Lonely Road

— by Paul McCartney.

*~*

I tried to get over you.

I tried to find something new.

But all I could ever do

was fill my time

with thoughts

of you.

I tried to go somewhere old

To search for my pot of gold.

But all I could ever hold

inside my mind

were thoughts

of you.

I hear your music and it’s driving me wild.

Familiar rhythms in a different style.

I hear your music and it’s driving me wild

again!

Don’t wanna let you take me down.

Don’t wanna get hurt a seocnd time around.

Don’t wanna walk that lonely road

again!

Yeah, yeah. Oh, lonely road . . .

I typed out this song, just because it’s the only one that I’ve listened to recently that fits what I’m feeling. I was thinking about the questions that I just typed out in the last entry, and was reading some of my notes, specifically from Melanie. I know I know the answers to the questions I posed. I just . . . wonder why I bother feeling. I mean, look at the lyrics up there! Loving a person can still leave you hurt and bleeding and walking that “lonely road.” I don’t want to be alone, even amoungst people. I want to be loved. I want to be cared about. But I can’t even guarantee I am by the person who claims to be my “bestest” friend.

God . . . I don’t know what’s going on with me. I wish . . . I wish . . .

“I wish the goblins would come and take you away. Right now.”

Why is it too much for me to ask for a best friend I can be secure with? I mean, I can just see it. Tomorrow, when my questions or accusations, or whatever become too much for him, I can just see him asking me something along the lines of, “Can’t I just be holding you right now?” Because he says that being close to me in a physical sense is comforting to him. It is for me, as well . . .

But what’s the point of it? Does he think my questions will just disappear, be wiped from my mind when I’m in his amrs? Does he think I’ll forget the years of pain etched into his eyes from a woman who should be locked in a padded room? Does he think I won’t see the shadows he’ll constantly be running from? Does he think that if I close me eyes, and rest into his arms that I can forget?

I don’t forget.

I remember.

I remember seeing him that day after those phone calls. I remember starting to cry, and rushing over to the biography section and hugging that one John Lennon book to my chest, begging to get myself under control, and to not cry when I went back out there. I remember his expression at the church when he saw his mom when she hadn’t come with them. I remember his expression, and his voice when he said, more to himself than anyone else, “What the Hell is she doing here?” It was the first time I recall hearing him curse. I remember the look in his eyes when he ran out of his house and over to mine that one night. I remember holding his hand as I almost literally saw his resolve weakening. I remember how good it felt to see him again, after not hearing from him for two months. I remember . . .

I remember so much. And I can’t just get rid of those thoughts. Even if I can banish them during the day, they creep up and rest with me at night. Haunting me, taunting me, pulling me in, and not wanting to release me.

Sometimes I lie on my side at night. My left side, with my right arm draped over my stomasch, and my left arm sort of folded under me so that my hand is up near my head. I’ve sometimes pretended that his arm was around me. That everything was all right. That I don’t have to do what I know is coming tomorrow.