The Importance of a Dying Connection
To not grow is to die.
I’m the type of person who lets people into my life slowly.
I’ve always formed my relationships with detachment and stoicism at the forefront of my mind. In fact, one of my rules when getting close to people, platonically or romantically, is that I need to see them go through every emotion twice before I commit to letting their peculiar ass in. If you’re going to be getting your energy on me, I’m taking my time.
The issue with this could be that once I’ve let time play a role in crafting that relationship, I assume they’re locked into my life as if they’re my spouse.
Not taking into account that people grow apart, have ulterior motives, or simply don’t want what I want.
That’s probably why I overcommunicate—and talk mad shit in my journal.
That’s probably why I try to consider every outcome when I address a situation, and in some cases obsess over the delivery.
That’s probably why I’m reporting on the five stages of grief I felt after a recent connection I was fostering, died.
Before it actually ended, I went through the denial phase. Shapeshifting my desires into ones that aligned with theirs, assessing where the plot was lost, and of course, talking shit in my journal during a daily Morning Pages session.
I studied our connection like it was the LSAT. I couldn’t imagine a world where they were not thinking about the situation in the same way that I was.
It was a connection. How could we not be connected—in all of the ways?
I still don’t know how that works.
But I did know I invested all of this time into a person who quite literally could have been filming TikTok dances in their room, and then I got heated.
One secret about me, I love a little rage.
There’s a possibility I had an addiction to that feeling at one point.
It fuels my addiction to cardio.
It’s like an espresso shot of creativity.
It gives my heart a squeeze like when I passionately hug someone I haven’t seen in a long time.
It feels like being lost at sea and then being found by a big, cozy yacht.
Maybe I am still addicted to that feeling.
It reminds me that there is absolutely no way someone could be gallivanting around their neighborhood when I am not.
The pipeline from that thought to lacing on my OnClouds runs deep.
The repetitive movement allows me to see the connection in a new, exhausted light.
It’s as if I’m watching the same movie from a different character’s point of view.
It then leads me to the shortest-lived phase; trying once more to shapeshift, while remembering the feeling of rage. There’s never been a time that this phase worked, but change has been ignited when it happens.
Shortly after, I feel numb.
I always underestimate the amount of energy it takes to feel all of the feelings from the other phases. I assume the feeling is that of when a star dies and the remnants linger in the atmosphere.
The transition between numbness and acceptance is tranquil.
Like the sleep state right between Theta and Delta waves. Or waking up after Lasik with 20/20 vision. Or being in a meditative state where the soul is floating above the body.
It all makes sense.
Why it didn’t last; when they had me fucked up; appreciation for not wasting more time.
That process allows me to become wiser, spot dealbreakers earlier, and get closer to the connections that fill my soul.
Like a plot of soil being added to the growing plant that is me. And then freedom from letting go.
Returning to that stoic, cautious state is usually followed by a warmer heart.
Not too much, though.
There is a lot of intimacy in never speaking again. -Salomesdiaries
You take time to see yourself with them if not yes it is time to move on. Your mate is out there.