Failing at NO contact
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Join Date: Oct 2013
Posts: 11,429
Originally Posted by Acheleus 
That is a wonderful poem. Idea of order at key west is one of my favorites. Got a text about distancing ourselves and then a phone call. Ignored both. Going to go ahead and block. I'm not sure why these attempts at contact keep happening. I'm tired, sad and ready to move on.
No wonder you are tired. Take her "distancing ourselves" and run with a vengance.
In fact, blocking ExAGF and Posting more Wallace Stevens is a great plan
I love "Key West" too--here it is for everyone:
The Idea of Order at Key West
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard.
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker’s rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955
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Join Date: Jul 2010
Location: South Jersey
Posts: 16,633
Originally Posted by airwick
I don't know all about your situation, I didn't even read what others had posted 
I just figure maybe she feels abandoned.
Just a thought.
I just figure maybe she feels abandoned.
Just a thought.
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Thread Starter
Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 1,920
Calling over and over. Mean texts about why this is why she can't put up with me. Sigh. Ok blocking now. I'm so sick and tired of being criticized. I'm not a horrible person. I know I am a good person.
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Join Date: Apr 2014
Posts: 1,544
Originally Posted by LexieCat
I'm sure she does. That's HER problem, not his. It was an extremely unhealthy relationship, and his sobriety is in jeopardy because of her refusal to accept his decision to leave.
A work in progress
Join Date: Jul 2010
Location: South Jersey
Posts: 16,633
Originally Posted by airwick
I never implied that it was his PROBLEM, I was just telling him how she might have felt.
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Join Date: Sep 2014
Location: Chicago, Il
Posts: 123
Acheleus, its been exactly on week since I blocked my exabf. I am not saying it was easy as I had relapsed on this idea before. But let me tell you in one week......Im sleeping, taking care of myself, beginning to feel a sense of kindness return and most importantly enjoying some peace in my life without the abuse!!!!!. You deserve this too!!!! Hugs!!!
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Join Date: Jan 2013
Posts: 1,920
Well I didn't block. She called crying and going crazy. We video talked and she did a lot of cocaine. Very worried and sick. Don't know what to do. Very crazy and it hurts me to see her so messed up. I told her but she ignored it. This makes me want to drink just to not feel bad.
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Join Date: Aug 2012
Location: Chicago
Posts: 5,450
Originally Posted by Acheleus
Well I didn't block. She called crying and going crazy. We video talked and she did a lot of cocaine. Very worried and sick. Don't know what to do. Very crazy and it hurts me to see her so messed up. I told her but she ignored it. This makes me want to drink just to not feel bad.
The only way past is through.
Your sobriety is your priority or it isn't. If it is, you know you need to block her again and let go.
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Join Date: Jan 2012
Posts: 3,699
You know better than most of us that you can't control her, and you can't make her stop.
I hope you know that NOTHING she is doing is your fault, and that the best thing you can do for her is to block her, and leave her to it until she gets sick of herself.
Continuing contact, and or drinking will just mean that both of you want to continue to be sick. You can only save yourself - and you are worth it, and deserve a better life. (((HUGS))) to you!
I hope you know that NOTHING she is doing is your fault, and that the best thing you can do for her is to block her, and leave her to it until she gets sick of herself.
Continuing contact, and or drinking will just mean that both of you want to continue to be sick. You can only save yourself - and you are worth it, and deserve a better life. (((HUGS))) to you!
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Join Date: Jul 2010
Location: South Jersey
Posts: 16,633
You're also providing her with a stage and an audience for these performances.
Your watching isn't helping her, and it's hurting you. So what is the point of having a front-row seat for this?
Your watching isn't helping her, and it's hurting you. So what is the point of having a front-row seat for this?
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Join Date: Jan 2015
Location: West Coast
Posts: 774
Ach, sometimes people are just placed in our lives as tests. Beautiful chaos.... such an intriguing notion from the world you once knew. But you left that world, and for good reason. Keep making the choice to leave it. Keep moving towards a sober, healthy life. It's definitely a journey getting there, and it is in these moments that we define where we are going.
Good job on staying the course.... Now keep going!!!
Good job on staying the course.... Now keep going!!!
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Join Date: Oct 2013
Posts: 11,429
A Rilke poem very fitting to the moment, and from a fantastic book: New Poems, The Other Part
Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes
That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.
Like veins of silver ore, they silently
moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up
among the roots, on its way to the world of men,
and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.
Nothing else was red.
There were cliffs there,
and forests made of mist. There were bridges
spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake
which hung above its distant bottom
like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.
And through the gentle, unresisting meadows
one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.
Down this path they were coming.
In front, the slender man in the blue cloak —
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk
devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,
tight and heavy, out of the failing folds,
no longer conscious of the delicate lyre
which had grown into his left arm, like a slip
of roses grafted onto an olive tree.
His senses felt as though they were split in two:
his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,
stop, come back, then rushing off again
would stand, impatient, at the path’s next turn, —
but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.
Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached
back to the footsteps of those other two
who were to follow him, up the long path home.
But then, once more, it was just his own steps’ echo,
or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.
He said.to himself, they had to be behind him;
said it aloud and heard it fade away.
They had to be behind him, but their steps
were ominously soft. If only he could
turn around, just once (but looking back
would ruin this entire work, so near
completion), then he could not fail to see them,
those other two, who followed him so softly:
The god of speed and distant messages,
a traveler’s hood above his shining eyes,
his slender staff held out in front of him,
and little wings fluttering at his ankles;
and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.
A woman so loved that from one lyre there came
more lament than from all lamenting women;
that a whole world of lament arose, in which
all nature reappeared: forest and valley,
road and village, field and stream and animal;
and that around this lament-world, even as
around the other earth, a sun revolved
and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-
heaven, with its own, disfigured stars —:
So greatly was she loved.
But now she walked beside the graceful god,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy
with child, and did not see the man in front
or the path ascending steeply into life.
Deep within herself. Being dead
filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit
suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,
she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,
she could not understand that it had happened.
She had come into a new virginity
and was untouchable; her sex had closed
like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands
had grown so unused to marriage that the god’s
infinitely gentle touch of guidance
hurt her, like an undesired kiss.
She was no longer that woman with blue eyes
who once had echoed through the poet’s songs,
no longer the wide couch’s scent and island,
and that man’s property no longer.
She was already loosened like long hair,
poured out like fallen rain,
shared like a limitless supply.
She was already root.
And when, abruptly,
the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,
with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around —,
she could not understand, and softly answered
Who?
Far away,
dark before the shining exit-gates,
someone or other stood, whose features were
unrecognizable. He stood and saw
how, on the strip of road among the meadows,
with a mournful look, the god of messages
silently turned to follow the small figure
already walking back along the path,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
--Rainer Maria Rilke 1904
Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes
That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.
Like veins of silver ore, they silently
moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up
among the roots, on its way to the world of men,
and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.
Nothing else was red.
There were cliffs there,
and forests made of mist. There were bridges
spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake
which hung above its distant bottom
like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.
And through the gentle, unresisting meadows
one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.
Down this path they were coming.
In front, the slender man in the blue cloak —
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk
devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,
tight and heavy, out of the failing folds,
no longer conscious of the delicate lyre
which had grown into his left arm, like a slip
of roses grafted onto an olive tree.
His senses felt as though they were split in two:
his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,
stop, come back, then rushing off again
would stand, impatient, at the path’s next turn, —
but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.
Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached
back to the footsteps of those other two
who were to follow him, up the long path home.
But then, once more, it was just his own steps’ echo,
or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.
He said.to himself, they had to be behind him;
said it aloud and heard it fade away.
They had to be behind him, but their steps
were ominously soft. If only he could
turn around, just once (but looking back
would ruin this entire work, so near
completion), then he could not fail to see them,
those other two, who followed him so softly:
The god of speed and distant messages,
a traveler’s hood above his shining eyes,
his slender staff held out in front of him,
and little wings fluttering at his ankles;
and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.
A woman so loved that from one lyre there came
more lament than from all lamenting women;
that a whole world of lament arose, in which
all nature reappeared: forest and valley,
road and village, field and stream and animal;
and that around this lament-world, even as
around the other earth, a sun revolved
and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-
heaven, with its own, disfigured stars —:
So greatly was she loved.
But now she walked beside the graceful god,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy
with child, and did not see the man in front
or the path ascending steeply into life.
Deep within herself. Being dead
filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit
suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,
she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,
she could not understand that it had happened.
She had come into a new virginity
and was untouchable; her sex had closed
like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands
had grown so unused to marriage that the god’s
infinitely gentle touch of guidance
hurt her, like an undesired kiss.
She was no longer that woman with blue eyes
who once had echoed through the poet’s songs,
no longer the wide couch’s scent and island,
and that man’s property no longer.
She was already loosened like long hair,
poured out like fallen rain,
shared like a limitless supply.
She was already root.
And when, abruptly,
the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,
with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around —,
she could not understand, and softly answered
Who?
Far away,
dark before the shining exit-gates,
someone or other stood, whose features were
unrecognizable. He stood and saw
how, on the strip of road among the meadows,
with a mournful look, the god of messages
silently turned to follow the small figure
already walking back along the path,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
--Rainer Maria Rilke 1904
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