Escape From New York

Salt Lake City, Utah

The dust is only beginning to settle.
Last night I disembarked from a 56hr greyhound enduro across countless states and two time zones, unable to sleep, eat, or get remotely comfortable for more than a few seconds at time on my escape from New York City and Marie. Escape is never perfect and's often crazy, as was this. And I'm confronted again with my pattern, my coping mechanism and my craziness. I run. But I can't do it anymore. I can't hide from the fact that as decent a person as I consider myself to often be, I'm often equally as insane. And when I get hurt I run. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again expecting a different result. Once again I ran expecting a different result. I've run time and time again throughout my life and always with the same catastrophic results: I end up somewhere confused and disoriented, having hurt someone that I care about, running low on money, a bag holding my clothes, a head and heart full of regret and remorse, half wanting to go back to whatever it was that I'd run from with only vague visions of how to move forward, feeling shell shocked and saddened as to why it happened again.

And once again I feel insane.

I'm in Utah where I grew up, taking refuge and cover at an old friend's place with he and his girlfriend. And I realize now that I just wanted to be somewhere that I felt safe.

Home feels safe.

Very little is coming into focus clearly at this point. My thoughts wrapped in gauze after the last eight months of and Marie's and my relationship flashed through the landscape of my mind as the Greyhound bus that served as my escape hurtled over the endless terrain. Most of the memories were of the good moments, of holding hands, laughing, sharing a smile, or laying together. Others were of the fights, bruises, cuts and insults. At times I felt like a hostage to the love we had, being terrorized as I sweated and writhed on the bus, my body, heart and soul aching as the visions of our time together flooded and tormented me. The visions were poignant, sad and crushing with their weight of finality of what I'd done - run. I'd destroyed the relationship. And I realized once again that there is no such thing as escape. I'm stuck with what I have done. What I've done is hurt someone who I care deeply for. She tried to hurt herself after I left. And for that I am terribly sorry, saddened and ashamed. I left without saying goodbye. I left her feeling unwanted - that is not the case. I simply didn't want the hurt and the craziness anymore. Both still keep me company. She wants me away from her now. And that I understand. What I don't understand is how to move on and repair the damage.

I wanted out of the relationship, of that I was sure of when I left. We were driving each other crazy. I felt invalidated. I felt trivialized. I felt like she didn't respect or consider my feelings. She felt exhausted, annoyed, and constrained by my need to be heard, sort, and talk things out.

And I left. I didn't know, or don't know how to break away from a relationship without ripping away quickly, like tearing a band aid off. The pain is intensified briefly, but it is done, it is over, and the healing can begin. I wanted to avoid the confrontation, the uneasy limbo of the state of the relationship, the accusations and the drama. I wanted to get rid of the sickness that I felt in the pit of my stomach.

The sickness in my stomach is gone, but the bonds that were still holding the relationship together sting like raw and exposed nerves after having been ripped from the thing that they were holding onto so desperately. There is no escape. There is only pain. There is also suffering. And there is still Love.

Love