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.”
Auntiebubba 