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.

“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.

Begin the Beginning

Today is my first day of trying to accommodate my writing practice.

Today is my first day of doing everything else, but.

And I say that with tongue in cheek.

I am writing this, am I not?

Breathe.

In and out.

Listen to Dee Diggs on SoundCloud.

Let the intense therapy session I just had process through my body and move off into the air.

Think about snowboarding with my boyfriend.

Spending time with the man I love.

Remembering being a small child, small in hindsight, I can feel myself as this child, and I did not think of myself as small at that time, I don’t believe I ever felt myself as small. Although I was cold, so cold, breath fogging the air, blue black of the sky changing as the sun slowly rises over the park while I wait on the corner for the bus.

How cold I was.

Horrible garbage snow boots, that in my minds eye resembled ugly tires, with weird zip up sides and gromets, dark wool inserts that did not stop the freeze from seeping into the boot.

I am sure there is a name for them, you Google for me, eh?

They were black and gross.

Sometimes I think I even wore bread bags over my socks because they were not sealed well, or had holes?

I am not sure if that is my memory or belongs to my younger sister or to another child waiting for the bus in the grey blue air of the morning heading to Lakeview Elementary School on the North East Side of Madison.

Somebody was wearing bread bag liners in their boots.

I do remember how ugly they were, my boots, my coat, did I have mittens?

You would think I did.

I wanted the warm ones with fake fur cuffs that I saw girl classmates wear with their clever strings that attached to the mittens and lead from one arm to the other inside the coat so they wouldn’t be lost.

My sister often lost her mittens and I think I would give her mine.

I think.

Memory is fuzzy.

I just really remember the cold, the feeling of ugliness, the skin on my legs bright red when I would come home after school, playing in the snow still happened, I just sucked it up and went sledding at school or clambered up and down the big piles of snow it my garbage truck boots.

I recall stumbling across an Archie comic book once and there is this “fat” girl character who was having a winter clothes fantasy.

Panel one she sees Veronica all dolled up in her cute brown boots and fluffy white scrunchy ankle socks that look like cute little 80s leg warmers, Veronica is also wearing slimming leggings and a cute midriff puffer coat in purple and pink and an adorable pair of white fluffy earmuffs.

Fat girl imagines herself svelte and laughing next to Veronica.

New panel.

(this is called an ellipses)

Veronica walks past, with cute boy hanging off her arm, and gives fat girl side eye.

Fat girl is shown with ugly boots, a huge oversized down jacket and some stupid knit hat pulled over her face. She tucks her face down and in, emphasizing a double cowl of skin and shame in her downcast eyes.

I did not identify with Veronica, let me tell you.

I felt pretty othered most of my childhood in my hand me down clothes.

I felt othered for other reasons too, but that is for another blog.

Clothes that didn’t fit or weren’t quality, cheap things that fell apart, shoes from Kmart, dollar sneakers that tried to mimic Keds, in the summer, or the aforementioned engineer boots, snow boots (remember moon boots!? I would have killed for those).

I was bullied.

I was teased.

I was shamed.

I sucked it up.

I ignored it.

I submitted.

I froze.

I checked out.

I led other rag a muffins in the Section 8 housing on many outings and forays.

I was cold but I was going to build the best snow fort.

Dig the deepest holes in the towering plowed banks of snow.

Ice skate until I couldn’t feel anything and the cold was just another part of my body.

FYI.

I am a total baby now about cold.

Anyway.

These images came up to me and brought soft, heavy tears to my face in therapy.

Ah, parts work.

Internal Family Systems, to be exact, is what I am currently working on in therapy.

Even though I am a therapist, I still have many things to work out and many parts to integrate and sometimes one of those little girls pops up unexpectedly and I am blindsided with hurt and shame.

I freeze.

I submit.

I collapse.

Sometimes a foot is stomped!

Then I breathe and listen to my therapist and sit with them, all these various young parts, and hear them out and remember, oh, do I remember, watching the bright line of red rising in the west, across the snowfield of the park, the copse of trees in the right corner of the park that I would climb adroitly in the spring and summer, cloaked with snow and the flash of the yellow school bus lights turning the corner of the Northport Drive to come and pick us up for school.

I can see the dirty snowpack on the bus wheels and the foggy windows, and the yellow and black of the bus, the lights steaming and the sound of the crunch of the tires on the snow as it pulls up to pick us up and drive out of the low-income neighborhood to the more affluent one that bordered it and see the different kids get on afterwards in their matching winter clothes.

I sat smack against a window and watched the lights of the houses go by and ignored the kids, felt my sister’s mitten hands tucked under my right leg to get heat from my thigh and tried to find the right distance from the window where my breath wouldn’t fog it up so much that I couldn’t see the world go by.

I can sit here in my cozy chair, typing these words and still feel that cold vinyl bus seat underneath my legs right now as I type.

Many decades later.

Many, many, many growth moments.

19 years of sobriety.

I am different and able and loved.

Yet, once in a while, that small child peeps up and I am swallowed alive in her fear and shame and otherness.

Today though, I will allow her in, but not be driven by her.

She was strong and capable and got me through to where I am today, but she can rest now, stay warm and cozy underneath the covers for just a little longer with her brown tabby cat curled across her hip, his white mitten paws crossed one over other, his white fur boots tucked beneath his soft body, heating me up as I curl next to my man and dream about snowboarding again.

I’m still scared.

But.

I am going to try again.

I was scared to go to the climbing gym and I love going now.

I have hopes that this will happen with snowboarding.

That I will fly down the mountain with the clean, cold air on my face, my hands in warmest mittens, my body in those snow pants I always coveted and the cutest, yes, and most insulated, I am a fashion maven, but I’m not stupid, coat ever.

I will fall.

I already know that.

But I will get up and try again.

The indomitable part of that little girl can breathe fire in my heart and cheer me on.

And the grown-up part of me will make sure she is well fed, hydrated, rested, and loved.

Love.

That is all that I can give you.

And a warm pair of mittens.

And some fucking awesome snowboarding boots.

If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this right.

For me.

And on that note. I have written and thought and have prepped myself to start this writing habit once again. To lean into the words and intentions and let them, the words, flow out onto the page, like a bright jackrabbit snowboard carving down a hill.

Even if it is just the bunny hill.