Believe Me When I Tell You

The title of this blog is the first line from an absolutely brilliant, heartbreaking song called, “Through The Morning, Through The Night.” The first verse goes like this, if I remember right:

Believe me when I tell you that I’ll try to understand
Believe me when I tell you that I’d never kill a man
But the thought of another man holding you tight
Hurts me little darling
through the morning, through the night

Now, I’m all for sappy sentiment in songs, but this particular song strikes me right in the face because the singer is begging, angry, hurt, sad, frightened, lonely, all at once. This is love, for sure. The doubt, fear, happiness and loss all at once, amalgamated into a single idea, which is why love is so hard to describe.

It’s not “butterflies in your stomach” nor is it a migraine headache and sweaty palms. That is, not just those features. And when it goes away, the void that’s produced tears little bits of emotional dendrite from a thousand different places. Further, it’s one thing if someone does it to you and it’s entirely different if you do it to yourself. It’s sort of like suicide but instead of dying, one continues to be tortured with regret, doubt, sadness, loss and loathing for the rest of one’s days.

Isn’t that a cheery thought for this sunny Tuesday? Not.