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.

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.”