I have songs firmly implanted in my head that describe subconsciously how I feel before I am aware of how I feel.
As I had my existential crisis yesterday, playing in my head was a line from Kristin Vigard’s version of “God Give Me Strength” from the film Grace of My Heart: “I want him . . . I want him to hurt.” I was thinking about myself though, I wanted to hurt. I wanted a real, physical manifestation of the emotional pain I was feeling. It’s been close to my thoughts ever since.
The song, written by Elvis Costello and Burt Bachrach is devastating — lovely, and painful, and melodramatic, and gloriously wonderful.
The song asks for strength in dealing with heartbreak. It opens with: “Now I have nothing, so God give me strength/cause I’m weak in his wake/And if I’m strong I might still break”.
My mother taught me that the only thing you could really ask God for is grace — the strength to handle whatever you are being confronted with. Grace and strength. Please, God.
The passage that I have continuously heard in my head begins:
I might as well wipe him from my memory
Fracture the spell as he becomes my enemy
Maybe I was washed out like a lip-print on his shirt
See, I’m only human, I want him to hurt
I want him
I want him to hurt
Except I don’t want him to hurt. I want to hurt, to feel this pain manifest.
I am emotionally devastated for myriad reasons, most of which have nothing to do with BFD. Money is tight. Clients are late to pay or are balking at paying. My big new projects are still a month away. And I did something sort of colossally stupid — I brought BFD and BP together and now I am caught in the middle of that pressure-cooker with no possibility of escape. Seriously, I did this and the likelihood of a positive outcome: maybe 30%. The likelihood of my world spinning out of control: about 90%.
Oh, and I am about to borrow money from BFD with no real concept of how I will pay him back. Yay! (Well, I know how I will pay him back, but I don’t get a paycheck, so any new outflow is stressful stressful stressful.)
My friends are being particularly cruel about BFD stuff, riding me all the time about bullshit details that are important to them, but not to me. Those little hurts add up to big hurts. And, I did cry yesterday in public, as a result.
Plus, I am not sleeping.
My stresses are real. My response has been to decide to break up with BFD. Um, what?
I have been smacked with a serious case of the crazies.
Things with BFD are okay, better than they’ve been. Frankly, the past three weeks, we’ve managed to squeeze in seeing each other at least twice each week, despite the fact he’s been out of town frequently and my mother was here. We’ve obviously reconciled after our “month” apart, which was never a month, and we’re making plans to integrate me into his life more.
The BFD stuff is just an easy thing about which to obsess, but it’s not the real thing — my upcoming birthday/clock issues, my finances, my cruel deluded friends, my car search, finding new business, closing a deal between my current boyfriend and my ex, and so on. Then, throw in my narcissism and body image problems and I have been (not) dealing with the real problems by focusing on my weight. It’s what I can control. It’s how I connect. It’s how I hurt.
The song ends:
Since I lost the power to pretend
That there could ever be a happy ending
That song is sung out
This bell is rung out
He was the light that I’d bless
He took my last chance at happiness
So God give me strength, God give me strength
I am being more honest with myself, my family, and my friends about my disordered thinking. I know, logically, it’s all in my head.
I have to make the decision to become less self-obsessed, less devoted to the fabulousness that is me. I have to stop ignoring the real stresses in my life to obsess over what I can control. The fact is, it’s all within my control. Everything I want is within my reach . . . I just have to reach. It’s easier to concentrate on the easy acheivable stuff. Losing weight, that I can do. Structuring a deal, raising equity for my boyfriend’s company, I can do all of that, too . . . I just have to look beyond my own navel and confront my fears.