Stories for Charles

My boyfriend made a suggestion to me this past Friday while we were out.

Actually, he made a couple of suggestions, “I’ve been thinking about this a lot.”

This secretly thrills me.

I love that he was thinking about it a lot.

A. I like being thought about (a lot)

B. It is flattering to be considered (as a writer)

C. That he wants things for me

The first thing he’s been thinking about, at least in so far as this conversation went, is that I need a new chair.

It’s true.

I do.

My “desk” chair aka what I call my “therapy chair” needs to be replaced.

While it is, or was prior to my cats destroying it, an exceptionally stylish chair, it is not the best for writing or working from.

And I do a lot of both from this chair, hell I’m sitting in it now.

I’ve balked at getting a new chair for a while, scarcity mindset, why replace something when what I have is working?

But.

It’s not working well.

My body gets very tight after being in it a while and though I have not admitted this to anyone, barely to myself, there have been days when I have avoided sitting down to write because my hips hurt from the chair or I’ve been in it all day long and I can’t stand the thought of continuing to use it.

By the end of a day of seeing clients I am stiff and achy.

Not great.

I haven’t done long sessions in my chair at all this past week as I was on vacation.

I just got my legs back underneath me and I am already loath to be back in the chair.

So, his suggestion to get a better office chair does not fall on deaf ears, or dead legs.

Hell.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to sit down to write this blog, but it’s been needling at me all day to be written, so write I am.

I will be getting a new chair in the next week or two.

I’m just waiting to replenish the coffers in my bank account.

Being in private practice has a lot of benefits, but some drawbacks.

I pay all my insurances (oh, how many types I have to pay, seven…..good grief) and I have no paid days off.

No sick days.

No vacation days.

I have to save money to go on vacation and I have to have money set aside to live on when I return from said vacation as I have had no revenue coming in.

So, just a week of putting back into the account should cover it.

New desk chair coming soon.

I’ll actually be getting something similar to what my boyfriend has, a Branch desk chair.

I really like his chair.

And this will help the writing.

That’s the other suggestion he had, sit down once a week and not work on my blog or my “morning pages” (quotations because they happen at all times of the day. I do try to make them a part of my morning routine, but sometimes they float to the afternoon and once in a brief while, into the early part of the evening) but work on my keyboard.

I.E. write on my computer.

Compile my writings and before you know it I will have a book.

Or a collection of writing.

Goodness.

I have so much writing.

His point was multi-fold.

One that no one wants to transcribe writing from a journal.

Two, that before long I would have enough material for a book.

I like these points.

And then I ran with it in my head.

We talk about it at dinner.

Dinner was sweet and romantic and felt a little like our time in the beginning of the relationship.

It’s been a year!

Give or take that month that we were broken up.

I will not diminish how hard that month was, but I can clearly see that the break up was a part of the relationship that needed to happen and that coming out the other side of it a few months back into being with one another, an opportunity to work and deepen the relationship.

Granted.

I do not want to go through that again.

And we are doing the work, good work, hard work, to be together and grow the relationship.

Grateful.

Anything worth having does not come easy.

And things fought for, I believe, will stick.

I am fighting for this, for him, for us.

Anyway.

I am not here to write about the arc of the relationship repair, but of the writing, the popcorn of ideas that bloomed in my head after our conversation at dinner, during a walk around Lake Merrit in the moonlight, after dancing at Days Like This, a community dance space in Oakland, I want to go back.

“Let me lead,” he said once while we were dancing.

I’m not used to that, but boy do I want to get better at that.

I’m not used to couples dancing, I’m usually out there on my own.

I’m not on my own anymore.

I remember back to my first long term boyfriend, who I broke up with right after we had “celebrated” our fifth year anniversary.

It did not feel celebratory, I had tried to break up with him the week before and he chased me down and begged me to come back, howled at the sky with heartbreak when I ended it, went to every place he could think of and found me in a booth smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee at Nick’s (Home of Good Food) where I had once been a waitress.

J. came in, wild eyed and red faced, the cold of the winter day brightening his high, tight cheekbones, and walked right up to the “waitress” booth (it was the one that all the waitresses used to take breaks in on their shifts, eating our shift meal and smoking cigarettes (back in the days when you could still smoke in a restaurant and no one batted an eye) in and drinking cup after cup after cup of coffee) and demanded to talk with me.

“I knew I’d find you here, please, please, please, talk to me, don’t do this to me, please come home,” he begged, in front of the owner who was behind the bar and my friends who were squeezed around me.

“You don’t have to go,” one of my friends said.

But I had to, or at least I thought I did.

I couldn’t stand him making a scene in front of my friends, in front of people that I used to work for, who were always kind and sweet to me, even long after I had stopped working there and transitioned to working at the Essen Haus and later the Angelic Brewing Company (both places my soon to be ex had gone looking for me first).

So I got up and went home with him.

In the twilight gloaming, in the grey falling light, in the dining room of that one bedroom house, with our cats nervously prowling around us, he begged me to stay, to not leave, “I’ll do anything,” he said, “I’ll learn how to dance, I’ll take dance lessons with you.”

Something I had asked him to do with me from the earliest days of that five year relationship.

“Let me lead,” my boyfriend said. He knows how to partner dance, I not so much, turns out I am the one who needs lessons.

How to not be a single lady, how to be in a relationship, how to be vulnerable and not lead and not be overly independent.

I quietly hatched plans in my head to work on dancing with my boyfriend, instead of around him.

And afterwards, after the dancing, the intimacy, the kissing and the falling asleep, I thought about what he had said about the writing.

I kept coming back to the same line in my head, “Stories for Charles.”

I told him about it the next day at breakfast, Mama’s Cafe, in Oakland.

“I didn’t tell you to write stories,” he said.

Nope.

He did not.

But that is what came to me, a compilation of stories.

I’m a story teller.

I like to tell tales.

And I have a lot of them.

“Carmen,” Alan Kaufman told me once, “writers kill to have the life experiences you have had.”

And that was eighteen years ago that he said that, I have had scads more experiences since then.

But specifically, what I was thinking about was the awe in the voice of my boyfriend, not sure it was awe, reverence, curiosity, wonder, that I can remember details from my past so clearly.

So clearly, that once he stopped me mid story and said that he didn’t think he could listen to my story anymore as I was talking about being in love with someone and we were early in our relationship, before he said I love you to me.

I wasn’t talking about someone I was in love with in that moment, in fact, I hadn’t been in love with that boy for decades, but in the story about my high school crush, I remembered so many details that it sounded present moment, as though it were actually unfolding in that very moment, in my Jeep as we drove up to go hiking in Tahoe last year.

I was a little miffed, I wanted to finish the story, there was a great climax to it.

But, also, sweetly touched, in that moment my boyfriend was disclosing to me how uncomfortable it was to hear about me loving someone else.

I almost told him that weekend that I was in love with him, we were on a hike up by Echo Lake, and I was dizzy with altitude and the beauty of the lake the mountains and he had just filtered water from a stream full of snow melt and I felt lightheaded and breathless and the taste of the sweet, cold water from the stream filled me I caught my breath looking up into his hazel brown eyes and almost said, “I love you,” it was just there, on the tip of my tongue, in my eyes, written all over my face, I am sure of it, but I stopped and kissed him instead and we kept hiking.

I am very much in love with him.

And walking back from Mama’s Cafe and getting ready to go climbing, my first outdoor rock climbing experience (!), I told him that I wanted to write down some of the stories that I have told him, and many that I have not.

Sometimes I get bashful, almost ashamed, of the way I tell stories, they become something way beyond me and I feel that I am rambling and the story is no longer interesting and I’m boring the person.

But I can’t stop telling it.

And maybe.

Maybe.

There is some truth to that.

But also.

They are good stories.

The boy I had a crush on.

The time I was homeless in Florida.

That other time I was homeless in Northern Wisconsin, in the Upper Peninsula.

The drive across country to move to San Francisco.

Getting my black belt in Kung Fu.

Getting pulled up on stage by Michael Franti of Spear Head at a concert in Madison, years and years ago.

Climbing trees as a child, and that one time I got stuck and literally the fire department was called to fetch me out like a kitten stuck on a high branch.

So many stories.

Oh.

Goodness.

That one about my dad when he was dating a woman, a girl really, younger than me, and the father of the child that the woman was raising found out and chased my dad around the dining room table at the house of the girl’s mother (how to even get into the details of this…there once was an alcoholic woman that my father drank alcoholically with, who lived in a house on Mifflin Street in Madison, WI, who had a daughter (the one a year younger than me) who had a baby who was under a year old (said daughter was nineteen to my twenty) and an older son, who was a budding alcoholic that I ended up having a one night stand with, who scammed money and cigarettes off anyone who would spare them to him, the mother of the two drank with my dad and I’m pretty sure had a semi-crush on my father–this woman drank her wine out of a baby’s sippy cup, fyi–and she let me move in with them all, on my father’s word that I would pay rent, no one else was, and I was sleeping on the couch and woke up to the daughter’s ex, the baby daddy, chasing my father, who was naked, around the dining room table because he was irate having found him, my dad, in his ex’s, the girl younger than I, bed).

It was a scene.

And just one scene amongst many.

There are so many stories.

So many.

Thus.

I hereby commit to.

First.

Get a new desk chair.

A nice, ergonomic one.

And.

Second.

Sit at my table and write.

Once a week, not my journal, not my morning pages, not my blog, not the book from my dissertation, just write and see what comes up.

And what I want to write is all the stories that are archived just so in my head.

All the details.

Like how the daughter was barefoot running after her ex who was chasing my naked father around the dinging table, the table covered with an old lace cloth, the candles on the table, a brass candelabra, the time of day, early morning, too early to be watching my father’s naked ass running around a table a few feet away from my sleepy self on the couch in the living room of the woman who lived on Mifflin Street, down the road from the IGA grocery store that my dad liked to go to because the soda vending machine in the front of the store sold Brach’s Rootbeer for 35 cents a can.

All the stories.

All the stories I have to tell.

The Social Dilemma

I mean.

Is it really?

Is it a dilemma?

Or am I just afraid of being judged.

Of having to defend myself.

Or my actions.

Am I afraid to eat a lot of crow.

That’s likely an exaggeration.

It would be a little crow.

Maybe.

Maybe not.

Am I afraid of being human?

Messy?

Probably.

I do sense I will be judged.

But then again, those that know me, care about me, love me.

Are not judging me.

At least to my face.

My friends know.

My important people know.

Why do I need to do anything with social media?

Because.

God damn it.

We look adorable.

Happy.

In love.

Which is what we are.

I love him.

He loves me.

The break up happened not because there was a lack of love.

Then the un-breaking up happened.

We’ve been back together for a month’ish or so.

Tomorrow will be eleven months from our first date.

We’re sneaking up on a year of being in each other’s lives.

Part of me wants to post pictures from our latest trip.

Especially the one of us at a Justine’s in Austin.

This hip French restaurant that a friend tipped me off to.

It was romantic and cool and hipster and fantastical.

We looked cool and handsome and beautiful.

The light was perfect.

The food, so French.

Made me yearn for Paris.

I will be there in about three weeks.

Currently my man is not able to come with me, but he’s looking into it.

It could happen.

He’s got work travel and work responsibilities.

But maybe.

He might be able to do it.

That would be beyond wonderful.

It would be dreamy to be in Paris a year after we started dating.

Especially as the first time we kissed we made out in front of my house for twenty minutes, more?

I said it was like being in Paris.

Where public displays of affection are the norm.

Kiss him in the streets.

Walk hand in hand through the Marais.

Make out in the Pompidou.

Or the Palais de Tokyo.

On the banks of the Seine.

In the Tuilleries.

On one of the pedestrian bridges over the Canal St. Martin.

Or on the pont de Bir-Hakeim just after the Passy Metro stop next to the art Deco apartments where they filmed Last Tango in Paris.

I would detour us down to walk the Isle aux Cynges.

The Isle of Swans.

The little man made island in the Seine.

Just off the beaten path.

Where swans swim.

Trees line the paths.

The Seine sparkles in the sun, the Eiffel Tower is off in the not so near distance, and at the end of the isle is a replica of the Statue of Liberty.

It is uber romantice.

Not swarmed with tourists.

I know.

I know.

When I go to Paris, I am a tourist.

But having lived there for a spell and this being my 9th trip there, I don’t like the heavily touristed areas of Paris.

I get too overwhelmed with the crowds and like most places that have a lot of tourists one gets the junk restaurants and cafes, overpriced tacky gee gaws, and those that prey on tourists, pick pockets galore.

No.

I like the less traveled places.

So I would take him there.

Amongst other spots.

Sit on a bench.

Watch the bateaux go by.

Make out.

Then walk over the pont de Bir-Hakeim and into the 15th arrondisement down Boulevarde de Grenelle to Cafe Cantine du Troquet Dupleix.

Oh.

So, so, so good.

Basque influenced.

One of the best steaks I have ever had.

Also a plancha of shrimp that made me crazy.

Un plat du fromage that was so divine I can still taste it.

I accidentally discovered it on a trip in 2017.

I was staying at an acquaintances home that I had met when I lived there in the winter/spring of 2012-2013.

She had heard I was looking to come to Paris for Christmas that year and she was planning on being in New York, she offered me her spot in the 15th for a tuppance.

I later realized she shouldn’t have charged me at all.

The place was a hole.

But.

I was there and it was my first time back since I had lived there and I was a graduate student on a graduate student budget.

Beggars don’t get to be choosers.

Anyway.

The closest metro was Bir-Hakeim.

And I would walk down the boulevard and pass Cantine du Troquet.

FYI–the resto is named after the top of the Eiffel Tower–the very top of the tower is called a “troquet”.

I would walk past and be completely taken by the smells wafting out into the air.

I resolved to take my friend there for dinner.

My nose is usually pretty spot on.

I can tell when it’s worth it.

And this place was so worth it.

I’ve been back twice since 2017.

Once for my birthday dinner in 2019 right before the pandemic.

I’m not sure why I didn’t go the last time I was in Paris.

Probably because of all the drama with my lost luggage.

Anyway.

I will go there this trip.

I would love my love to come with.

If not.

I will take my mentor who is the reason I am going.

When the break up happened.

Before the made up happened.

My mentor, who had already booked a trip to Europe, said, “Doll, come with me to Paris.”

I had miles.

So I booked the trip.

My mentor will be in Florence and then headed to Paris.

He’ll get there one day before me.

We booked a large Air BnB in the Marais.

On Rue de la Pierre Levee.

Very close to the Canal St. Martin.

Stupid romantic.

I love staying in the Marais.

It is familiar to me.

Some of my favorite cafes are there.

Cafe Charlot.

Bookstores.

I love bookstores.

Most definitely the hippest book store in the world is there–Ofr Bookshop–https://www.instagram.com/ofrparis

Bookshop, small press publisher, film maker, gallery space, and teeny tiny line of ridiculously hip clothes, like tiny, tiny, maybe three, four cargo overhauls, bandanas, and some knit beanie hats.

I have a skull and cross bones bandana and a rose hipster beanie that I got there.

Plus a couple of magazines that I have never seen anywhere else.

I always want to buy much more than I could possibly carry back.

Last time I went my checked bag actually was too heavy, books and notebooks, oops, and I had to take stuff out and figure out how to carry more stuff in my carry one and purse.

I would take my love there.

If he were to come.

And if not this trip.

Then the next.

I love the Marais as well for the tiny, narrow streets, how close it is to the Pompidou, that I can walk to the Seine and cross over to Ile Saint Louis or Ile de la Cite very easily.

There’s great shopping.

There’s great markets.

And really great street art.

Anyway.

As I perseverate on whether or not to go public on social about the relationship, really all I want is to hustle my boyfriend away to Paris and steal kisses from him in the streets.

I don’t really care what y’all think.

It’s not my business.

I do care about impacting him though.

We do have mutual people and some of those folks A.) Don’t know we broke up or B.) Only know that we broke up.

Again.

My important people all know we’re back together and therefor what goes on social really doesn’t matter.

I just like posting sexy, beautiful photos of us because it brings me joy.

And I like sharing things with people.

I sense that like most things on social it would be a tiny little blip, a few hits, a few odd comments from people who aren’t all the close to me and then in two days it would go the way of all social media posts.

But.

At this moment.

I am keeping it, him, just a little close to the heart.

He’s mine.

I’m his.

And that is enough.

You can hit me up for the photo the next time you see me out in the world.

I’m happy to share it with you.

And maybe.

Just maybe.

I will get some pictures of us in Paris.

J’espere.

Repair

I am no longer single.

My ex-boyfriend is once again my boyfriend.

I am not even sure how it happened.

Except that it unfolded in this beautiful, gentle, organic way.

He reached out to me the Monday after I had gotten my new tattoo.

He was in the city.

Did I want him to come over?

I did.

Except, well, I didn’t see the message.

I missed it.

I had already turned off my phone for the night and did not see it until the next morning.

I responded that I would have, that I wished I had seen it earlier and asked if there was a different time we could meet up.

None of the times work.

I was sad, but not devastated.

I was feeling a lot of neutrality.

And.

There was this small shift, a door opening.

We started messaging one another.

Not a lot.

But enough.

He showed me some photos of where he was traveling.

I sent him some messages.

We slowly, quietly were connecting.

Then.

The day before yesterday he reached out and asked if he moved up his flight to come back early, would I be available?

I did not miss that message.

I responded immediately, “Yes.”

And then proceeded to clear my calendar to give us space.

He changed his flight and came back yesterday.

We saw each other.

It was magnificent.

It was magic.

There was no hesitancy.

We were just right back in each other’s arms.

He spent the night.

We talked a ton this morning.

We worked things out.

We made the repair.

I am astounded and grateful.

I am also very aware that I had already done so much of my own work, so much writing, blogging, journaling, thinking, crying, leaning into friends, prayer, meditation, went to get a massage, went to acupuncture, did chiropractic sessions, went on long walks, did more writing, more crying, went out dancing.

I moved through it.

I got a “break up” tattoo.

And now.

It’s a breakthrough tattoo.

I was net neutral.

The worst had already happened.

He had broken up with me.

What worse could happen?

I had no agenda.

Sure.

I had some hopes.

But I had no agenda.

I was just there to experiment and see what would come of it.

Magic.

Connection.

Re-connection.

Profound love.

And, please, don’t get me wrong.

There are things I am going to have to work on and therapy that will still need to happen for me to be in awareness of how I am in relationship, but as my therapist said in my last session, “I really think the two of you belong together, you are going to heal through this relationship, experience tremendous growth if you can show up for one another, and if it doesn’t work out you will have done the work to be in a better relationship afterwards.”

But.

I don’t have to think about another relationship.

I am in the one I want.

He is my person.

And.

Yeah.

I know, it’s not been easy to get here, but I have to say that when folks demonized him, it did not help.

The voices that got through were judicious, kind, thoughtful, looked at the situation from many different perspectives and gave me insights that were invaluable

If it’s meant to be you can’t fuck it up.

If it’s not meant to be you can’t manipulate it into happening.

I didn’t try to fuck it up and I didn’t try to manipulate it either.

It just unfolded in this really sweet, beautiful, organic way.

I cannot tell you the bliss of being back in his arms.

I sense it will be odd and potentially awkward for some folks to read what I am writing about his, and I don’t care.

With the exception of I won’t link this blog to my social media.

I could stand a break from that.

I love how people, unexpected, wonderful, caring folks reached out to me, but I also don’t feel like talking about it on social media.

It is too fresh.

Too special to share.

This blog is anonymous, ostentatiously, I don’t have it linked to anything, unless I do it manually.

I almost didn’t sit down to write this, but I felt compelled to process it.

To celebrate.

To reflect, soft and dreamy, of kissing his sweet mouth and all the ways we fell seamlessly back together.

It was something else.

And not something that I feel like I need 1,500 “friends” to put in their two cents.

The people that I need to know, know.

And for the rest of it, it will come out when it comes out, or not.

I am not worried about it.

I do wish I had not deleted our social media posts, the pictures are gone, but not all.

I found a stash on my hard drive.

I also know that I shared a lot of photos with him and that I can ask for them to be shared back.

And we will make new photos on new adventures.

I asked him to come to Paris with me in April.

Probably too short notice for it to work, but I asked.

And.

I asked him to come to Barcelona in August.

And that he can do.

He wants to take me back to Mexico City.

or Hawaii.

Yes please to both.

I am so struck by how natural and kind the reconnection was.

Passionate too.

Let me not go into details.

But yes.

Passionate.

We had a few moments of breathing deeply, talking about tender things this morning, I did anyway, but what needed to be said was said, we both saw our parts, we both amended them, and we moved forward.

There will always be work to do.

We are busy people.

Life will happen.

Conflict will happen.

Conflict will happen in all relationships.

But we discussed a strategy to how to navigate it when it gets into old triggers and traumas and I feel hopeful that we will be able to walk into conflict, make repair, and walk out the other side.

And.

I believe we will grow.

Closer together.

And.

Stronger.

I cannot believe all that went into doing the work, but I can say, without a doubt that I am beyond grateful for showing up and doing it.

Even when it meant crying with my head on my desk.

It was worth it.

He is worth it.
I am worth it.

We are worth it.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes, we are.

Waxing and Waning

Slowly walking towards joy.

I got a couple of tattoos yesterday.

Three hours of sitting.

Which is about as much as my body can take before I’m kaput.

During that time I spent a lot of time saying good bye to my ex-boyfriend.

Over the weekend I did a lot of reclamation of self.

Reclaiming my heart by doing deep self-care, loads of writing, and going out dancing.

Not once.

But twice.

And Friday.

I was home.

Home in my body, moving freely about the dance floor.

Completely non-pulsed to be “first on the floor”.

Meaning, literally, the first person on the dance floor.

I danced from 10p.m. until 2:30a.m.

By midnight I had done 12,500 steps.

By the time I got home I had done another 17,500.

My workout is to move to music.

I have always loved dancing.

And I love, love, love, house music.

I also went to 80s night at the Cat Club on Thursday with an old friend, so good to reconnect, and hopeful for more of that too.

We danced around to 80s music, most specifically from 1984, I think that club night was even called 1984, and then we took a break to re-hydrate and sit and I dished on the break up and it was good.

Probably need to do that over coffee and not in a club, but that was where it happened and I’m grateful.

So grateful for all the folks near and far who have reached out, given me love, opened their hearts to me, their kinds words, their experiences, helped me process and work it out.

The writing too, works it out.

The tattoos work it out as well.

Originally the tattoos were going to be just one tattoo–a sobriety commemorative tattoo for 19 years.

And that was definitely gotten.

But.

Because of the break up and how I have processed heart ache before I decided to also get a “break up” tattoo, as one lady I work with termed it.

They are more than “break up” tattoos, my tattoos are ways of marking change, transition, transformation, reclamation of body, working through emotional pain with the healing of the piece and the sitting through chosen pain.

I did not choose the pain of the break up.

I would not have broken up.

I would have chosen communicating and collaborating and working on it.

That choice was taken away.

Sitting still through the chosen pain gives me some autonomy back and pulls me from the ambivalent, ambiguous not knowing of the silence on the other end.

The deep, cold pain of being not spoken too, iced out, silence like being stabbed with icicles.

Oh, yeah, and he never got back to me, never replied to that email, I sent him in response to the one he sent me to see each other.

(I do want to see you)

I haven’t heard a peep.

I sent that out one week ago.

(No response is a response).

So I moved it forward.

I did have a moment or two on Friday thinking, well, maybe he’s going to reach out, I did say come see me Friday or Saturday.

But there was nothing.

Instead I met an old acquaintance from Paris for a meeting and then after that we went and got Thai food in the Haight.

I gave him a ride home and felt really good about having done some service, but more importantly just to talk through the relationship ending and his experience with the worst break up he had and how he said, “later, now, I can laugh about it or my friends will say, remember when…and laugh with me.”

“But at the time it was the worst pain imaginable.”

Yup.

I get it.

It is extraordinary pain.

But it is waning.

The heat in my leg from the tattoo assures me of that.

Emotional pain can be, is amorphous, it moves, it floats around you, it is like a constantly raining cloud of pain.

Anchoring my pain in the body with getting a tattoo also anchors the emotions and helps me process.

Lying on the table looking out the window at the dark rain clouds and the passing cars, the lights moving reflected wetly white, red over the pavement, the various framed flash art in the studio, the tattoo sign in red and purple glowing in the background, the sound of honky tonk heartbreak on the stereo system.

“Good bye _______” I said over and over and over again.

Good bye.

And I meant it.

I also reflected often on the night before, Friday night, when I was dancing at Monarch.

I saw New York House legend Tony Humphries.

So fucking good.

So powerful.

He took me to church.

House is home.

House is love.

House music is in my soul.

House brings me joy and happiness and helps me transcend.

House is where I go to church.

And as I danced and smiled and twirled and clapped, warm and safe in the underground belly of a club in the SOMA I reflected with joy that I was home.

That I was love.

“You are beautiful.”

“You are stunning.”

“You must be from New York, I’m from the Bronx.”

“You know Tony from way back don’t you?”

“You are not 51!”

“I feel seen by you.”

“I see you.”

Some many mini and macro conversations while moving, constantly moving and joyfully being washed in the music.

It set the stage for the long, rainy drive to Petaluma the next day to see my artist and also catch up with a friend at Sol Food, oh my God, Puerto Rican soul food, so good, and connect and have her love and time, she drove up from San Rafael.

I was ready for the tattoo.

I was ready to say goodbye.

My artist and I, DannyBoy Smith, collaborated on the piece, changing the art up a little to help it be a better tattoo.

The original art is by Fernanda “Lady” Guedes, a Brazilian artist that is part of a book called “Frida Obsession”.

All the artists in the book did their interpretation of Frida Kahlo in their own way.

I really resonated with Lady’s piece.

It felt like me.

I got the book from an art/zine/underground bookstore on a meander with my ex through Mexico City.

I love art book stores.

I got a couple of art zines and the Frida Kahlo book and a notebook.

We sat in an outdoor cafe after the book shopping, that I had talked the owner into serving us coffees even though they were closing.

We sat and looked at our art books and I wrote.

I took sly photos of my ex while he was reading, the hanging ferns framing his face as he read, the sound of the warm light misty rain softly drizzling, the pulse of the street, the owner and the staff transitioning from lunch to dinner service, the laughter of the man and woman at another table talking rapidly to each other in Spanish.

I look at the Frida book and I did think then that there were a few Frida portraits that I might want as a tattoo.

I was not expecting that I would get a tattoo five and a half months later to cope with the break up.

But there it is.

And here I am.

Still standing.

Walking through the pain.

Letting go of the story.

“If you cut out the story,” a friend of mine said the Friday before last, after I had told him the whole story while we wandered around China Town and North Beach, “this is what I hear,” he paused.

“He broke up with you because you didn’t offer to drive back from Tahoe.”

Jesus fuck.

I mean it was more than that.

But to some degree, it’s great short hand.

And there is more than a modicum of truth in it.

My friend also said, “take back your power.”

I felt like I did that this Friday night at the club, dancing to House music, surrounded by love and community.

I felt seen and appreciated for just being myself.

And I said goodbye to the relationship the next day and let it go.

I literally said, “I’m leaving you here now,” as I exited the tattoo parlour, “I’m letting you go.”

Good bye love.

Hello what ever comes next.

And I know there will likely still be twinges of pain, as the tattoo heals, so does my heart.

Moments of hurt.

But for the most part.

I think I am done.

Moving on.

Walking home.

Walking towards joy.

Thinking of you

The header to the email read.

Oh god, thank god, he’s finally responding.

But, no.

Wait.

That’s not him.

Who the hell is emailing my professional email account, “thinking of you”?!

A few folks flashed in my head.

The man I briefly hooked up with when I moved back from Paris, only to find out that he was cheating on his girlfriend and live in partner, who reached out to me over the years here and there whenever he was in San Francisco, trying to reconnect, trying to clamber back into my bed.

No thanks honey.

Although, once, in a spate of deep loneliness during the lock down of the pandemic, I did entertain the idea and I agreed to see him on his next business trip, being assured (who really knows if it’s true) that he was single.

I am not going through getting another Facebook message from a hurt, angry girlfriend again, that was a fucking shock.

Then.

I realized.

Fuck.

Once a liar, always a liar.

I don’t trust him.

I don’t care how much skin hunger I have, I don’t need that kind of drama.

I messaged him back, I said, hey, thanks for the offer, but I am not going to be available and deleted the messages and went on with my life.

Only to have every single way of bombarding me with messages employed.

He did not have my number, thank God, but he messaged me on all the social platforms, demanding explanations and why nots and how he needed to see me.

Good grief man.

I don’t trust you.

I quietly, quickly blocked him everywhere.

Then a few days later, there it was, an email through my professional website.

HOLY SHIT.

Are you out of your mind?

Demanding the why of why I was not seeing him.

You are out of your mind.

I blocked him.

Anyway.

Back to this morning’s message.

I clicked on the gmail message with great curiosity.

And.

Oh.

Oh, too sweet for words, it was my therapist checking in on me.

He’s been away.

He was out of town the ghostly scared week when my ex first emailed me, the email that broke me, and broke us, the help I wanted, the guidance, it wasn’t there, I was on my own, flailing, and boy did I get messy, and so did my ex, I really think we were both trying to connect with one another and all we did was push each other away.

I started to tear up reading my therapist’s kind words and I was like, no, no, no, it’s too early in the damn day to cry.

I have to go to work.

I have clients.

My makeup is done.

I have battened the hatches on my heart, it’s Valentines Day, I have not looked at the card I got for my ex weeks ago, the last time I went grocery shopping at Rainbow so that I would have good snacks for snowboarding in Tahoe, sigh, snowboarding in Tahoe, I got him a Valentines Day card.

And now.

Here’s some more tears.

I almost didn’t want to write tonight because I knew I would cry.

Grieve and cry and keep carrying this heavy pain in my body.

My heart hurts.

My chest hurts.

My shoulders ache.

I do not have COVID.

I have heartache.

And heartache is a real, legitimate body feeling.

“Have you lost weight?” My chiropractor asked the last time I saw her.

I have very little appetite.

But.

Because I work a food program and know how precarious deep felt emotional content can smash me, I eat three meals a day.

Regardless of my appetite.

Tonight for dinner I had homemade pumpkin and truffle risotto with tarragon chicken.

My first time making risotto.

Not bad.

Could use a little more acid, maybe I will put a dash of balsamic vinegar over the next bowl I have.

But honestly, I probably have still eaten less.

I just don’t feel like it.

Anyway.

Heartache.

Pain.

Hurt.

Silence.

The silence like thick soft snow that falls from the sky and gathers in my hair, melting later like tears down my cheeks.

Snow in Banff.

Snow in my hair in the hot tub, snow falling on his face, steam rising up to the clouds.

Because.

You know, you see, after that voicemail message I left him, he did eventually email me back.

Not my therapist, but my ex boyfriend.

He did respond to my phone call.

A firestorm of hope in my chest.

He told me he was sorry I was hurting.

Where he was, away, climbing, in Vegas, of all places, well outside of Vegas, I’m assuming, unless he was scaling the Mirage.

Vegas during the Super Bowl, that must have been crazy pants.

He told me other things, tiny pieces of things and then said that he did want to see me.

“I do want to see you.”

But he didn’t know what we could do, that he still didn’t think he had time for the relationship, the work, the school, the stuff and things.

“And other things”.

But.

He could see me Monday, after he flew back from Vegas, a 6p.m. flight, drive back to his house, drop off his climbing gear, then drive over to me.

If he wasn’t too tired.

Oh God.

I cannot tell you the conundrum I was in.

Still feel faintly in, the pain in my chest a staccato of rain on the windows, the flowers, the rain, the hearts, the old fallow memories of school, high school hopes, on Valentines Day, walking past the open air glass window office at my high school in DeForest, the piles of pastel teddy bears with heart shaped balloons tied to them drifting back and forth under the front office’s fluorescent lights, the flowers in all manners and sizes in vases big and small.

Mostly roses.

The carnations sent to the classrooms right before lunch and the announcements made over the speakers of who should make their way to the office to pick up their Valentines Day gifts.

Back to the email response I sent.

It took me a long time.

I spoke to a girlfriend and two sponsors.

Every one pointed out the red flag, the “if I’m not tired” part of the email.

I know, I know, I know, he’s going to be tired, he’s going to be exhausted, climbing at altitude in the mountains, returning from Vegas, driving at night to his home and then to mine.

I could envision him getting into his house and changing his mind.

Too tired.

And I.

Oh tearful heart, please relax and just let me write this out.

Please.

I would have spent the entire day anticipating him coming over Monday after my clients.

I would get up early and shower and wash my hair and what would I wear and when to have him over, client’s end at 8p.m. and if he spent the night, (it might be make up sex she said, or it might be break up sex) should I run over to the bodega and grab some oatmilk for his coffee?

I was ready to do it, despite the red flag of potential cancellation.

I wanted to.

I want to.

Still.

See him.

Damn it.

My fodder for pain.

Move through it.

Write through it.

All the poetry in my head, the words, floods, torrents, the smash of my heart, the cold pavement under my feet, my name in his mouth, in his book, the words upon words upon worlds, the love, the air in Mexico City, the high altitude in Tahoe, the snow drifting down on my head, a shower of shame and forewarning of loss, the sharp bite of cold air, the fire he built me in the fireplace, the ashes in my mouth, the rose garden, always the rose garden, the preludes, the French in my mouth kissed into his mouth, the skin, the tattoos pressed side to side, the hazel green and brown eyes, the smile when he laughed with abandoned, when he lost his words with me in conversation, “I lost my train of thought looking at you, how can I carry on a conversation in front of your beauty.”

The crush of mouth on mouth on body on breast on heart, the pelvic bone, the leg over my leg, the press, the cool air, the soft warm lush starling of song floating from my speaker in the kitchen, the pink and white lights and the globe stars yellow gold from the nightlight next to your face, all the ways, the coffee at the last cafe we went to in Mexico City, how this time, was all time, that we were always going to be sitting across from one another in the city at that cafe drinking coffee and talking for eternity, always.

Oh.

God.

The.

Pain.

The flood of words across the page the only way through is through is through is through is through.

So I sat and crafted a thought out response.

An email that I have not gotten a reply to.

(No response is a response)

Which is why when I got the sweet email from my therapist my heart leapt in my chest, finally, on Valentines Day, too much symbolism there, but hey, thank god, he’s finally replying.

See.

You see.

I am so sorry little girl, sweet heart, tender little one dying to be attached and held and loved and made love to, I had to set some boundaries.

They hurt like fuck though.

I told him, I replied to his email, I am really glad you reached out.

Light fluffy filler.

Then.

I don’t think tomorrow is a good idea.

Come see me Friday or Saturday.

I said No.

I did not want to.

(When oh god yes I wanted to, so fucking bad)

But.

Sometimes, all the time, too many fucking times, I did what I did not want to do, under counsel, under tender love and guidance and sweet, kind, my best interests at heart, doll, don’t do that, don’t say Monday is ok.

It’s not.

He will, may likely, who knows, but, probably will, cancel.

And you will be dis-regulated all day long waiting for his plane to land, for him to drive home, drop his things off, drink a coffee, and drive to you.

Unless he’s too tired.

And where will my broken heat be then?

Just broken more.

Although, tonight when I came home and unlocked my door and stooped to gather my mail, I did again look to see if there were keys in the mail slot, I thought, god damn it, I should have just said yes.

Why didn’t I just say yes?

And I know.

I know with my adult self, the truth.

I knew how hard it would be if he was too tired, that the anticipation of connecting and then not seeing him would floor me. That seeing him when he was tired would also be hard. That the relationship and the love and him and myself, we all deserved more time and consideration and space, not crammed between me finishing work late and him flying home exhausted and me getting up early to go to work and he too, I’m sure.

It deserved time.

(I don’t have time for you)

So I set a boundary.

And no response.

Is a response.

There’s been nothing.

It’s Wednesday.

It’s Valentines Day.

And here I sit with my words and my poetry and music, listening to mash ups of techno, psychedelic rock, disco, house, garage, postpunk (Red Axes), music that I never listened to with him so I can stand it, play it loud and when I’m not crying I dance really fucking hard.

Which might also explain slight loss of weight.

Here I sit.

Alone.

Waiting for the email that never comes.

The keys to drop through the mail slot.

The ache of my heart to ease.

The regret of not having him over Monday, even with the high probability of cancellation.

Vegas odds anyone?

Because.

One last thing.

It’s not just Valentines Day, which I am pretty sure he is having just kicking it with his kid, I probably wouldn’t have seen him today anyway, although there would have been exchanges, text messages, photos, plans for the weekend.

“Will you go with me to see Lords of Acid?” He asked me back in Vegas for his birthday.

Um, yes! I said with glee.

Today, I see a post that Lords of Acid will be here in June.

Ugh.

I would have bought us tickets to that.

Or The Empire Strikes back when it is at the SF Symphony.

I would have written him poetry instead of just vomiting my grief here.

Made him homemade gluten free chocolate chip cookies.

All the things.

But no, no plans for the weekend.

It’s a long weekend.

Oh my god, it’s a long weekend.

And that was the last little straw that broke my heart as I left my office tonight, on the pheromone trail of a couple who have had “a great week!” my last session of the day.

I forgot.

It’s a long weekend.

He won’t come see me Friday or Saturday.

He will go to the snow.

He will go to the mountains.

He will go snowboarding over the long weekend.

He will leave Friday and come back Monday.

He will not come to me.

He will go to the snow.

And judge me if you will, tell me to get over it, move on, blah, blah, blah.

I am doing the best I can.

The fucking best I can.

And when you lose the person who you thought was your person, talk to me then.

Grief has no timeline.

Just remember that.

Grief.

Has.

No.

Timeline.

I Don’t Want

My keys back.

I said in the voicemail message this morning.

“I want you back,” I said.

That and some other things.

I stated my feelings.

I don’t remember everything I said.

I really don’t.

I lost my way trying to sound like I had it together and not lose it crying and just beg.

See.

I found my ex’s number in my missed call log in my phone.

I had not, until today, reach out by phone to connect.

Because.

I had deleted and blocked his number two weeks ago tonight around 10:45p.m.’ish.

Whenever I got of the phone after he broke up with me and I started crying and called my sponsor and then talked to a girlfriend who walked me through blocking him on the phone and social.

“You have to block him,” she said.

So I did.

And I regretted that at times over the past week, which is what led me to unblock him on Gmail and get that message, “You doing ok?” from him.

REALLY?

Did you think I was doing ok?

Anyway.

The number I found was not the number we normally talked to each other through—it was his work number.

He had two cells, a personal cell and one for work.

I must have blocked and deleted his personal.

Which makes sense, that’s the primary number we messaged each other through, sent pictures through, made calls through.

I don’t know exactly what came up for me last night.

I made it through most of the day pretty well.

But at the end of the night, defenses down, I was walloped with pain and tears and bent over crying in my bed.

Cried hard for awhile, got up to brush my teeth and wash my face.

Happened again.

This time bent over the sink.

Calmed down a little and then I thought, good God I just need to talk to him.

We did not really talk when he broke up with me.

It was just all shock.

I think I just parroted back to him what I heard him say.

I wanted to make an effort.

I wanted to fucking try.

I wanted to fight for the relationship.

I thought he was going to actually talk to me when he reached out via email this past week.

But he didn’t.

He said “sorry I had a really rough Monday.”

And never sent me his number to talk.

I responded “ok darling, take gentle care.”

But it’s been so upsetting to feel momentarily like there was going to be a conversation, a check in, something, just the barest promise of connection.

He reached out to me.

Maybe he was just trying to feel better about himself.

Maybe he was trying to make an amend and thought better of it.

I really can’t tell.

I don’t know why and I don’t think I ever well.

But when I felt the way I felt last night and looked one more time through my phone and I had completely forgot about the missed call log and I found his number I just could not help thinking that I had to try.

Because Thursday I emailed him to ask him to return my keys, “Hey you, would you please return my keys?”

And yesterday early afternoon he emailed back, “Yes, I will.”

Not when.

Or how.

Only that he will.

I wasn’t using my keys as a manipulation to see him, fyi.

I didn’t ask to go over to his house and pick them up in person.

I didn’t say, why don’t you bring them over tonight.

I expect that he’ll just mail them to me.

I think the finality must have hit me last night, the idea of him returning my keys, there’s nothing left there, hurt so much.

I think that is where the hurt and sadness caught me.

I almost called him last night when I discovered his number in my phone.

He stays up late pretty often.

I couldn’t bring myself to reach out at midnight though, I do not want to come across as that crazy person in the break up who can’t help themselves from reaching out.

I slept on it.

Sort of.

I ran 1800 different ways of saying what I said today, except instead of being polished I said it in the messiest way possible, I assure you it sounded a lot better last night in my head.

I really thought I had something decent to say, a script of sorts, that stated all my feelings and my desire to talk to each other and not throw away the relationship.

But it was gone in the morning.

And I don’t remember what I said except that I made it clear I wanted him back.

I am sure my people will roll their eyes at that.

A couple of the people I work with were so angry on my behalf about the silent treatment that I went through before the break up actually happened that they were secretly rooting for me to break up with him first.

I couldn’t do that, it crossed my mind that the break up might be coming, there were signs, but I also was hoping, hoping so hard that we would talk and find our way through.

I feel like he gave up.

And now I’m crying again.

God damn it.

I’m supposed to go out dancing tonight and one of my girlfriend’s canceled and although there’s another friend going, I don’t feel like it any more.

I just want to put my head down and cry.

It feels really over now.

Not responding to my voicemail feels like the ultimate end.

Or.

Just more of the same.

Ignoring me.

Shrouded in silence.

Nothing to talk to.

No one to connect with.

A blank silent wall that I keep battering myself against.

He’s gone.

I just have to accept that and move on.

I will be kind to myself and proud of myself for at least trying.

I tried.

Take your power back, a friend of mine said yesterday.

I don’t even know what the fuck that means.

Although I sense it does mean not reaching out again.

No phone call.

No texting.

No emailing.

Just wait for the keys to fall through the mail slot.

Walk around with my heart exposed and raw and hope that eventually, with time and distraction, the pain will pass.

The pain has been horrendous.

I wonder what he has felt.

Has he cried?

Has he felt any twinge of remorse or desire to reunite?

I know it doesn’t really matter.

The actions of ignoring me and not responding are all the information I really need.

It’s been two weeks since he broke up with me.

I threw my hail Mary up today and it wasn’t caught.

At least I tried.

There is that.

Now.

Now I have to just walk away and let him go.

I’m not going to pursue it past the effort I made today to connect.

He gets to have the dignity of his own experience and the choices he made.

I don’t think he’s going to find someone else like me.

And that’s for him to discover on his own.

I have to be available for what comes next.

When the time is right and my heart has healed.

I will find love again.

And.

I hope.

It will find me.

Conflict

Is the relationship asking to deepen, the pastor said from her pulpit at the Universalist Unitarian church.

I didn’t catch much more of the service because I was drowning in old religious trauma.

Dissociated.

Disoriented.

Collapsed.

Openly crying.

Eyes closed.

Tears streaming down my face.

I did not even realize that I had childhood religious trauma.

But there it was, on full display, in this church in Oakland that my ex had taken me to.

I had a lot of reservations about going and I can articulate many of them, but that if for another time.

The reason I am thinking of this particular sentence is that I have adopted it as an intervention tool with couples who are in conflict but afraid of talking about it.

Also, Esther Perel, who I have trained with, talks a great deal about how conflict avoidant we are as a society and the harm that it does to us.

I used the phrase tonight with a couple in deep conflict and extreme fear of walking into it.

And.

Lo.

There was a repair.

I am so grateful for getting to be a therapist.

I watched the couple move from being at either end of the couch at the beginning of the session to being tearfully in each others’ arms by the end of session.

There were a lot more interventions aside from that one, but that’s where it started, by walking into the conflict instead of avoiding it.

I am a very good therapist.

I am not always a very good partner.

But I am also human.

It is so very easy to see it from the other side of the room, or couch, if you may.

I couldn’t see it so clearly with my ex.

It hurts that I couldn’t always get out of my own painful past and shame with him in our dynamic.

My therapist was like, you got shamed, you shamed him, you both kept trying to talk to the other person and you only kept triggering each other.

I wish I had been able to pause.

God.

I wish I had.

But if wishes were horses beggars would ride.

And I would have a stable full of prancing ponies right about now.

It’s been such a wild ride.

Not comfortable.

Uncomfortable as fuck.

But I’m still on the ride.

Today’s ride is more about anger than it is about tears.

Yesterday I had my first, almost, so close, nearly, day without crying.

I made it to bed.

I knelt down, said grace, prayed for direction and guidance and had a picture of my ex float up behind my eyes that nearly floored me.

I was not expecting it and the tears came immediately.

Well, god damn it.

I thought I was going to make it through one day without crying.

But no.

I found myself today not so much sad but mad.

Mad at him for taking down his relationship status on Facebook before talking to me, days before talking to me, days of ugly anticipation.

Mad at him for being at his art studio in Potrero Hill, being in San Francisco when he lives across the Bay, the Saturday prior to this last, when he broke up with me in the evening, from Oakland.

Dude.

Why?

What the fucking hell?

Come over to my house.

Why am I seeing you post on Instagram about being at the studio and you won’t get in your car, drive over to my house, see me in person and do the deal face to face.

I suppose I will never know why.

Why is not a spiritual question.

But fuck, it rankled.

Rankled is not the right word.

It was like getting knifed in the heart.

It hurt so badly to see that.

I envisioned driving my car over and demanding, what the fuck?

Talk to me please.

Please, baby, please talk to me.

But I had never been over to his studio, I just know it’s in Potrero Hill, oh, I have a sneaking suspicion I could figure it out, there are only so many, but I’m not a fucking stalker.

I felt a moment of anger tonight too, saying those words to the couple in distress in front of me without having had the oppportuinity to deepen the relationship with him.

Fight for the relationship.

He gets the right to do whatever he wants, he decided to withdraw, he has his reasons.

“I don’t have time for you.”

But you have time to post to Instagram.

ARGHHHHHHH.

Anyway.

The anger is also a path forward, a light, a fire under my fucking ass.

I have been writing.

I have been reaching out.

And I have had people reach out to me over and over and over again.

Unexpectedly.

People I had no clue were concerned.

Messages on Instagram, Facebook, text messages, phone calls.

One friend even sent me a meme today via text that he made from my blog including a fake algorithm of me being offered “singles over 70” ads.

Motherfucker I am only 51.

And I dance like I’m 35.

Anyway.

I feel seen and loved.

Not necessarily loved by the man I want to love me.

Hmmm.

That’s not fair.

He did love me.

He just doesn’t have the time to commit to the relationship that it needs.

I think it’s the last that is unfair.

(If life was fair I would be dead)

He didn’t try.

(And maybe that’s unfair too, he just didn’t try with me in the way I wanted)

And that fucking hurts and makes me angry too.

I am worth the time.

Anyway.

I can’t convince him, or I would have already.

I have pretty much left him alone.

I will admit I have continued to leave him unblocked on Gmail, some small hopes that he will reach out and work towards repair, but the longer there is silence the more smashed that fantasy becomes.

One fantasy that has finally left is him being on my bed when I get home from the office.

He still has my keys.

I wonder if he is going to return them, I’ll come home one day with an anonymous envelope pushed through the mail slot, or if they’ve just been tossed in the recycling bin behind his house.

Enough repeated unlocking of the door to see my empty apartment, well, the cats are here, but empty of him, has quashed that fantasy.

I unblocked him on social too.

Maybe he’ll reach out there, he’s comfortable on it, uses it a lot.

Maybe….

Staying off that shit though, I can’t imagine seeing his handsome face, it would hurt too much.

I know this because I did look momentarily to still see some pictures of the two of us on his social.

It broke me all over again.

And.

Gave me what I now think is false hope, if he’s still got photos of us on his page maybe there’s a chance.

Anyway.

I expect that will change and I don’t know that I can stand to see that.

I may still go back and block him on social to avoid that pain.

But so far, the blog has given me the platform to process and process and process.

And the anger, like I said a moment ago has fueled the fire.

It has also fueled the fire for other writing projects.

I finally went through the steps to secure the right photographer for my tattoo book project and I am so fucking excited for it.

I have mapped out things I need to do before I connect with the photographer who is coming up from Los Angeles to work with me.

I am beyond excited to collaborate.

He is someone I know from my earliest sobriety.

I love and admire his work.

I cannot wait.

We will be doing the photo shoot the third weekend in March.

In the meantime I will be formatting the book and integrating the photos I do like from the previous photographer I worked will.

I will also be doing as much freaking self-care as I can.

I have been busy breathing and staying connected to people.

Breathing is work, especially when the pain was so bad I couldn’t draw breath without folding over and collapsing.

I have shared and cried and breathed and went grocery shopping and done food prep and written volumes in my journal, I have gone out dancing and will go out again in a couple of weeks.

I am listening to music that has no affiliation with our relationship and dancing in my kitchen in the meantime.

Anger is a part of grief.

And I know that at some point it will fade.

It will soften and I will accept and move gently forward into whatever unknown landscape there is in front of me.

I will forgive myself and him.

I will not shame myself for being messy, most of the time, and I will do my therapy work—with my clients and with myself.

I have to say my therapist being away has been really hard, but I have not come completely unhinged because of the sweet love and support I have had from my community.

And the anger is a little less now too.

Thank God for writing.

It is saving my fucking life.

So much so.

Thank God for the words, which are their own reflection love for me.

My heart needed so to process.

Here, now, in this way, I will show up for myself.

And.

Give myself the time he could not give to me.

If It’s Meant To Be

You can’t fuck it up.

If it’s not meant to be, you can’t manipulate it into happening.

Sage words.

A reminder from a dear friend and former mentor in my early years of recovery.

She reached out after seeing my distress on social media and I sense maybe reading some of the blogs I have written lately.

Nothing like experiencing the emotional duress of a breakup to get me writing.

You should see my notebook.

Pages and pages and pages.

So much writing.

Thank God for the writing, the inventorying, the constant processing.

Saves my life, the writing.

And so did she, this friend, she saved my life countless times, walked me through early recovery, talked me off many a limb, modeled for me things that I had never had modeled.

Helped me when I had, finally, admitted that I was having suicidal ideation.

That was terrifying for me.

I had self-medicated away my depression and anxiety and PTSD and ACA (adult child of an alcoholic) issues, but without the drugs and alcohol putting a warm blanket over the pain, it all came forward and had to be addressed.

Panic attacks that she talked me down from.

I didn’t even know what panic attacks were.

And boy howdy, I was having them.

Yesterday, in the midst of so many tears, so much crying, so much grief.

My God.

The grief.

She reached out to me via text and asked if there was anything that she could do.

I said a phone call would help, although I’d likely just cry through it.

I had already been on the phone with three other people and one FaceTime.

I was emotionally beat down.

I was exhausted.

I was beyond exhaustion.

The rain and storms and hurricane gale force winds swirling through the city gave me the excuse to stay put, get cozy with my grief, continuing to cry, letting it out.

I lit candles.

I made phone calls.

I wrote in my journal.

I would get calm and then I would be flooded again.

By the time I spoke with her I had done a great deal of internal and external processing.

I also was so glad to hear her voice.

Brought back so many memories.

And.

I literally had told a woman I was sitting and having our weekly meeting with over tea at my kitchen table (also known as my desk) some of the same things this wonderful woman had shared with me early on.

Almost, if not, verbatim.

It was like coming home to hear her voice.

And her laugh.

Her kindness and awareness.

I told her the story.

I cried.

She gave me a different perspective.

I cannot tell you how good it was to get a different perspective.

It gave me spaciousness to look back on all the love in my relationship with my ex.

I love him.

Obviously.

I still love him.

I will always love him, the love hasn’t gone anywhere.

I think that the grief, I believe that, is a testament to the depth of love.

Space was made for me to tell the tale.

To share the origin of the love story, how we started dating, all the exquisite synchronicities, the ways the Universe had conspired towards us to be together.

He was my person.

I still think he is my person, writing that in past tense brought up a pretty big twinge of emotions, but no tears yet as I write, for which I am grateful for.

A reprieve in a storm of tears.

Yesterday’s storm seemed to mirror the cacophony in my heart.

Tears do threaten, but have not fallen.

His laugh.

His smile.

His bad dad jokes.

His silliness.

His seriousness.

The way he said I love you into my neck.

His face the first time he said I love you.

Mexico City.

When the night clerk at the hotel checked us into the hotel said, “honeymoon!?” I said no and he said, softly, under his breath, “maybe next year.”

His hand in my hand.

The way he kissed me in front of the whole world on Hayes Street on our third date meeting for lunch at Souvla on a quick break from his job. How my manicurist walked by and smiled at me. And how he complimented my dress and said how pretty I was. That he would have to tell his manager that he was late because he was distracted by a pretty girl’s eyes.

The way he said my pigtails made him weak in the knees.

The way he held me at the Nils Frahm concert, his arms wrapped around me while I leaked tears of awe and joy at the music that was being played, how held I felt.

How sometimes when he was falling asleep he would hold me even tighter against him.

The way he woke me up from nightmares and let me know I was ok.

How my cats loved him.

How much he said that he loved my curves and my beautiful tattoos.

How much he loved my hair.

How he said I was sweet and caring and empathetic and sensitive.

The first time his knee touched mine in the park at Patricia’s Green drinking coffee from Ritual–a mocha with oatmilk for him, a whole milk latte for me.

Our inside joke about going to see the cats.

The way he brought me pleasure, so much pleasure, mind bending.

His hands in my hair.

The David Bowie notebook he gave me.

The candle he brought back to me from a business trip to Vegas that had a lid, which when revealed had the message, “I have a crush on you.”

The flowers he gave me on our fourth date.

When he told me that he would give me anthing if I spoke French to him, “Carmen, when you speak French to me you could ask me for anything, you could say, _______I want a yacht and I would say, what color?

When he read me poetry.

When I would come home from my office and he was sitting on my bed reading or scrolling on his phone waiting for me.

The way our tattoos looked together when he held me as we fell asleep after making love, the lights still and low, the music in the background and his breath heavy and soft as he fell asleep, I would look at our tattoos pressed against each other and I would marvel at the beauty of it, our skin against skin.

When we went to the MOMA, the Berkeley Museum of Art, the Legion of Honor, SF Jazz, the Fillmore, the Warfield, the Orb in Vegas to see U2, the amazing Cirque de Soleil show, the movies, the Parkway Theater, hikes in the Berkeley hills, concerts, Tahoe, even when it was hard, it was beautiful. 

How dizzy I was with the altitude hiking way up high in Tahoe and having this moment of swimming in my body and his face against the blue sky and I almost blurted out I love you.

How he would squeeze my shoulders.

Or.

When he would put his head against my belly and let me stroke his hair.

All the silly cat memes he sent me.

Watching his face at concerts when he was moved to tears and singing along to the music.

How he would grab me and kiss me in the midst of crowds, not giving a damn.

It felt really good to have someone not give a damn and kiss me in public.

The kissy face emojis he would send me.

The “I love you” texts.

The last one I got was in Tahoe when I messaged him that I was doing “one last run” with my instructor before I would meet him for lunch.

I was so proud of that sentence.

He texted back, “I love you!”

Of course I face planted on that last run and burnt myself out trying to get down the hill and then tumbled down the precipice and straight into our break up.

The way he built a fire for me.

Oh hey there, tears.

When he told me he could listen to my stories for hours.

Meeting his family.

Monarchs in Santa Cruz.

When he told me that he followed my blog when I was living in Paris.

When he told me that I need to publish my poetry, because the world needs my poetry.

How well we traveled together.

When he said that I “make traveling easier.”

Pool side in Miami at the Fountainbleau.

The club he took me too with the open air roof deck.

Sitting next to him on a plane holding his hand.

Reading his books.

Taking me out to plays, taking me to Yoshi’s for my first time and saying that my intelligence was a turn on.

“What is that word when you find someone’s intelligence a turn on?” He asked me.

“Sapiosexual,” I replied.

The Shotgun theater and seeing Yema with him.

How he taught me to climb at the climbing gym and told me how strong I am.

How beautiful he looked when he climbed, so graceful and strong, it would take my breath away.

Seeing Maxwell play with the SF Symphony.

Seeing Underworld with him.

How he held me at the Portola Festival when I was swaying and singing along to Polo & Pan.

Lake Louise in Banff, Canada.

The hot springs in Upper Banff.

The beauty of the snow.

Sigh.

Tears again.

Here they are.

But I really needed to honor the story of the relationship and the love and not vilify him.

I think we both got scared and shamed and triggered and I can’t go back and change any of that.

I would if I could.

I can only move forward with as much grace as I can muster.

I can remember the hard conversations we had and miscommunications too and struggling to figure out schedules and routines and needs.

I can honor that it was a rich, full, emotional experience and I got angry and so did he.

We are human.

But what I am hoping, as I am now openly crying, is that I can remember more the love and how wonderful it was to be with him.

I miss him like crazy and it hurts and if it is meant to be I can’t fuck it up.

And if it isn’t I can’t manipulate it into happening.

I am so powerless over all of this.

I can only practice love and kindness to myself.

Forgive myself for being messy.

Forgive him for turning away.

And let him go.

He said once that I was looking at him like I was “looking at baby otters.”

It’s true.

I did.

I still would.

May you be gentle and held and loved by your community and hopefully remember me with some modicum of love.

You are imprinted on my body and I don’t know anyone else that I would rather look at like baby otters than you.

I love you.

I wish we could repair.

Kiss and make up.

Be with each other again.

I love you.

Even your silly impersonation of Dan Fogelberg playing a flugel horn.

I love you.

I always will, “rhymes with Yeats.”

“Checking In”

Said the email header.

The body:

“You doing ok?”

Signed, his name.

My response:

“No.

I’m heartbroken. It’s been excruciating.

you?”

And then there was nothing.

Let me preface this with I had just gotten off the phone with a girlfriend who has been saving my life, like for the past week and a half.

I do not know what I would do without her.

And a lot of very sweet friends who have checked in on me, texted me, made me steak dinners after meetings, made me stay over and watch videos, even though I was secretly crying when they weren’t looking, or gone out dancing with me.

FYI.

Social media is a big pile of poo.

I look like I had a fabulous time out dancing tonight.

And I won’t lie, there were moments of joy, getting lost in the music, forgetting how heartbroken I am.

But there was also me checking my email account waiting for a response.

See.

I did something today because I could feel him, I felt him I did.

I was sad.

I have been so, so, so sad.

Doing all the things, trying so hard to not isolate, calling all the people, doing the work, having the feelings, grieving.

I’ve been told that grief is a testament to the love you have for someone when you have lost them.

I very much love my ex-boyfriend.

It is still so hard to write that, think that, say that.

It makes me want to stop writing and put my head down on my table and weep.

I have done that a lot this past week.

The grief catches me and smashes me down.

I think I have a pretty good front when I am out in the world, but the sadness floods me at times.

More times than I want it to, let me tell you.

Sometimes it causes me to dry sob and the tears don’t come, it’s like my face crumples and the breath catches in my throat and I had a dry heave sob, but no tears.

Then it catches me, most often at the end of the night when I have no defense left, then I find myself bent over weeping and putting my head on the table where I sit and write or work from—my kitchen table is also my work desk.

My cats circle anxiously around me and frequently jump into my lap.

They are very concerned.

Circling back to the email.

And the night, last week, Saturday, at 10:38p.m.’ish, when he finally called and broke up with me.

Recap.

After calling my people crying so hard I am not sure they understood what I was saying once I choked out, “he broke up with me,” I was told to block his number, block his email, delete his social media and block him on all social platforms.

I’m a good girl.

I did what I was told.

Though later I regretted it.

What if he reached out to me?

What if he had changed his mind?

I know how pathetic that sounds.

So I did what I was told and I blocked and deleted his phone number.

Fast forward to today.

I do not know why, but I felt him out there in the ether.

I called my girlfriend and cried that I felt bad about blocking him and what if he had reached out to me and wanted to connect or make up or I don’t know, at least talk to me.

She said, “he knows how to get a hold of you, he can email you.”

I lost it.

“I blocked him on email.”

She said, “you can always unblock him.”

I couldn’t on my phone because I had deleted his number.

I tried to, but I couldn’t figure out which blocked number was his—I block spam calls, and I had deleted his number so I wouldn’t try and call him.

So.

After some writing.

I decided to unblock him on Gmail.

And holy shit.

He emailed me.

Twenty minutes after I had unblocked him!

Checking in, are you doing ok?

Cue my response.

And.

Sigh.

When I didn’t hear back.

I emailed him a longer email.

I basically told him how hard it’s been, all the ways I have been in pain, how hurt and sad and awful it’s been and I told him I had blocked his number and deleted it.

I asked him to send me his number if he wanted to talk.

That was six hours ago.

I guess he doesn’t want to talk.

My friend suggested just giving him more time.

She also suggested I email her instead of him.

Why is it so easy to tell another person what to do, but not do it yourself?

I would have said the same thing.

I wanted to email him again.

Beg.

Prostrate myself.

I still do.

I still want to be with him.

I am a fool.

I feel very stupid.

“You’re not stupid,” she said, “you love him.”

I do.

I still do.

Fuck.

Cue another fit of crying.

Not like you can tell from reading this.

I just had to stop and sob some more.

Fuck.

I have gone through a lot of Kleenex this past week.

So much.

I walked home from dancing tonight, I went to a day party today, and started dry heave sobbing in the rain.

Cue Mike Doughty’s “Sad girl walking in the rain” song.

Very sad girl walking in the rain.

I still have this fantasy he will be waiting for me in my house, sitting on my bed, when I get home from where ever I have been, he has my key still.

I can’t help either, I walk in, look at my bed, he’s not sitting there waiting for me and I just feel worse.

Maybe he threw the keys away.

I forgot to ask for my keys back when he broke up with me last week, I was in so much shock.

My best friend said, just go make another set.

But.

I don’t want to.

I want to see him sitting on my bed reading and waiting for me to come home.

I want to curl up in his arms.

I want to fall asleep on his chest again.

(more crying)

I keep remembering when I got back from Burning Man last year and we were making love, it felt spiritual and emotional and so passionate and full of love and reconnection that I can’t touch into the memory too long with out falling back apart, and he buried his face in my neck and said, “I miss you too much when you are gone.”

I resigned from Burning Man that moment.

I knew, I think I wrote about this already, but I knew when I left playa, right before the rains came, that it was my last one—thirteen burns—I wanted to be with him and travel together elsewhere.

There was also that really awful allergic reaction to the sun to account for, but it was really about wanting to be with him instead of the burn.

And though he broke up with me and for a moment I did contemplate it, I am not going back.

I’m going to Barcelona instead.

I got pretty busy this week trying super hard to move through the feelings.

I booked a trip with my sponsor to Paris in April and I booked another trip to Barcelona at the end of August, beginning of September.

I have always wanted to go and I had a lot of miles.

I had been saving my miles to book him with me on a trip.

He had taken me to Banff and Mexico City and Vegas and I wanted to repay the gift.

So many things I wanted to repay him.

Shame.

The shame of fucking up.

The shame of pushing him away when I was trying to communicate with him.

My therapist said, Thursday of this week when I finally got to meet with him, he’d been gone last week—I could have used it last week so bad—“shaming yourself is not helping.”

He also said, after hearing me tell the story, “it sounds like you were both trying to connect, I just hear two people trying really hard to connect.”

And that.

That.

That made it worse.

He was trying to connect with me and I with him and somehow we both kept missing the other person.

So much so that he decided that he didn’t have the time to do the work to be in the relationship with me.

I have to be aware of that.

He was very clear.

Although, when he said it, he sounded like he was in a tomb, there was no emotion, it sounded like he was dead or dissociating.

My therapist said I was in dissociation two weeks ago when I went snowboarding.

I have a small young part of me that was so desperate to stay connected with him that I agreed when I was tired and needed to rest, to go up again, on the lift. And I had another part of me that was like, no I do not want to get up on that lift and I dissociated right away and let the part of me that wanted desperately to stay attached to my boyfriend talk me up on the chair lift.

Which was my first time.

And I panicked and cried on the ski lift and fell off and hit my head on the chair and then I got up and tried to snowboard down, but I just kept falling and pretty much tumbled down the mountain and then I fell really bad and hit my head.

Hard.

So hard a woman who saw me fall as she was skiing past me, stopped, un did her skis and walked back up to me, “oh my god, are you ok? Do you need a medic?”

I said no.

“Do you want me to carry your board down for you?”

I said, no.

I’ve go it.

I mean.

I sort of had it.

I unstrapped and wobbled down the mountain.

I was pretty discombobulated.

I had bonked so hard.

Thank god for the helmet I was wearing.

I realized with hindsight and my therapist, that I was also in shock later.

I was so cold that night, it took forever for me to warm up.

There’s more about the snowboarding that I won’t get into, although suffice to say I almost titled this blog “The $1100 break up” because that’s how much I spent on gear to go.

Gear I traded in to Sports Basement yesterday.

I couldn’t return it, since it was used, once, ugh, and I will only get a fraction of the money back, and not cash, but store credit, but I had to get it out of the house, I felt so sad every time I thought of it.

I couldn’t get rid of my climbing gear though.

I tried.

I cried instead and put it back in my closet.

I can’t also go to the climbing gym, I’m afraid I’ll walk in, see the climbing walls and just lose it.

I loved climbing with him, he was beautiful when he climbed.

He’s handsome, but when he was climbing it eclipsed his handsomeness and it was pure grace and beauty, and it awed me to watch him.

I can’t go to the climbing gym right now.

I just can’t.

Sigh.

I don’t know where I am going with this writing except to say.

I am still heartbroken.

Writing helps.

My god have I written a lot in my notebooks this past two weeks.

So much.

This blog helps.

I hope.

I think I have just been writing it to stop myself from sending out another beseeching email to him.

I don’t have a pithy ending today.

So.

I’m just going to stop.

I have a table that I need to put my head down on and cry some more on.

Instead of emailing him again.

I will cry and watch old episodes of Six Feet Under.

I will wash my face, brush my teeth, get into bed and fall asleep crying.

Just like I have every day this past week.

Team Carmen

He said, and I burst into tears on his shoulders.

I’ll circle back to that with a bit of a preface.

I have not known how exactly to go about writing this blog, but I have been thinking about it for a couple of days now.

My boyfriend broke up with me Saturday night.

It was rough.

It was a fucking awful week last week.

It began last Monday.

I got an email from him.

It pressed all sorts of buttons.

It hit my shame button hard and it confused me and confounded me and though I paused.

I did, I really did.

I found my fingers flying across the keyboard and I emailed him right back.

I think, and I have had more than one person corroborate this, that I was expressing myself with kindness and care, but I was also upset and my emotions were enflamed and I expressed myself from a volatile emotional place.

As my sponsor has said, “doll you were human.”

As in, stop judging yourself so harshly.

I was human, I was messy, I was hurt.

He was not emotional.

It felt distant and I panicked.

Ultimately, when I look back at those emails, and they are no longer around to be looked at, they have been deleted, I see that he was trying to figure out how to be with me, but I missed that in the conversation that seemed to veer towards resentments and things that had been stewing but had not been articulated.

I didn’t feel attacked.

I just felt scared and very confused.

I also felt misunderstood and that there had been a lot of misunderstandings over the weekend prior that had not had room and air to be expressed and worked out.

In some way, I am being vague.

I don’t think the details are actually that important and I don’t want to quibble about right or wrong.

Neither of us was right and neither of us was wrong.

But what happened was a lot of miscommunication that only panicked me further and hurt and when I set a boundary about needing to talk and not keep emailing, I got another email and that pushed me so hard.

I said stop and he did.

He said he would call, though he was tired and overwhelmed at work, later “tonight”.

God damn.

So was I, tired and scared, and I had to get regulated to go hold space for my therapy clients.

I spent the entire day feeling dread.

I got through my clients, made scared phone calls to my people went to a meeting of the minds, shared the emails with my best friend.

Who pointed out some of the miscommunications points and also that we really needed a face to face more so than even a phone call.

I said, I got to go right after the end of the meeting and my friend convinced me to drop him off at the Thai restaurant folks were going to, at least give me a few more moments to process and connect.

When I parked he said, you know, you gotta eat.

So I went in with the caveat that I would get up and leave as soon as my boyfriend called.

He never did.

He didn’t call until Saturday.

I spent the entire week expecting that call and every second that went by I was further upset, scared, agitated.

He did text two days later, saying he knew I was upset but that he was talking to his people and trying to figure it out.

Figure it out he did.

But he left me out of the loop.

And being out of the loop led me down the trail of despair and fear and extreme heart ache at the misunderstandings and the lack of connection.

Sometimes I yelled at him, had screaming onesided fights in my bathroom.

Then I would burst into tears and collapse and sob and sob and sob until I couldn’t breath.

I slept for shit.

I mean so bad.

My hot flashes, yeah, I’m in perio-menapause, which had abated for years, the hot flashes part, let me not cry on your shoulder about hair loss, came back in full force, woke me up, threw firebombs at me every time I looked at my phone, waiting, hoping, dying for contact.

Every one said give him space.

Space I gave.

I had commented on something on his social at one point and then went back and deleted it, give him space probably meant also staying off his socials.

But that was super hard as, well, boyfriend posts take prerogative and the algorithm happily supplied me with all the latest updates and doings.

I was advised to stop looking and for the most part I did ok with that.

Except when I didn’t.

The worst.

The absolute worst, was Wednesday night, right before bed, damn you brain, when something poked me, I really don’t’ know what, but something said, oh, just go look at his Facebook.

That was bad news bears.

He had changed his relationship status.

He was no longer “in a relationship.”

I was in shock.

I almost threw up.

I stopped breathing.

I started this hiccupping cry that had me bent over, I fell on my bed and sobbed.

I texted a dear girlfriend who walked me through most of the entirety of the week, especially after my mentor told me to reach out to my girlfriends, I hadn’t, I was walking through it pretty much alone.

She saved my life.

I cried so much.

Torrents.

I couldn’t believe what was happening.

It was so surreal.

What was going on?

Thursday, I think, I can’t remember any more.

He sent me another text saying he needed more time, he was overwhelmed with work and other things.

I am being vague again.

I am not going to malign him.

We have a lot of mutual people in common.

I am not going to speak for him, but only of my experience of what happened.

And believe you me.

I am leaving stuff out on my side too, trying to stick with how it felt, how devastated I was, dis-regulated and grief filled.

I wanted so badly to talk.

My friend said, 48 hours.

He knows you’re hurt and upset, give him more time.

I waited until Saturday.

Feeling so beat up and lost.

I got my nails done.

I anxiously looked at my phone hoping for some sort of text, call, indication of anything, I have never enjoyed a manicure less.

I got home and called my other mentor.

She suggested that I just call, just reach out, the texting and emails were not working.  She literally walked me time and time again through a script of what to say, I was so discombobulated I couldn’t hear what she was saying long enough to hold it in my head.

I literally had to write it down.

She said, there’s this tender little girl part that got so scared about not connecting and having your attachment threatened that you ended up doing something you did not want to do.

If you know me, you know what it was, my people know what I did that I did not want to do and how that impacted the things that domino’ed me to the inevitable conclusion.

Maybe another time I will articulate what the activity was, but suffice to say, she was right, I pushed myself to do something I didn’t want to do when I was exhausted out of fear of being abandoned.

And voila.

I got abandoned anyway.

Sigh.

But after much handholding, I made that call.

It went straight to voicemail and half way through it cut otf.

Oh fuck my life, did he hang up on me?

I called my mentor in tears, she assured me that she didn’t think that had happened, but just go ahead and text the message and explain that you were cut off.

I did.

And two hours later he texted me back.

We can talk tonight.

I did my things, I went to the places I was supposed to go, I skipped going to dinner with friends and I came home.

Oh.

One thing.

I knew he was in the city.

I live in San Francisco and he lives across the Bay Bridge.

I cannot tell you how hard it was to see him posting updates on Instagram about what he was doing in the city, just on the other side of the Mission, instead of talking with me or meeting me in person.

I was devastated anew.

He was avoiding seeing me in person.

I knew that he wasn’t going to reach out, he would have if he intended to see me, so I knew.

I knew all along what was coming.

But I was still caught unawares at it when we finally did talk.

I want to say exactly what the conversation was, but I am not going to, it feels too horrible, hurt too much to hear and I don’t want to break down crying right now.

I’ve only cried a little today and the tears they do threaten.

The gist of it was that he did not have time to do the work that the relationship needed.

I was so confused.

I thought he loved me.

I did press on that point.

He said, “I do love you, but I don’t have time for you.”

Dead inside.

I just died.

And now more tears.

Anyway.

I had somethings to say but it doesn’t matter.

I said them and he was silent.

He doesn’t have time for me.

Someone I used to work with said to me last night at a spot on Dorland and Dolores, “Well he has clarity.”

I was like, damn, bitch, that was harsh.

But she was right.

He has clarity about what he can do and cannot do.

He doesn’t have time for me.

Nine months in, he has no more time for me.

I thought he was it, I really did.

I thought he was my person.

There were things said to me in front of family, friends, and mutual connections that gave me that indication about our future together.

There were thing said to me about the work that needed to be done and the conversations that needed to be said, but we didn’t do that this time.

Because.

He doesn’t have time for me.

And that’s his choice.

I said somethings, gracefully I think, I can’t remember (and there were things I thought about later that I wish I had said but I was in such shock they didn’t come) and said goodbye and hung up the phone and cried until I couldn’t breathe.

Then I called my main person and sobbed.

Then I called my girlfriend who also said similar things and then while I sobbed on the phone she walked me through deleting us on social media.

God damn do I hate social media.

She walked me through blocking him.

I did it all.

Deleted pictures and cried and blocked and cried and deleted nine months of texts and cried and cried and cried and cried.

Ad infinitum.

I got out of the house Sunday to attend an event that I would have taken him to, but well, we were no longer together, so I went solo.

I told one of two folks, but I didn’t want my sadness to dilute the joy of the event or pull any focus from it.

So when one of the few people who questioned me about my sad demeanor, I said very simply that I couldn’t talk about it, because he knew my ex-boyfriend.

Jesus fuck that’s hard to write.

I have to get used to it.

Ex-boyfriend.

He just looked at me and hugged me then said, “in this situation I am Team Carmen.”

And I burst into tears.

So.

That’s what I have been up to.

Grieving.

And booking a trip to Paris with my mentor.

He invited me months ago, but when I asked my ex about it, if he wanted to come, he said, “I would rather go with you than your sponsor and you.”

He wanted to be alone with me in Paris.

And I wanted to be alone with him.

The first time he kissed me we made out in front of my house on the sidewalk outside my apartment for a half hour.

Just like you would do in Paris.

And I dreamt of that and wrote a poem about that.

Oh, sweet fantasy.

I won’t be kissing him in the streets of Paris.

I won’t be kissing him ever again.

And that is reality.

The fantasy is dead.

Like my broken heart.

And lest I despair too long, I know this will pass and my heart broken heart has just been broke open.

Broke open, to hold more love.

That is all.

Broke open to hold more love.