changed my life
But I did the work
After I was left for dead, Dantes

Now I’m a Mountain Christ, and even have my own Haydee – fuck me 🤯 – she’s worth at least a few poems to me – but back to We:
I am my sun
And moon
Shopping kmart girls for cheap thrills on lonely nights when I was forgotten,
I courted myself,
And fucked myself too –
Oh, and then there was that part where I actually figured out my philosophy and “spirituality” after I wiped my library of the new age “higher power” sewage in favor of an eternally reccuring universe in an infinite space where Nature HerSelf is God!
SHE, running life like a secret co-ordinating agency,
More intelligent than her Agents:
You and Me
Too dumb to know we are pieces on Her board –
Born of DNA, telos of the big bang
I guess you could say it was then that my life became bigger than one judgy person’s opinion of me
In the end, my projection was cooler
And kind – not nice like her kind
So the letters I wrote went in the archive
Read em when I die
I got no more worshipping of others left in me in this life
Save sweet reminiscences in my memoirs, I’ll write what I write, and your price to pay is exile from the rest of my life –
I already paid mine
And it was almost worth it haha
I kid but I live
Half regretful so many lines were regarding her when I have nothing left to say, but that’s also something to say,
And you’ll never know the price I paid,
Needless to say, it was enough to call her big bluff and blow the worthless toxic bridge for good
It took a year but goddamn it feels good to not relate to her
Guess once you get self-esteem and a loving, healthy relationship with yourself, some people lose the right to live rent-free in your head… as if my love for a lifetime were a worthless thing🤥
I’m obviously still pissed – bad investment –
All I wanted was her fucking friendship forever!!! DEAD. NEVER. NOT EVER.
So we’ll see who really made the bad investment
LongCon is a petty count of monte cristo motherfucker, I really am
My God How I Love Eternal!
Guess my exes got grandfathered in back when I was just a kid
Now my lovers all Sophies and their souls all trophies
Now healers and yoga teachers opening their hearts, getting high, making love w me
But back when we met I didn’t love me so maybe they just see what I do in me
Or maybe the love she did see helped shine a light in me –
Surely
But now I’m Berner415 cold on one hand and christ-hearted in the other
Tension of opposites, Jung: the older I grow the more you become a brother,
And I the grandfather
Shout to a wise man fuck a wiseman
Told you LongCon petty, yeah I have fun
Don’t worry, no one knows your stupid name
But they will
Though I’m really not vindictive, just petty enough to actually make it big
Come on, you didn’t think I was just some stupid kid, did you?
Even Trumpish David O. knew I would stand on his shoulders and piss on his head
But your peak at 23 had no concern for me
I’m going back 11 years, but it’s a potent healing night
Removing projections left and right
Because there is yet integration to be done
And when it comes to what’s in my shadow, you took a lot of my gold –
I know I’m dialoguing via anima when I use “you” instead of she
But there is only one You and that’s me –
I just need all of me
Including the parts of you that I hid from me when I buried (repressed) she,
Everything I projected when you tried on the 5 CT Tiffany and I wanted you to marry me
How’s the ring? haha I die
Even now I’m doing the work bc it never ends, and in this moment, when I realize my anima is possesed by the projection of my first love
Then I know it’s time for a broader me and a more inclusive self-love
What did I bury with you
Ambition
Because your ambition broke my young heart
So I lost my hunger, but I was given my art (see ‘stages of anima development wiki’)
‘The wound is where the light enters’
It just took a long time: a decade to remove these sutures
I was infected long, walking dead
Now I can’t wait to be the cleanest in the cut again,
(And also, just, to be in the cut again, ahem, hello LA)
But I know I can’t wait for the Lambo to feel like Bruce Wayne
The watch doesn’t make the man
But it helps when you have the love of a curly-blonde Katie Holmes
And you’re really a boss when you know you make her feel at home
And you’re really, really a boss when you’re already prepared to let go as she’s tightening, which makes you happy but you just appreciate her more, and let her breathe, like she needs to, because she likes to need you
(And not the other way ’round)
You see, once you establish your own worth, there’s no fearing what you’re worth, or even doubting
For the best people will always love you –
Kind of fucked how long it took me to learn all this but I wasn’t born with me for a dad, though I wish I had been; however, I was born as me, which is the second best thing,
And maybe the first, I mean, I finally think I’m not even mad –
I’m a bit glad even.