Pain Hurts—Clark Humphrey
For the sixth, and I hope last, time, please try to actually LISTEN and REMEMBER.
When I say “I don’t want to talk about it,” it DOES NOT MEAN that I really do want to talk about it. It means I REALLY DON’T want to talk about it. That should NOT be so hard to understand!
OK. Scratch that. Calmer voice now. Don’t get upset. Don’t let the “inner gremlin” take over. Tell her with respect, for her and yourself. Start over:
Call me misinformed, but I was under the assumption that being In A Relationship ought to be about making each other feel better, not worse.
When you first came into my life, I felt great. Fantastic. The best I’d felt in maybe ever. I felt the past years of shitty existence melting away from me like muscle stress after a good massage. That whole era of my life was over. Forever. Hallelujah!
Instead of the exercise in ongoing humiliation known as the “dating” scene, I had someone I knew I could have regular sex with, and often enough that I could learn what she (you) liked best. Hearing, seeing, and feeling a woman in total ecstasy, and knowing you’re at least partly responsible for that ecstasy, can do more to heal a man’s psyche than a year of therapy and a lifetime supply of Xanax combined. And with someone I could do all the other everyday-life things with as well.
When we’re not talking, it’s fabulous. Not just the fucking but eating together, dancing, playing XBox, hiking, sleeping, listening to each other’s favorite music, watching your dumb reality shows and my dumb action movies.
It’s just when you’re talking that it falls apart. No, that’s wrong. It’s really when you want me to talk and I don’t want to. Yeah, it’s all me. I accept that.
I’d already told you what had happened to me, in all the detail I’d wanted to tell.
About how everything in my life at the time had died within a week (my dad, my engagement, my budding career).
How I fell into a bad, bad, bad state.
It was a horrible time, a time I wanted desperately to get over.
A time I didn’t, and still don’t, want to relive.
You keep telling me you can’t feel really close to me until you know everything about me. No, until you *feel* everything about me. Every emotion I’ve felt. The deepest, darkest, stinkiest parts of my soul.
You couldn’t just hear the facts of that terrible time. You keep begging me to let you in on how it felt. Telling you it was hell isn’t enough. You want me to relive that hell, in words and emotions, and to take you there with me.
I sure as fuck don’t want to go back to that time in my life. Why would anyone else want to go there for the first time?
Can’t we just be Gillian and Fred, dubstepping our way through life, laughing at whatever life throws out at us, dedicated to building each other up, to making each other feel better instead of worse?
That’s what I want.
If you want to feel pain and distress, there’s who knows how many ways you can bring that onto yourself.
Just don’t ask me to do it with you.
And sure as fuck, don’t ask me to do it FOR you.