::Pure::

A writer

2010-10-12T23:59:00.000-07:00

At what point does one realize that they are a writer?

Over this past week, as I have been more actively posting, this question has been turning over in my mind. I write. It's always been something I do, something I've loved, even something I've been addicted to. But where in lies the separation between writing, and being a writer?

On one of my pages today, my dear sister-in-law posted an Anais Nin quote: "The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say". She said it made her think of me.

"Other people think of me as a writer?" I wondered to myself. Insert here every negative thing you could ever think to yourself about why they shouldn't and "why you are not a writer" -- both from myself, and even from others I know.

All day long at work, all I could think about was what I would write tonight. Throughout the day, little things inspired me, prompted me ... but I also felt an obligation to attempt to get the story of the journey to the current time. I would push away the more creative impulses and focus instead on what to say in the planned post.

Even as I got home tonight, I'd step into a room, something would capture my eye or spark in my mind, and I would think "Oh! I should write about that!" But by the time I got to the computer itself, the other story needed another chapter. I felt emotionless and kind of disconnected and unfocused as I composed it, just praying that somehow the words would skip their way into that pretty little city called "Touching". Yeah, I read it once I finished, and I think it made it about 1/4 of the way to "Touching" and then pooped out.

There are days when you live something so intensely, so continuously, that actually having to think about what its like to be in that moment can be completely exhausting. You live trying to be outside of it so that it doesn't consume you, and then you write, trying to tell the world the story of your heart and your body, and you separate from it, just so you don't collapse. And suddenly, the story is empty and has instead become a narrative, a boring documentary instead of a lively commentary.

I think the hardest part for me is trying to relay the "way that it happened" ... when all I can really think about at the moment is about how upset I still am that I cried yesterday during an ultrasound (seriously??? who does that??) because it hurt so bad, and about how hard I tried not to scream during the biopsy. I'm not used to feeling or expressing weakness in front of many - it is something that only the rare few that I trust get to see, and here I was, not only crying, but crying in full nekkid glory. Sigh.

I started writing again to release my story and here I can't stand to write it.

A writer reaches people with the words that they paint, the worlds they build and the characters that they make into reality. The pulse of their language drives into hearts, souls, and minds -- and creates change. They touch many and capture their readers to the point of hunger for the next words. This is the goal and dream of most writers, and few ever achieve it.

My goal, instead, is to express myself. To pour everything onto this blank screen and feel every moment. To never write something that my heart isn't in, and to stay true to my muses and inspiration, no matter what form they take in that day. To me, some days I may be a writer, and other days I may be just someone who writes.

Journey, pt. 2

2010-10-12T21:00:00.000-07:00

Note: In continuation. I will try to get as far as I can. Again, this might be disjointed and a little messy. Please comment if you have any questions. You can find post 1 here.

There really was more to that night than just "opening up". Here I was, sitting in the car with one of the most important people in my life and I was bawling my eyes out. Breaths were more like desperate ragged gasps for air between random tangents related only to the fleeting feelings of that moment, nothing connected, and everything grasping.

All that kept surfacing again and again was how alone I was, and my fear that this could be the last ... everything. That the last time I loved and was loved, could be the last. I felt as though I was locked into a horrible dream where karma was the evil judge, and every past sin was laid before me and shouting "this is why"! I was a mess, and even after he left, I sat in the parking lot at work and cried.

Once I felt my tears had dried enough, I began my drive home, and my phone calls. It was time to let everyone know. I had crossed the line now from my secret to my battle.

***

I made conscious decisions based on many factors on who to call and when. I saved those who would be most fragile or had enough other things going on themselves for last. My grandparents, brother, and best friend were all at the end of the list ... I hated to think of causing them worry or raining on the joy and happiness in their own lives. To me, it really wasn't as important to create a support circle as it was to protect them.

There were surprises among the calls, people who were full of information, people who had a million questions, people who were uncharacteristically supportive ... and a few others who had no idea what to say, and haven't tried since. I quickly became tired of the words "I'm sorry" ... as they felt almost like a cop-out, something to say when you don't want to say what you're really thinking. I also didn't want pity, I just wanted them to know. Even from the beginning, it was never about how bad I could feel about what was happening, but what could I do to change it.

The doctors and I began talking about what to do, how to fight, what tactics and measures to use. Surgery was always a given, but as I am a single mom, the timing was dependent on when I could actually afford to take time off of work, and still maintain our already fragile financial life. Thankfully, my employer is family-centric, and there is a paid vacation scheduled around the Thanksgiving holiday that would allow me enough time to heal without a huge impact on our checkbook. It was 9 weeks away when we scheduled. The question now was, what would we do between now and then?

Now keep in mind, I don't have insurance. I have no idea how I can pay for my medication, treatments, the surgery, and still keep our little family afloat. Thankfully, when I was discussing all of the options and choices with my cousin, she was wise enough to tell me that health can't wait, but medical bills can.

I started to research. I heard this over and over again from friends and loved ones as I talked to them about what I would do. Clinical trials, hormone therapies, chemo ... so many foreign words to learn and things to make decisions about. I am usually a very decisive person, and I could not make up my mind. My process was more one of elimination based on comfort level than one based on actual facts, at least at first. This meant clinical trials were a no-go, and, well, chemo wasn't exactly ranking high either. Sure, its track record was amazing, but there was just something about losing my hair that sent me into a collapsed mess of tears every time. I opted for hormone-suppressants.

At first, I was comfortable with my choice. I had already been having hot flashes, mood swings and night sweats. Only - those all now got worse, along with a couple of other side effects I hadn't bargained for. About as fast as I started it, I decided I had made the wrong decision ... but of course, I had to wait to talk to the doctor.

***

... again, to be continued. Sorry!

The beginning of a Journey (pt. 1)

2010-10-11T22:47:00.000-07:00

Note: This might be disjointed and a little messy. It's all fairly fresh and yet jumbled even in my mind. Please comment if you have any questions.

A few weeks ago I started a new journey. I guess, to be more correct, I started on the journey several months ago, I've just become skilled at ignoring my body and warning signs. And putting off doctor appointments.

Anyways, I digress. Early in September of this year I finally went to the doctor. Something was wrong, and not just the "I think I'm getting sick" kind of wrong, more like a "wow, there is something serious going on here" kind of wrong. If you know me though, I talked myself out of every possible scenario and had convinced myself it was nothing. Even joked that maybe I was pregnant.

Of course, as of January 2007, that would be impossible.

I went in, they drew blood, they did tests, they cut pieces, they scheduled more tests. They did exams, asked questions, looked at history. After the first few rounds of tests that were followed by letters and phone calls of "Everything looks normal for x and x and x" was when I started to realize that something actually was seriously wrong. And there were a few tests that I still hadn't heard the results on.

A little history: Years ago, it seems like lifetimes now, although it was not really quite that long, I had tests and procedures and such. I took hormones, and pills and had things removed and frozen. I had always just assumed that if the "Big C" ever came to get me, it would get me in the same place. It's fairly common, and I expected it.

After I had my youngest, I did the routine post delivery check up. Things looked fine, in fact, more normal than they ever had, so I felt confident. Headaches that started shortly thereafter, the night sweats, the hot flashes, things late or missing - well, maybe it was normal. I didn't really know anyone who had had a tubal before, how was I to know what I could expect?

Things changed over time though, got more intense. I never scheduled another yearly appointment again, even in spite of all of this. Instead, I'd text my best friend if things weirded me out. "Whats this mean?" became the opener of many conversations.

And again, I have found the little path that leads away from my point. Eventually, after much prodding and cajoling and hard hitting attempts to convince me, I ended up at the doctor that September afternoon. Then, it was time to wait.

***

A couple of weeks passed. If you've ever had a test done and you had to wait for the results, you know what it feels like. You jump a little everytime the phone rings, you count down the days til they expected to have them back. When the phone finally does ring and you see THAT NUMBER, you actually hesitate and take a huge breath that you're afraid to exhale for fear of everything crashing down. And you haven't even answered the phone.

I was at work when "the call" came. Not just the "you have results" call. The voicemail left was closer to "you need to call us as soon as you get this." When I got to a phone to return the message, I was never more glad that I had shut myself in my bosses office and she was gone for the day. There is nothing like hearing that your results are back, but that you'll need to make an appointment to discuss them, and we have openings tomorrow, Friday afternoon, if you're able ...

I don't know which emotion hit first, it was something between angry at myself, scared for the girls, and worried about my friends and family. I don't think I cried for an entire week -- nor did I talk to anyone about it. There was nothing to talk about. Yet.

Friday afternoon, under the guise of running an errand, I left work early and went to my doctor's office. There is never a more alone feeling than knowing you're about to hear something so very possibly life changing that you'll wish you had someone by your side just to hold you up. But I didn't have anyone. I was alone in receiving this, just as I would be alone in the fight of it. It is my body that is sick, my mind that has to go through the thoughts, the pain and the sadness and joy of it, so it was only fitting that it was only me who would hear what came next. Fear has never suited me well, and I wasn't about to let it start.

I do feel bad for doctors. I cannot imagine having to tell someone who's children you've delivered, whom you've come to know and joke with and laugh with, that they are sick. I can understand the stammering, the sideways glances, the moments taken to recollect thoughts and choose words. I am also grateful that this friendship is one that I share with my doctor ... I don't know that it would have been easier to have just been "another chart" when I was told.

When he came in, he was more serious than normal. His expression soft, and yet clouded, he started, and didn't mince words. "We think you have cancer."

Now, you remember, I always expected this. From the moment of that first biopsy years before, it had been something I had planned for. I was calm and calculated in my response, enough that I think I surprised him. I had him fooled, but of course, I was a spinning spiral of confusion and fear and the sickening realization that no matter how much you think you expect something, that when it actually happens, you feel like an entire convoy of Mack trucks decided to drive over you and back a few times.

I have family members and friends that recommend taking notes at every appointment. I keep meaning to bring something, but I suppose for me, writing something makes it real, and I don't know that I am ready for all of the numbers and the language to be a part of my reality yet. Because of this, I came away from that appointment firmly believing that I had cervical cancer. Wake up call to me by the next visit.

When I went in again to discuss the ultrasound results, it was obvious, quickly, that I was wrong. I had endometrial (uterine) cancer, and it had spread to my cervix. This was when the first jolt of fear hit me. This was not a part of what I expected at all.

That week, I was noticeably snappy. I was irritable and emotional, the latter of which is not normal for me. I would cry over silly things, oversensitive in my reactions to jokes and normal interactions. Finally, one night, I broke down to another of my closest friends. It was the first time I actually let the fear and sadness and worry of it all overtake me.

... this is all I can emotionally and physically handle tonight, so it is to be continued ...

My mind (or, the loss of creativity)

2010-10-10T23:09:00.000-07:00

It's come to my thoughts lately, that for years, I protected what I cherished most. My mind.

Even through painful and debilitating bouts of depression, I hesitated and often refrained from treatment so as to not scar or impair my ability to do what I love most, writing. And somehow, in the gaining control over the depression by avoiding that which causes it, I have also encapsulated every essence of what made me creative. I have become dull.

My fear of words has surfaced in the trying-to-find-myself period that we are currently in (more commonly referred to as fall). This is usually a time of re-build, re-focus, re-invention and creativity for me, and this year, I'm just not feeling it. I have found that when I try to tap into these words - the way that colors and pictures and emotions could pour themselves into a line filled by rises and falls, how curves and paths of language used to dance and skip along the page for me - that I am instead trying to pull them weakly from behind the bars I have guarded them in with. This is so unnatural to me, this fear of expression. Why am I so afraid?

I suppose that in a way I am afraid of the emotions hidden beneath. In the last year I have cried more, laughed more, lost more and found more than I ever have in my life thus far. And yet, with most things, I feel nothing. I have surface attachment to things, even to people. I feel love as though it is a butterfly fluttering its wings softly against my skin but it never finds a place to land and take a few seconds respite. It flits near and far from me, depending on who or what is happening in my realm in that moment, and only in that moment. I feel sad moments much the same, tears one moment, numbness the next, as though I have no right to cry.

I suppose that I also feel that I am "too busy" to take the time anymore, to write, or to feel. It's exhausting, this task of creating ones soul on a page, all of the thoughts and emotions messy and the words taking on meanings and lives of their own ... knowing that likely no one but your own mind can understand, but praying that someone will, all the same. You give birth to these words, this language, and then you set it free and watch it flounder in a world where everyone speaks French and it is fluent only in Greek.

I know most of my fear lies in reaching out to the emotions that writing requires. It means giving up control over the depression side of things and allowing the good, the bad, and the ugly to rear its wonderful impossible head again, and then trying to clean up the aftermath. I have seen those days, the darkness that causes shadows even in the bright sun, the tears that run rivers over lined paper, causing the blue ink to run like veins on marred skin. Un-caging these animals means letting all of them loose, for where you free one, you must free them all.

I fear the intensity that becomes me when I write. I no longer see the world as it is, but I create it as I want it to be. It wreaks havoc and instability into my life, causing chaos and the screeching cries for change that I don't know that I am young enough for, not to mention capable of, following anymore. I have children, a job, responsibility that I have enough problems shouldering without the distraction of the dance of language.

Yet tonight, here I sit. I am writing. It beckons me, the words taunt me, daring me to pull them one by one, little by little and to let them breathe. It feels empowering somehow, freeing, and also has the feeling of playing with an entire case of zippo lighters while standing next to a gasoline tanker.

It makes me wonder just how often I can do this. How much can I write and feel and yet maintain control over the beast of depression? How much of my mind and my soul and my words can I bring to life before they take on a life of their own that smothers the one I need to have? Is the one that I think I need merely a misconception of perspective?

I suppose I feel that I am not at a point in my life, within my friends, that I can be the creative one. I have been overshadowed by artistic talent with vision that humbles me and intimidates my desire to put anything to paper, for how can I ever measure up to such a view. I am afraid of my words not being good enough... but good enough for whom? Is the fear that I feel enough to bind the words forever?

I know this -- without this part of me living and breathing, it kills the rest. I long for nights with a keyboard and a blank screen, begging me for patterns and texture, asking me to create it, to build it and make it everything in my mind - almost as much as I fear it. Maybe I haven't stopped protecting it after all.

Reality

2010-09-06T00:42:00.000-07:00

It's funny when you know something, deep down, and yet every time it comes to the surface you push it away. Almost as though, if you will it away enough, its not real.

Love is a strange thing. It can allow you to fully give yourself over and over again without thought to receiving anything in return, without needing or wanting. It can be very fulfilling, and yet so empty and void of everything at the same time.

I am torn. Between two places, one person. Do I continue to love and sacrifice absolutely everything that I need and want, and live with things as they are, because I can never expect anything more - or do I suck it up and find away to get away because I do want more, and it would never be what I truly want?

There are so many ways in which I pride myself in not needing the "fluff". I don't need (or even want) someone around all the time, who has all the same interests, etc etc. That being said, I am a girl, first and foremost and there is just some "fluff" I can't live without.

I love touch. Hand holding, arms around me, cuddling up on the couch, random kisses, amazing hugs ... I need it. It's calming, peaceful, and makes me feel like someone knows I exist. I am a hopeless romantic -- I love the little things. Thoughtful things. Voicemails of songs that mean something, things that make my life easier, little ways that someone could show me that they know me, they see me, and that they thought of me.

While I've come to accept that at this point, these things are impossible ... it pains me to hear others notice it as well. Commenting on the non-chalance of what we have, the casual intimacy that is anything but intimate. I can count on one hand the number of time I have felt my hand in yours. This isn't who I am, and its not what I want.

I hear you talk about beautiful women, women that you're not afraid to say "wow" to. And never once have I felt beautiful to you. Never do you tell me what you're thinking ... as though you're afraid of the way I would react.

I cry a lot anymore. I am learning that love is not enough. Where that was once what I thought I needed, I know now it's not. Even friendship - you are my best friend - is not enough. We truly have nothing. And it is the reality of that that saddens me most. These are the thoughts that overwhelm me in silence, that haunt me in idleness, and that paralyze me of feeling. I want so badly to shut it off, to disconnect it ... but we pretend, day in and day out, that we have a connection. Instead, we have become an obligation to each other, a prison... we are trapped within this warped perception. Neither of us know how to define it and I challenge that maybe there is nothing to define. I can't stand this thought, this implication of illusion but I can't shake it's authenticity.

When we were together last, I almost asked why. I talked myself out of the question because not only did I not want to know your answer, but I knew you'd never give it. I also didn't truly know why I'd answer myself.
I don't understand this dynamic, why it has changed me. Why I don't do exactly as I would want to do, or say what I would want to say. All I know -- it's because I am afraid of you.

You are not good for me. There is nothing more I need or want that you would give me at this point. I know that I should not settle for less than what I can live with, and yet I find myself willing to, because of my love for you. I am no better than the naivety that I so hate in other girls. The desperation of a sickening love that has consumed them enough to forget themselves. And I have forgotten me.

I am a girl, who needs to be needed. I need to be wanted, appreciated, complimented, and touched. I shouldn't feel bad for these things, and yet I do. My guilt is heavy, and I feel as though this is my karma, my worth come back to haunt me.

I have become broken. Before, where I was cracked ... I am now laid open, bare. I have wounds that have nothing to heal with, as though caused by acid or poison. My confidence in who I was, what I could do, what I would become or have, or even want has become nothing more than days full of hope for the hopeless.

I know that you could be all of these things - you would do all of these things - if you wanted to. You have before - and you will again -- although not with me. But if you can't do these things with me, then you need to do nothing with me. You've become the cancer to my heart and soul that I cannot treat with medicine. The only answer is removal.

I know that I have pushed you away before, only to draw you back closer. I am weak - and I need you to be strong. I need you to use your walls, your reality, and what you want -- and keep me out. I need you to push me away and keep me there. For my own health and safety. I can't do it alone. I will never be able to.

I cannot blame you for this. You knew, just as you've always known. You questioned, you doubted, you stood on the fence and teetered back and forth, something blaring "no" to you, loudly and clearly ... you tried to tell me and I couldn't listen. Love seems to not only be blind, but deaf as well.

We have everything, and yet, I've found that everything is also nothing. And it can never will be anything when only one side wants it to be ... that is the reality.

(posted without edits or proofreading)

You know who you are...

2010-07-03T10:35:00.000-07:00

I want to be able to walk away from you, clean, whole, and happy. And yet I can't.

There is something about you - about us - in whatever capacity "us" is - that I'm not free of it yet. There is too much to learn, too much to see. I'm learning that what I thought of as a relationship is apparently far more shallow than what I should have thought.

Things I never knew I wanted, I have in our friendship.

There are times I wrack my brain about why I love you so damn much - why I can't imagine my life without you in it. I've tried to convince myself that I only want you because you don't want me...

I love the way you see the world. The details you catch that others overlook. I remember seeing the world with that depth years ago. The lines, the color, the ways things connect, the flow of life. The way the world breathes. You can make anything out of everything.

I love the way you make me laugh and smile. The way you never want to leave me in a situation where I could be upset. When I'm stressed, you remind me of all the light things in life, and the joys of it. Just as your place has become my haven, so have you. You are my peace and my solitude ... in a perfect balance. There is no one else I would rather be near when I don't want to be near anyone at all.

I love your uninhibited passion when you're creating - whether its music, photography, sculptures, or a new idea or thought. I love that you think in a way that isn't concrete. That everything can be something different and that you greet each thing with an amazing childlike wonder. Just watching you makes me want to pull you close and kiss you until it takes my breath away.

I love the way you talk of how you were with other girls before ... I envy them. I wonder what it feels like, to be wanted by you, to be loved by you. I ache for that, to know that feeling ... I can't imagine ever wanting to let it go - I don't even have the words to describe how it would feel to me. Surreal, magical, complete. For myself, I get glimpses of it - every time you kiss me, or when you touch my skin ... never before have I felt an entire world melt away, and with you, it does. I am no where but with you. Always before, it's perfect, intense, uninhibited, full of meaning ... and then again, we become nothing. I fight myself from running up to you when I see you and pulling you to me, every time. I talk myself out of spontaneous kisses, even when I feel like I need to. How can you encompass so much of what I love yet be so much of what I hate?

I hate that you know that I love you, and yet you still call. You still text. You come with me when I go out, we make plans, you dance with me at the bar, you capture my eyes with your own, the way you hug me... I can see the sorrow in your eyes. I hate the way you were in front my exes, with the girls, when we were alone in the wilderness ... you were mine, you were ours ... and yet you're not. It should tell me you have no concern for my feelings, that we're stuck in this sadistic cycle because we currently have no escape. Yet, I can see you're confused as well ... you don't understand why you don't feel ... almost as though you should. If I worked elsewhere, we would grow apart, and the pain would end of trying to hope as the hopeless romantic I am, that someday you'd grow to see me as something else, something more.

I hate that you won't tell me "not ever". I know you tell me again and again there is nothing there, but then the dance of it all continues, and you say and do things that friends just wouldn't do. You're so bent, it seems, on not cutting off your options that you'll hurt me again and again in the process. Who does that to a friend?

You play the act of pretending to care - remembering just enough to matter. I know its a game ... I once had this perfected, scientific. I could draw others to me like a bug to a lamp - enticing, captivating, and deadly to them. The joy in the game was receiving love ... the point of it all. I would do all the right things, say the right things, even if it meant hurting them in the end. I didn't consider the feeling of them, the reality of who they were. I ruined so many, and now I am in turn being ruined. In the end, all that mattered was that I could be the "perfect girl"... and now I am the pawn, the one tossed aside... only shown attentions and affections when its risked that I may stop showing them to you.

And I know, when someone better comes along, when you see her and something sparks within you - when you find the one you don't have to work at it with (such a stupid conundrum that is, since when have we ever had to work at anything) ... that this will stop, that I will become a fleeting memory. I hate you for that.

But I love knowing that right now, before she comes along, that if I just need to hear your voice, you will answer if I call. I can count on plans with you, time with you ... and try to enjoy what I have, even if it will never be what I want. And you know, you're all I want. We have it balanced so well, its so set and yet dynamic ... it's so hard to see an amazing relationship that truly isn't one.

I love that we can spend days without talking, and pick up where we left off. I love that we don't need to constantly be around each other -- that I can miss you and still feel OK. I love that there is no worry, no concern, just complete trust and pure enjoyment when I am around you.

I love the little things you do, absentminded expressions ... the way you sigh, the way you laugh - you have different ones, you know, for different things. I know them, I anticipate them. I smile even now at the thought of it - knowing just how you'll look when someone says something, the way you smirk in response... it's my familiar.

I love that you take the time to know me, to talk with me. In a world where so many see only parts of people, and never delve into anything more, you explore who I am, what makes me tick. I love that we can sit on the phone for hours, barely speaking, just being a part of each others evening.

I love when you play piano for me. Nothing brings me more joy than that. I'm honored that you let me inside that intimate part of your world. It makes me feel special, important. The way you show me new things you're working on, the ideas you have. Seeing you sitting there, playing, all of your feelings into the keys and the flow of the sound speaking for you ... it's one of the most beautiful things.

I love that you teach me. You show me things, tell me things I have never known. Especially when you teach me pieces of your arts, glimpses behind your eyes - it's pathetic that it makes me love you even more. I have so much admiration for you, my respect for you is beyond measure.

I hate how I have tried to hate you and can't. Why shouldn't I hate someone who drags this on?

I hate that the brightest part of my days is seeing you mid-morning, smiling that brilliant grin, your eyes twinkling with mischief and anticipation of the day ahead (its there, even if you are dreading something, you live and breathe hope and optimism, it pours out of your eyes).

I love the glances we share that communicate so much - a conversation unspoken even about the littlest things - often unintentional but there all the same.

I love the way you secretly brush my arm or against my back, as though to simply say "I see you" ... it means so much to be visible. Something even just so slight improves my mood by millions.

I love the way you call me out - you pull no punches and allow me nothing to be insignificant - you know my patterns, my habits, how I will react to something. You know what my looks mean, you embarrass me easily, and yet it makes me smile. As much as I act as though I hate it, it means so much to me.

I know that you know what I wish for. And you know that I know it won't happen. I see the conflict, the apology behind your eyes. I have spent many nights awake, trying to remember how to be in unrequited love, and still live.

It sounds silly, but when he passed, I didn't know what to do. My anchor and compass in this world, my closest friend and the man I loved more than life itself was gone. The man everyone assumed I would be with for the rest of my life and yet was star crossed ... I didn't understand his passing. If not him...

And again, I have an anchor, a compass. Someone who can ground me and set me on the straight sights, and doesn't even know it.

Slowly, I began to see you. I fought against you for a long time - reassuring the guy I was dating that there could never, would never be anything. You weren't my type. I didn't want to like you, I was content respecting you and your talent. And I didn't date people I work with.

But you amazed me, I'd never met anyone like you. You met me head on, effortlessly, it seemed. You understood my humor right away, you knew me quickly. You intrigued me as you were contradictory to yourself in so many ways. I had to know you, to touch you, to kiss you, even if just to feel that energy.

I wasn't worried about falling for you - I had more than enough walls up that would keep that from happening.

Now that I know you, I see how ridiculous it was for me to think that. You are the master of destruction, and your forte is in vulnerability. I have come to realize that I now fight so hard for control because you've completely demolished the only part of me I had control over - the ability to keep someone else out. You scare me because you have all of me. I'm completely unobstructed from your view. No one knows me as you do. And you would expect me to not have fallen for you?

You fit everything I'd wanted - hardworking, family oriented, sweet, independent, sarcastic, funny, free, creative, confident ... you truly see the world, something I had always prided myself on.

You have an easy confidence, an optimism that is contagious. At first, you simply reminded me of him, even to the way he carried himself... and then you surprised me. Changing around every turn, intriguing me. So different from him and yet so similar. You keep me interested, which is no easy feat, as I am so quickly bored.

You know some of this, of course, but you will never know the depths of this, the colors it paints with, the dance or the intensity of it, because it isn't yours to know.

Sometimes life throws us into a situation we don't understand, and we have to learn the lesson that even in as much as we seek the answers, we may not yet be ready for them.

I can no more force you to love me as anyone could force me to love them. I am old enough to know that you can't help who you love, nor can you force yourself to feel something when it just isn't there. Sometimes I wonder if you stick around trying to make yourself feel or trying to figure out why you don't.

Love is beautiful, painful, blind, rich, aching, enlightening, and far deeper that I could have ever known without you. It is far more intricate, complex, and confusing.

If I learned anything amongst my hatred of you and my love for you, that is it. You have shown me that I am able to love patiently, kindly, selflessly and unconditionally. And I will always love you.

Emotions

2009-11-10T00:42:00.000-08:00

Warning: This blog could contain sudden outbursts of anger and colorful language. Not appropriate for children.

You know who you are,

How can you hate someone who is dead that you love so damn much that it makes it so you can't breathe when you think of them, when you see their name? I do though, I hate you.

I have no idea to this day why I chose him over you. I didn't even know I had you. Isn't that stupid? How did I not see. You came up every damn day after work ... and I assumed it was because we were friends. Nothing more. I was so blinded by the hurt I'd been through I couldn't see that what I wanted was at my front door. After all the years I wanted it for.

And then there was her. I felt obligated. Didn't I owe it to her to give him another chance? To try to make a family work? I'd failed one already. I didn't want to do it again. And I chose him. Over you. Obligation overtook my blinded heart and I walked away from you forever. I did that.

But I had wanted you so long. I can remember every look, every touch, every hug. I remember the night of the accident, the night of New Years, the times at Moms, the way you'd hold my kids, the way you looked when you were in treatment, and not once did I love you any less than I do now. I can see every stage of you, from 16 to 30, and remember every breath as if it were this moment.

And it wish it were. My life stopped on July 16. I felt the truck hit me, the way that everything on this earth crashed into me all at once. And I don't want to let go. I don't want to breathe again. I don't want to wake up past this day and feel anymore, because if I move forward, I am moving farther away from you. And I don't want you to be gone.

You were my compass, my rock. My constant. I longed for you as an angel longs for wings. I could breathe because you did. You loved my children as though they were your own, and in a way, they were. I clung to parts of you I could pass on to them. Did you know that every single one of them has an Irish based name? I chose them for a reason, I felt pulled towards them. I would look at you holding them, playing with them, and I felt something I've never felt before or since. My baby bear especially. She was at home there. Just as I was in your company.

When I heard you'd married, I was startled. It was then that I decided I'd never get married again. And here I was, engaged. I sabotaged left and right, and yet I was a fool. I knew we spoke no more, that the chance had forever passed. Its who you were. I felt like Juliet. Every man I've ever been with knew that my heart belonged to you, that my soul was yours, even though you never knew.

The day you left us, I locked away my heart, my soul. They had lost the other half to themselves, and it feels so unsafe to pull them out, unprotected. I hate that I love you and you're not even here anymore to know or to ever love me back. You weren't supposed to leave.

You weren't my spouse, but in a way, you were. You were what kept me going. The first time I drove to Moms after you passed, I cried. I cried so much I pulled over. If you watched over me at all, you know. I saw trucks like yours, bikes like yours. Your face as I pulled in, your arms around me, your smile. I wanted to die along with you. I cried myself to sleep at night, I felt cold ... alone. And I still do.

I locked myself up, stopped going anywhere. Ignored friends, made bad choices. I became reckless and depressed. I tried time and again to force myself out. I am still trying. Its not working.

I feel so broken. I ignore guys, sabotage dates, find ways to make excuses to be too busy to meet anyone, see anyone. I'm scared to death, to be honest. I don't want anyone to replace you. I don't want to love anymore, to feel anymore.I'd rather stay safe, lonely, and let you live every single day with me because no one is competing for your memory.

I hate that you died. I hate that I never had you. I hate that I am not allowed to feel like this because you were married to someone else. I hate that you're not here to dry my tears and be my rock. I feel like if I move on, that you're so much farther away than you are now, and I can't handle that. I don't think I can really live without you.

I don't know what a day farther from you would feel like. What does it look like? How do I breathe? I know that time is going on, even if I cant move on with it. Don't you see? This is why I hate you. I hate that I love you and because I love you I stopped living.

How do you get to the point where you can live again ... and be ok with the person living through you? How do you make it past the day that they died, and not feel like you will collapse when those milestones hit every month? I haven't figured it out.

I'm so angry, so hurt, so sad. I can't stop tears at random moments. I see your handwriting, and my whole world crashes to a stand still. Someone asks about the kids names and I can barely breathe as I try to explain. I see someone with your name, and I hope against hope that somehow they will become you or be just like you. People bump into people that look like you, and I am jealous of them. What I wouldn't give to see your face, to touch you just one more time. To have a chance to tell you.

And yet, about all of this I feel stupid. Silly even. I have no right to these feelings. I have no right for my life to be on hold.

But it is. And I'm not sure when or if it ever will not be. I'm afraid of what lies beyond this moment, this time. Of what getting past this means. Will I forget you? Will I forget what you felt like? What loving you meant? I can't live a life without that, without you.

I fight this war every night, over living or loving you. Living has yet to win. I've convinced myself that as long as I am alive enough to function for my kids, thats all that matters. Everything else in me can be numb.

I've created a world in which I can talk myself out of everything. Out of every risk, every effort. I give up easily and don't try hard enough. I've convinced myself of the tediousness that is dating and learning another person to escape the hurt that I never knew was possible until you. Until you passed, it was still all a game.

I've created the illusion of busy-ness, so I have an excuse, a way out, without giving it to myself. I am no longer me, and I have no idea who I am without you breathing the same air, looking at the same stars, sleeping under the same moon. I am adrift, lost, and without a compass.

I hide away the emotions behind a dam of epic proportions. To let the tsunami loose is to risk ... and I can't allow myself to risk, when I don't even know who I am when you don't exist. If there is a balance, a way to exist and let go, I've not found it yet. Looking for it ... might just be too scary.

Milestone

2009-10-27T22:28:00.000-07:00

This is a difficult night for me. I keep feeling the thoughts creeping up on me and I've been fighting them back as though reality will somehow stay at bay by doing so.

I am turning 30 in less than 2 hours.

Last year, on this day, I felt the heavy weight of the impending year. The burden of attempting to fulfill all I'd hoped by this day. I laid out plots, dreams, hopes, even fears to overcome.

And strangely, life got in the way. This year has been a battle in itself, to stay upright, to float, even to tread water at times.

I look back now, and see changes that are better for me than the plans I created. I lost a job that caused me crazy amounts of stress, took me from my kids, and drained me of every piece that made me who I am. I lost a relationship that was more of an addiction than something healthy. I learned to not compromise because of doing so much of it and feeling the unease it caused.

I discovered how much my family means to me, and I spend more time with my parents than I have ever done since I left home 15 years ago. I am learning to relax, to cuddle, to laugh, and to watch movies.

I've started a job with a company that helps me feel worthwhile and irreplaceable. I'm happy there, and its like a mini-family.

I've become content with being a single mom. I have moments of loneliness, and wish sometimes that I had what my friends and family members have. But in the end, I dont have time for it. I have beautiful girls that count on me, and that I love with all of my heart. There is nothing like their hugs, their kisses, the way they look at me when something makes them happy.

I may not have a huge successful career, make a ton of money, or own my own home, but I have learned about myself and about the real path I want my life to take. And I think its better than any of the plans I had for myself.

And tomorrow, when I wake, I can make new plans ..and take a new step. After all, its just a new beginning.

Complex

2009-10-12T20:23:00.001-07:00

Authors note: Trust me, if this doesn't make sense to you, you're not alone. I reread it, and I'm so filled with conflicting thoughts on this topic right now, I can't make head nor tails. I'm sorry its so topsy turvy, but it also personifies the way that I feel love is right now, just in the way it flows unevenly down thought currents. If you understand it, then leave a comment and explain, because I'd love to be enlightened!

**
There are times when I want to smack some people upside their heads. That, or maybe ask them if I can biopsy their brains to figure out why the hell they think the way they do.

Love seems to create thought patterns that defy all logic or reason. We all have this fairy-tale vision of what love should look like, the sweet, the romance, the butterflies, the cutesy... but what does real love actually look like? When you're in the thick of the mess, the obstinate, impossibleness that really is love, what does it look like to you? What does it look like from the outside?

Take a couple I know. They're in the middle of this thing, or rather if you want to get technical in time frames, the beginning. Complicate matters that she has a kid. Not his kid, but a kid. That he loves like its his kid. As if love itself wasn't complicated enough. And they're young.

They're living a life most 30 year olds live. Jobs, daycare, stress, bills and all in this hard economic times. Add on top of this, neither were ever modeled positive, loving relationships. Enter in resentment, harsh words, name-calling, manipulation, anger... and the reckless emotions of young love. Can you feel the swirl, the way the current rips you around like you're in a whirlpool? Good. Now add some sharks.

This is their love. The sharks constantly threaten the health of us, just as love constantly threatens their individual worth. Love makes you so reliant upon the commitment and emotions of another person in relation to yourself, that it becomes like the life raft to keep you away from those sharks. What happens when that life raft starts to sink?

No one ever INTENDS for it to sink. A sharp word here, something overlooked there. Unspoken expectations. Disappointment, yelling ... a fight over money, over food, over whos turn it is to do the dishes. All of these can slowly deflate the life raft, and love begins to feel not so certain. A little bit unsafe in those already frightening waters.

So many times, love wraps us up in the emotions, even the commitment, that we build ourselves into nothing, or at least very little, without it. We become stuck in the thought of love without ever practicing the art of actually knowing love. Especially when you're young, when your raft starts to go under, even a little ... you can be driven to rash measures. You try to test the depth of their emotions.

What does that test look like, when you're young, in love and your life is sinking? Can it look like ... a couples counseling appointment? Talking about cheating? Walking out the door? Threatening your own life ... ?

Love should never have to be tested, we hear. The stories we read as kids, the movies we sit through. Love is just always known. Or is it? If you're standing in the midst of love... doesn't it feel sometimes as though its going to find a way to disappear? Don't lie and say no, you're solid in your love. Even the best marriages have their moments of worry. What if you said something the wrong way, pushed a little too hard?

You may be sitting here reading this, and you may wonder what I'm getting at (ha ha, as if I really know!). This young couple I'm talking about, they're undergoing a test of their love. And they've tested, threatening in ways that no one should ever have to test (theres that word again). And not because they don't love eachother. They do. Not because they're young. I challenge that its because those of us who know what love is don't take the responsibility to teach those younger than us HOW to love. Its not just a parents job. Anyone can model this, anyone can show someone else how to love, and how even to fight lovingly. We can impart to anyone the things we know. And we don't.

We instead sit idly by and we watch. We see them begin the patterns that are destructive to them, and we know they're destructive. But its not our place, so we say nothing until its too late. Until they're stuck so far into the rut they're in, its inevitable. We give them ways to scurry out of it, to run and escape instead of handing them resources to build it back up. What would you do, when you're faced with someone you love, whom you've watched get to this point of love themselves?

Watching this couple, I have had to consider what I think love is and the way real life allows it to manifest.

We are told: love should be easy. Love should just happen. Love should be romantic and sweet. Love shouldn't say harsh words. Love shouldn't get angry. Love shouldn't have to be tested.

That's not true in the slightest. Love is never ever easy. Love is full of differences, and unknowns and perspectives and people. Love is full of emotion, raw and hungry and lonely. Love is more than hard work. Love takes commitment and passion and fire and intensity. Love is exhausting, trying, it gets pissed off ... sometimes it even gets pissed on. And love definitely requires tests. Its too fragile not to. But love is also beautiful. Its the complexities, the hope and the chaos of it that makes it worthwhile.

Why doesn't anyone tell anyone this? Is the truth not the sugar coated pretty picture we're so desperately hoping for? We read books, watch movies of "love" and we're mesmerized. We want that. We get mad when the love we have isn't what we want, what we've been told we should have. When it isn't just the right way. We even tell our friends to get out of things that aren't quite so perfect, just because they're unhappy for a moment. We turn our heads from those who cheat because their partner couldn't "give them what they needed".

What about being true human beings, true friends and giving others what they need? The skills to love authentically, the support to do so, and resources to try to keep love intact? Then maybe the tests can be healthy, and won't leave someones life in jeopardy because of the turbulent emotions that surround it.

How can we tell someone that that isn't what love is, if that's the love their living? If love looks like that to them, who are we to say otherwise? It may not be our love, our perspective, but it doesn't make it any less real, and it doesn't make it any less deserving of respect. And isn't love - in any of its forms, faces, and colors - worth fighting for?

I would hope that by understanding the perspectives of love, I can at least better help that couple learn to test their love in a way that doesn't test their life.

Sadly, I know this feeling happens far too often, for too many. Not even just the young ones, but those who are my age, and those who are older. It is the nature of what love does to us. Real love robs the sense of sensibility, it robs us of sound judgement, and we just do. Because honestly ... we should.

This couple is lucky enough to have people around them who care, who share and who listen and want them to succeed. I worry though, for those who don't.

The next time a friend comes to you with a story of how wrong their love is making them feel, try to understand how it was love to them to begin with ... and then give them a tool to find that love again. Don't be so quick to feed them the shoulds ... and try to find out the does.

Life is messy ... and love is chaos. But at least it doesn't do it alone.

Subconcious

2009-10-11T00:26:00.001-07:00

There comes a time in your life when you realize everything - and I mean everything - you’ve ever experienced will at some point parallel someone else life … and that they’ll need your guidance to navigate the waters. For some of us, that’s easy. A simple pep talk, a few harsh words. And then there are some of us who don’t like the sound of reality so much that we’ve learned the art of not listening, because we’ve learned to tune out any of the voices outside our own.

Let this be a voice instead, that is inside. Words you read, become your own. You have to think them, and therefore own them in a sense. I hope and pray that this ownership comes to whom its due.

The subconscious mind is a subtle thing. Don’t laugh now at such an obvious statement. Its not always that obvious - because sometimes we can make an assumption about our perception of our subconscious mind. We RATIONALIZE that which we want to be truth. Sadly, rationalization isn’t the same as intention, and nor does it equal truth.

I want to tell you a story. You can determine for yourself if its true.

**

Years ago, there was a girl. She had everything you’d assume one could want. A house, beautiful kids, a husband that loved her dearly. She also had a heart and soul that raged like a wild stallion stuffed inside a horse trailer with far too many companions.

As one does when there is a part that’s unsettled, she tried to hold it in. Of course, that wasn’t possible. Holding in such a fury and storm is like trying to capture the power of a hurricane to use as your own personal vacuum cleaner. The pain of it starts to strangle you and that soul inside begins to die slowly. And we all fight death. And its about how we choose to fight death that determines whether or not we actually live.

She stood in the middle of everything she had, and wistfully dreamed of what could be, and what could have been. She thought about those in her past, and those who were potential. She talked to her friends about her thoughts - her single, free friends. Not once did she mention this to someone at church, not once to anyone who was married. She wanted only the ones who knew the taste of freedom and could convince her that it was best to be the ones to whom she spoke.

If you asked her though, she wanted to stay in her marriage, stay with her children, stay with her life - just with a little bit of fun time on the side. Oh, the subconscious.

In the end, we all get what we set out to find. Even if it is different from what we thought we sought. After all, who would want to give up that wonderful life? Even if it was boring, drab, routine and totally making her crazy.

As it turned out, those fun single friends did convince her. They showed her how much fun they had. They helped her overlook the obvious fact that she had children and they didn’t. They made everything seem easy, they spoke with authority on things to which they were ignorant and naïve. And she believed them… because she wanted to.

Before she knew it, she was making excuses. Girls night out, night over at a girlfriends house, oh, just going out to sing a song, be home soon. Oh, it’s a weekend birthday party at so and so’s house, I’ll be home before you know it. 8pm returns became 12. 12s became 2. 2 o’clock returns started to seep into the next day after work.

Until one day, she came home to nothing but a lamp on the floor. And nothing else. Her children, they were gone. Her husband was gone. All that he had left her was her clothes, and a single, solitary lamp. She had gotten what she wanted - freedom to run like the wild stallion that she felt she was. She crumpled to the floor unable to move. She had lost everything she actually wanted and instead now held before her the emptiness that freedom meant.

**

There is more to this story, but what happens next is unimportant. Its insignificant compared to the lack of decision, to the lack of direction she allowed herself to have. I know someone who is flirting with this fate, and she is flirting fast. She doesn’t even believe that she is, just as this girl above didn’t.

But this girl above, she pushed for it. We all can see where she would have driven her husband to take the family from her - she was destructive to everything a family needed most. Sometimes our pushing comes a little lighter. Hidden things here, secrets there, putting our own wants and needs in front of our spouses or families. These little things, well, they’re not so little, not in a marriage.

I hope that this message finds its way home, and that there can be another way found … change that stallion to a bird - give her wings. Let her fly a little, but teach her how to fly safely, how to harness that wild untamed power and need into something that doesn’t flirt with disaster. Because if disaster flirts back, its too late.

Loss Blog Pt. 2

2009-10-10T20:32:00.000-07:00

I am sure this part will go through many edits before I hit publish. This one will either be the easiest or the hardest part to write - there will be no gray area. This is the loss that has changed my entire world, has opened my eyes to myself, to the perceptions I had, and to what little I know of myself and life. Though it wasn't the 2nd loss for me, it feels right to place it between the two, as the second continues far past the culmination of this loss, and this loss began in the midst of the first.

In July of this year, I lost my anchor. I didn't realize how much of a compass this life was to mine. The ways that fate had intertwined and yet starcrossed for so long. I took for granted that which I expected to always be there, to constantly exist. Never did I realize the magnitude of someone to whom I'd barely spoken a word in 3 years... devastating earthquake which would erupt for the months that followed, the nights marked in sweat-soaked dreams, the evenings drowned in tears, the sight of familiar things that brought on a torrent of tears. The way someone whom I had never truly been able to love - how it had made me never want to love again.

Never had I experienced a death such as this before. In moments, I could see every memory flood. The way he'd hug me, the way he'd lift the kids up and swing them around, the look in his eyes when he spoke. The way he'd come up and visit every day after work, relieving me for moments of the baby, cuddling and cooing with her, staying as late as he could before heading home ... to think of my blindness, to see what could have been... but I chose instead, to become the second choice.

How to feel like you've lost your life partner, when you were never partners to begin with? In the pain of it all, it makes no sense to me, and yet here I sit and feel it anyways. I feel ridiculous, my life halted over a man that was no more than a mere friend.

Mere is hardly the word. Who was there to pull me out of the truck when the bed jammed the door in that awful accident? Who sat with me in the hospital when I felt alone? Who danced with me that New Years Eve when everyone else stood away from me, silent. Who called me time and again after no contact, and found me even when I was impossible to find? I remember his truck, his motorcycle, the look of him on it. The smile on his face as he'd get out of the truck and saw my face. The way he laughed, his touch. Even his handwriting, I can't bear to think of rubbing away - I remember the day he wrote it.

I know, I sound the picture of insanity.

How to explain to a world, that someone who was never yours, was your everything? Only, I never told him.

What difference did it make? When I chose otherwise (without knowing, or else, I'd have chosen) ... he walked away and did too. He married someone else.

In April, my mom told me of his last birthday party. They knew he wouldn't make it to next April, if he even made it 6 more months. I went, he barely spoke to me, and I left devastated. I wished I hadn't gone.

I remember July 16. I was getting ready for work, and my phone jingled. A text from my mom, two words. "Bad news". Out of all of the things it could have been... I knew. I hit the floor from the weight and tried to gather myself. I called her instantly, and she hesitated over the words. I asked. Yes, she said, and the tears ran like rain. All I wanted then was for someone in this crashing world to hold me upright, keep me steady. And I was alone.

As soon as the nanny arrived, I ran to my moms work, hoping to search her eyes for truth ... and finding the sickening truth there. He was gone.

I searched all day for peace within myself, and I found none. I no longer wanted any of this existence without his breath in the same air as mine, his heart beating in the same moment, his life LIVING at the same moment. The impact of him wholly hit me, and yet I had to work through the day, acting as though nothing of consequence had occurred... I was a numb, hollow shell by then... I had learned long ago how to paste a smile on top of tears.

I tried to reach out, flailing as though drowning, and I suppose I was. I didn't understand. How did I FEEL so much? Where was this pain coming from? This wasn't my pain to feel, for he wasn't mine to feel pain for. How stupid was I, to have loved this love and lost it and feel as though I'd lost someone I'd spent my lifetime with?

Still, even now, I have to fight the urge to completely make myself solitary. At this point, love feels lost to me forever. In part because of this loss, I never want to even try to love again. This has shown me death in all its certainty, and I can't risk love again. Because of this, I talk to few, I entertain nothing, and I feel little.

Its because of this, also, that I have found in myself the ways I have so often hurt others, used them for subconcious gains. Ways I showed affection to those that I did not feel it for, and ways that I manipulated situation to satiate some thirst for importance, some need to be needed. I didn't understand fully the difference between need and want. And it was within want that I thought I'd descovered being needed. How wrong I was.

This series of loss - for it has been a series - a familiar dance over time of missed opportunities, ill-timed fates, the ultimate loss itself stretching near a decade in its painful long coming... has taught me to be content with what I have and who I am alone. And to not miss a moment with those closest and dearest. That means to me, that all of my time, my love, my life, belongs in the children given to me - as we never know when time is near. And that means I don't have time for matters of the heart. Besides, my love died with him.

Loss Blog Pt. 1

2009-10-10T20:24:00.001-07:00

So this will be a loss blog. I don’t know if it will cover a series of blogs, but it will be long, I can promise that. Within this year, I have lost much. I won’t use names, but I will use truth, and I will use emotion, which is my own perception of truth as I try to walk through this healing process and deal with the broken edges and fight lines along the way.

I won’t apologize for the way this will ramble, the disjointed nature and shape that it will take. I already know this, I already am familiar with the curves it has, the juts and the ravines. You aren’t yet, but you will be. It may be familiar to you as well, or it may be as foreign as a distant land. Either way, this is real. This is my life.

I cannot say when it began. It feels like its just been. This year has torn me to shreds and created scars so deep that even the superficial makeup of a smile I try to wear to hide them every day is beginning to crack. And in all of this, it centers around the loss of people who made me me, who I identified solidity with, and who shook that solidity to the very core. Its forced me to see me, and often, I don’t like what I see, and I feel crushed to the point of being unsure of where to start again. This is a journey, the journey of a loss.

When I met him, I felt like we would be forever. I know when it changed, and I will never understand how. I did what I could, but I think in it all, I was not her. I was not the chaos to which he was accustomed. I was a different kind of chaos. I will never believe she stole him, I never had him to begin with. As apart as they were, when she threatened to leave, I was a mere fleeting memory of someone to whom love had once been professed. I was the secondary prize when she decided that she wanted and deserved more - and so I believed this of myself when he returned to me. I never again trusted a movement, a word, an emotion or an intention. I suppose, it was me that pushed too hard. I think I will probably use that sentence a few times in the course of this journey.

Its been near a year now since he walked away, without looking back. He has moved on, and I cannot. I miss his smile, his laugh, his touch. No one understood why I loved him, but I did. I saw what we had once had, who he had once been, the way he had once loved me. I could feel it every now and again, when we could reconnect on a walk, or in a simple note, or a surprise lunch date. But I also saw myself as invisible. Not in his mind if I wasn’t there … and I felt the weight of that cloak as though it were real. I wanted him to see me all the time, and I pushed to far in finding it from others, lingering over admiration and respect I was given at work… the way people paid attention. I fell too fast and too deep into the pool of attention, and suddenly, abruptly - though really, there was no other option for him - my world uprooted in a night. Inevitable, yes.

Even more the loss of him to me, I feel the loss of him to them. I hate to hear the tears at night as they cry in their beds, the whimpers of “Daddy” in their sleep. The questions as the oldest one ages, doesn’t he love me, why isn’t he here, I miss him, I want to go to his house. I don’t know what to say, so I just hold, and wipe the tears off their soft cheeks. And I cry too. I offer to her to call, and she shouts back at me, he won’t answer. I don’t know what to answer to that - because she is right, he rarely does. And he never calls. She doesn’t understand, she knows she is lovable. I want to call and tell him - to make him show her… but I can’t, and I know that. I have her call anyway - hoping against hope that he will answer, he doesn‘t - and her voice is a mouse-whisper as she leaves her tear-filled fearful message. I try not to think it, but she knows as well as I do that it won’t be returned. And the little one, she knows not. She doesn’t remember life with him here at all … I’m her entire world. I feel for what she doesn’t know.

There are so many questions unanswered. And the way he fought when he got home, as though we had a chance, I feel as though he was biding time, knowing my weakness for him, until he found a replacement. It hurt so much when he started dating again, the way he plastered the proud announcement over his pages online, and I could imagine the way he looked at her. Then he wrote to me about how he asked her out, and it hit me that he had done and said things that in 4 years I had never come close to hearing or seeing …. I was not enough, to earn or have these things to him.

I can’t write any more on him for now, the thoughts are jumbled and angry and confused and bittersweet.