Something to Hold Me Tough

I just realized how much I’ve been through in the past six months. Is it normal to go through so many ups and downs in such a short amount of time and still remain sane?
I realized that after a friend wrote to me after having been out of touch for those six months, and to summarize to her more or less what has happened since we last spoke, I found myself describing really terrible horrifying horse-balls-sucking things and really great awesome kickass things:
"I lost my job, I lost my boyfriend, nearly lost my mind, I went to therapy, I got a new apartment with two awesome roommates, two new jobs, I went on a trip to LA and Montreal, saw my favorite band in concert, went on a roadtrip with my awesome roommates…"
Yep. My last six months in a nutshell.
It’s great to not get bored, you can never know what will happen tomorrow when you live in a place like Israel. Especially in Jerusalem. So random! Things can happen out of fucking nowhere. Things you can’t imagine happening in any other situation, anywhere else in the world. Like some Breslev soldier with thick long sidelocks and a large white skullcap, with an M-16 hanging off one shoulder and a guitar hanging off the other. Or some skinny, barefoot random guy walking by you playing a flute like some kind of gypsy. Just like that, on the street. I love things like that most of the time, when they make me laugh and I thank the good lord because I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else but right there on that street, looking at this random guy as he gallops away with his fluttering flute.
But there are some random things that happen that just make me wish to bury myself alive. These things are mostly related to my ex in one way or another, and they’re not entirely random because they usually take place in an area where me and him would spend most of our time. So today I passed by the big Jerusalem Mall, Malcha, and got a whiff of something that smelled like my ex’s perfume. Since smell is the strongest of the five senses in terms of memory, I had an endless flash of memories of my ex hitting me all at once: driving with him to the mall, laughing at the cops who just saw us drive past a red light and stood there dumbstruck, kidding with the guards at the entrance to the mall parking, making out in the car before walking to the door, walking around the mall, checking out CDs at Tower Records, going to the movies, going for junk food, checking out fish in the pet store, checking out cool (insanely expensive) home items at Golf and ZigZag, watching him try on various shirts and leather jackets at Castro…
It’s not that I haven’t gotten over him. It’s that the memories are still so palpable, it is usually followed either by intense pain, panic, rage (at myself and at him) or just plain disgust. The thing is that my mind is usually racing with so many other things on a regular day, so thinking about him is becoming more and more rare. The fact that I’m getting used to not thinking about him anymore makes it that much harder for me when I DO think about him, especially when these thoughts are triggered by something as random and as unavoidable as a whiff of his perfume.
Maybe my therapist was right. Maybe all the other thoughts I have during the day are thoughts I use as a way to avoid the pain that lies beneath, and that pain eventually comes up when triggered. If so, I don’t do it intentionally. The other synaptic charges are related to things I do on a daily basis – work, friends, food, dreams, music, the rare spiritual moments… – and since there are so many of those, there is no more time left for a nostalgic thought of my ex. So maybe it’s unintentional, maybe it’s an unconscious attempt to heal myself the only way I know how – growing a second skin, and pretending the first one (which is a pile of bloody, scarred and slashed flesh already) never existed.
Admitting this is awefully painful. I guess it must be true then. So where do I go from here? To heal this pile of bloody pulp that used to be my skin would involve even more pain. But growing a second skin (which has gone pretty far already) would make me revert back to a time when I refused to feel anything for anybody, and prefered to be thought of as a cold, mean bitch than to risk getting hurt yet again.
Goddammit! Where’s that random flute dude when you need him?
Peace, love and happy birthday to my Booxa!

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