A few days ago, my favorite writer, Meg Fee, wrote this piece and it is everything I wish I'd said. It matches my everything right now, and had me ugly crying on my bed for hours the other day. Because it's just that close.
"The violence of articulation. I had a teacher in school who used that phrase and I’ll never forget it. The violence. Of. Articulation. How nearly impossible it is to say some things out loud. How catapulting them out of the mouth is part pyrotechnics, part gymnastics, and one hell of a leap of faith. And how some words, no matter how they are said, leave cuts and stains and scratch the mouth.
But I’ve been choking on I-don’t-knows for nearly a month now, so you pick your battles.
Why is it easier to say the cruel things? Why do those words slip out, slick as oil, so tremendously seductive and so incredibly damaging? It’s so hard to speak from a place of generosity. To say, I am sad and I am hurt, and this can’t go on, but I am nonetheless in awe of you. To say you deserve my respect—my kindness, even as I am so completely and maddeningly frustrated with you—hurt by you.
Because the thing is, it’s not just about the words and the difficulty of getting them out—it’s about figuring out where truth and generosity meet. It’s about speaking from the largest part of yourself—that part that continuously reaches for a bigger life, that says I want more and if you can’t give it to me, I forgive you that—not your fault, but time to go. That part willing to risk a little bit of lonely. That part that makes a practice of faith and thinks well hell if I’m not lucky that I get to feel this, hard as it is. That part that goes to the edge of the cliff again and again and again.
I’m so angry with him. In a completely and totally and ridiculously unfair way I am so absolutely angry with him. For not being the person I wanted him to be (I know). For not falling in love with me (Yes, I know). For not being courageous enough to fight for the thing. For not knowing he’s worth fighting for the thing. For that one time on the subway platform that he didn’t ask me to dance when the busker sang Isn’t She Lovely. For occasionally being so ridiculously great. And occasionally being so ridiculously not. For those moments when the light would slant just so and I would look at him and see that he’d be a fucking giant-of-a-man if he would just rise to the occasion. For lacking the courage and foresight and necessary grit. Or choosing not to recognize that he is already all the things he needs to be. And more.
He wasn’t the right guy. For me. He wasn’t the right guy, for me. And he certainly never looked at me like I was the right girl for him. And I am a girl who wants to be looked at like that."
If you'd like to read the rest of this piece (and trust me, YOU DO) go here. She's incredible.