• author
    • Kathleen Brotherton

      Columnist/Youth Editor
    • July 15, 2015 in Columnists

    Dark confessions of a feelings whore

    I didn’t meet him. Oh, I knew of him. He can stand in the middle of a room silent… his mere presence screams volumes. My life mantra is careful observation from the shadows with the option of quietly slipping away. His, the spotlight. A grandiose entrance with pure pomp and circumstance of exit.

    He inserted himself in the path of my life. I rolled my eyes and pushed past. Just the same, the twinge started, that deep feeling deep in the pit of your gut that reaches out, connecting with the opposition. He was the opposition. There were no open slots for new humans in my life. He abruptly fired a few people, rearranged my dance card, inserting himself in all the slots.

    We sipped hot coffee in the early morning. We had conversations that a third party would never understand.

    I loved sharing space with him. I could sit contentedly beside him in the middle of nowhere, just soaking up the sunshine that emanates off his soul.

    The same stood true for his storms, no matter how bad they got, I just wanted to be right there, soaking up whatever he would throw me. Crashing, rolling thunder storms have an electricity all their own. I wanted to feel with him, even if the feelings were bad, scary, dark and hurtful.

    I loved the smell of his skin. The sound of his voice. The way his eyes followed suit with his teeth everytime he smiled. I loved his childish moods and his tempestuous temper tantrums. There was no part of him I didn’t want to embrace. There was nothing about him that gave me the compulsion to run. I wanted to take care of him — more importantly, I let him take care of me. No one ever in my life got the privilege of taking care of me.  Taking care of myself was a task that kept me safe from the atomic bomb of hurt that came from being left to my own devices at a young age.

    “Don’t fall in love with me.”

    “Don’t love me.”

    There really was no clearer way the words could be spoken. I liked the way his words were a knife to my gut over and over. I liked the way his words made it hard to draw air into my lungs.

    “I don’t love you like that — I never will.”

    I went to the cemetery and laid on my grandmother’s grave in the sunshine. The typical girl would cry and gasp that she was dying. This hurt, I cannot refute that it definitely gave the sensation of having swallowed a glass of acid. Maybe this is the difference between girls and women, what you do with that feeling.   I pondered how I allowed myself to get into this sort of an emotional predicament. My emotions were a delicately managed team of controlled existence. He walked into my life, shot the manager dead, and let the employees run amuck unsupervised. I came to several conclusion that day, laying on my stomach with my chin on my arms, babbling at the remains of my grandmother. Feeling equates life. Embrace all the tingles of your emotions. Roll them around in your brain and chest like you would a sip of expensive wine. Savor them.

    He gave me a gift. An amazing, sparkly, beautiful gift. It is priceless. Its value will never be estimated. He gave me inspiration. He gave me a fount of emotion to tap as my fingers dance over the keyboard painting glorious pictures with words. I will always love him. I am selfish like that.

    Such a feelings whore am I.



    • Really gorgeous writing. You paint with words!


      • Madgew

      • July 15, 2015 at 8:14 am
      • Reply

      Wow. Beautifully written. I have been there.


      • Kathleen Brotherton

      • July 15, 2015 at 8:34 am
      • Reply

      <3 <3 <3 Thank you ladies!



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