Cabot O’Callaghan is in love. And shattered. And happy. And afraid.
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Well see what you wanna see, you should see it all
Well take what you want from me, you deserve it all
Nine times out of ten, our hearts just get dissolved
Well I want a better place or just a better way to fall
But one time out of ten, everything is perfect for us all
Well I want a better place or just a better way to fall
—Modest Mouse, Bukowski
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I wrote a love letter today. It starts with this:
My Love,
I’m such a mess right now. Everything is falling apart—rope’s end. I miss you and my son. I feel like I’m failing myself and he and I’m heartsick over you. It feels like too much, all my dreams and fears and deep gnawing needs converging, and I think about walking into the desert and surrendering to the brutal truth of our Mother.
I’m stranded in Lubbock, Texas. It’s about 1,500 miles from home. A series of life-changing decisions have led me here and I feel defeated. I cried most of the day yesterday and when I wasn’t, I was choking back the tears. Poorly.
I took risks.
I accepted the fact that I’m a writer and if I didn’t start being myself I would go mad.
I quit my 24-year bullshit “career,” sick of burning my life away on something meaningless.
I sold my house and possessions to free myself from the bonds of economic slavery.
I made plans to build a tiny house.
I fell in love with a woman.
Every one of these decisions was terrifying. Yet I held on to the belief that grace would grow from the choices.
Ah, but the undertow of control is aways lurking.
I am afraid of my words, so they stick in my mind’s throat.
I am afraid of losing my identity, so I doubt my intention.
I am afraid of stepping outside the perimeter of tradition, so I worry that I’ll be shunned.
I am afraid of failing to accomplish my goals, so I crumble to adversity.
I am afraid of being hurt, so I push her away with the reflection of my fears.
Control and ego are bedfellows. I’ve let both get the best of me.
Here in Lubbock, I’ve hit bottom. A confluence of intense emotions collided in a cosmic train wreck with my egotistical desires.
I was already exhausted in every way possible from the blitzkrieg I’d torn through the states in the drunken Godzilla of a truck.
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The truck I borrowed to drive halfway across the country to tow my tiny house trailer back to Sacramento broke down 300 miles north of Austin. I was already exhausted in every way possible from the blitzkrieg I’d torn through the states in the drunken Godzilla of a truck. The constant struggle to keep it from rampaging off and eating everything on the interstates had left me emotionally weary.
So I broke. I had nothing left to resist despair.
The fact that this is the second of my attempts to transport my trailer personally stings bitterly. Just a week before I was in Austin and my plans derailed despite my will. I had to fly home and regroup.
My will undone. Control lost.
The week before that I fell in love with a woman. I mean hard. The frustratingly ironic twist? She lives in Mississippi. I tell her she’s the worst best thing that’s happened to me.
Fate fills an aching need, then curses it.
“This isn’t you,” she declared of the words I wrote her. I’d hurt her, but she refused to flinch and instead punched a hole through my bullshit.
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Then just before I leave Austin with the trailer, I betray my lover’s unfurling heart with projected fear and doubt, thinking I’m the one being vulnerable as I struggle with the obstacle of distance between us. Her response was strongly resilient and unexpected. So blinded by my fears, I struggled to understand why she interpreted my words the way she did. “This isn’t you,” she declared of the words I wrote her. I’d hurt her, but she refused to flinch and instead punched a hole through my bullshit.
I get what I want, but powerless to negotiate the terms, I threaten what I hold precious.
I’m watching my plans and desires fly apart like wood chips out a shredder.
Yesterday I was unconsolable. I had to sit with my powerlessness. The hater within had a field day. Thankfully my lover pulled me to the shallows so I could dog paddle.
Sometimes that’s all we can do.
And then as I lay in bed I started to get it.
Hitting bottom isn’t a weekend retreat, it’s not a goddamn seminar. Stop trying to control everything and just let go. Let go!
―Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club
So today I wrote a love letter as I waited to hear from the mechanics about the fate of the truck. It started full of despair, but it distilled down to this:
This is the only way out of the prison I’ve built for myself. The Invisible, perhaps alter-ego, placing my stone heart on an anvil of circumstances with no choice but to surrender to the hammer and the shattering …
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… if I allow myself to believe in forces beyond the flesh, beyond cold clinical rationality, this is the only way out of the prison I’ve built for myself. The Invisible, perhaps alter-ego, placing my stone heart on an anvil of circumstances with no choice but to surrender to the hammer and the shattering …
How many glaring and uncanny coincidences must the Universe give? How foolishly blind I’ve allowed myself to be. How cowardly insistent I’ve held on to my doubts.
How lucky I am for you? Beyond measure.
I’m still stranded in Lubbock. The fate of the truck is still unknown, sitting atop a financial bomb. My lover and I are still parted by distance.
All I can do is surrender.
Photo—~My aim is true~/Flickr
Yes. You are a writer.