heartbreak habit

She is flawed in all the right ways,
speaking of her shortcomings as progression,
not disadvantage.
She smiles as they present themselves
in everyday fashion.
She records it behind her eyes,
for future reflection.

"Fear doesn't belong," she sighs, "in this heartbreak habit."
Her eyes are buried deep in memory.
Fighting the urge to look away, she fidgets with her hands.
She breathes deep and kisses me.

"One more step in transformation," she exhales softly,
my face still, in her hands; her eyes open, in my heart.
"I won't be perfect, but I'll come close if you help me.
Each blunder made together erases with a restart."

She puts her palm against my own,
sweetly grasped.
We step into each other's worlds,
reservations cast.

_________

I have always felt watched.  Is that narcissistic?  Maybe.  

But, look, I am 5’10”, taller than the average height of a man in the USA.  I grew up pretty lanky.  The unusual tends to get noticed.  Tall lanky girl falls into the category of unusual.  I have always attracted attention.

At a young age I learned to avoid eye contact with men. I learned eye contact equaled encouragement.  Encouragement equaled unwanted engagement that I then had to “politely” worm my way out of, often risking getting called a bitch for not being receptive to “compliments.” 

In senior year of high school, I “earned” (was given) the nickname “hooters”.  Overnight, my breasts seemed to grow a cup size.  Hormones.  Everyone was fueled by hormones.  A boy who claimed to really like me, shouted “BOOBS” in the hallways just 2 or 3 times, which quickly turned into “Hooters”.  For two semesters I was “Hooters” to most of the popular boys.

I didn’t know how to feel about it.  It was mostly presented as a positive thing.  So I felt super awkward and obligated to “be a good sport.”  I felt obligated to be “polite”.  

Girls are polite.  It’s not ladylike to cause trouble.   Be ladylike.  But not too girly.  Also don’t be like “most girls”.   “Most girls” are lame.  They are so full of drama, and nag all the time.  All they like is makeup.  Don’t wear a lot but ffs wear SOME.  “Most girls” are so bitchy.  Don’t be like them.  Also don’t be friends with any “girls like that”.  But be willing to have sex and like it.  But not too much.  Don’t be “that kind of girl”.  You can easily drop me to date one of those “most girls”. 

That was the theme of my generation. 

GEE WHY DO WE ALL FUCKING HAVE ANXIETY?!

I am still dealing with all that trauma.  So, what the fuck can you possibly have for me? 

I've thought about M a lot lately.  Fantasizing about running (literally) into him.  Or him seeing me zoom by, strong and determined.  Just wanting him to see me standing tall. 

Recalling all the little things that captured me in him is straight up torture.  I don't blame him.  Frankly, I cringe when anyone (but me) says nasty things about him.  Sometimes it comes at the right time and it's comical.  Other times, it just hurts.  They only know my joy and now my pain.  They don't know the in between.  They don't know about the little things.  So, when someone says something ugly, my brain recalls all the happy little things and once again, still, the memory of our love takes shots at my heart.

Last February, "a thing" happened that both triggered unresolved emotions from an old trauma (I didn't realize at the time), and damaged the confidence that was once so strong between us.  After feeling rejected by that event, and all the passive ways I attempted to ask for what I needed left me denied and progressively less contented.  Because my small requests were only an echo of what I needed, and I was scared and in love, I stopped advocating for myself.  I thought needing nothing was a good thing.  I thought having needs made me weak.

With that and all the other things going on around me and to those I love, I was just trying to survive.  Running was the only thing I could really control, so I was pouring all my energy in to that.  Beyond a healthy diet and exercise, self-care became non-existent.  I was reactionary, and lacked compassion for myself.  I was hard on him.  I believe he tried to show me love, though he did it in his own way, not the way I need/ed/asked for to be loved.

I'm not taking all the "blame" or anything, just owning what's mine.  He has plenty of his own responsibility to take, but that doesn't matter to me now.

Lots of things happened over the year between us.  It really was just a shit year.  After starting couples counseling together, I knew I needed some solo help digging out of the emotional hole I was buried in.  So, I sought it out, and it always gets worse before it gets better.  One month of therapy and I was an open wound, desperate for antiseptic in the form of answers.  Crying a lot. Two months of therapy and one month of meditation, I have a lot more clarity.  Those answers are now becoming clearer as I explore them and much much more.

I still loved him and wanted us to work, but a breakup email is cruel and telling.  Some other things have come to my attention that change things in a way I never expected.  He's not actually the love of my life.

I am forever growing.  I am solid and tall standing.  Match me or get the fuck out of my way.

It's only Love.

It’s Only Love

I've waited so impatiently for its visits.
I thought for sure, I'd missed it.

It filled the quiet spaces like pitch black burning,
permeating as a blazing contagion,
drenched in exhausted yearning.

It's only Love, but I was too late to notice.
My fingertips sensed it, coming in tight.
A bruised little heart silenced her instincts,
gasped, tried to hide, but she's entangled,
along for the drive. Love's too ripe, overflowing the Tide.

It's only Love, but, we forgot its aching,
variable emotions, and decision weighing.
Annotating our hearts as they scream heavy,
sighs of longing, hard and ready.

It's only Love, and I'll take it.
It's only Mine, and I may break it.

And cliché is cliché for a reason.
I'll embrace the joy, if only for a season.

And once again... I'm just dried leaves, waiting on the wind.

Love at first (s)mile

Unknowingly,
he gathered bits of me,
and, in just one stitch,
a tattered heart was fixed.

Once a silent scattered girl,
unease and worry ingrown,
is now mended by romance,
with just his palms upon my own.

"I'll be your shelter."
He sighs deeply,
"Our fear is safe here.
Breathe our love freely."

Our built-in glitches expected
and shortcomings accepted.
Perfectly flawed together
and paired forever.

Now, we move onward
with drunk hearts.
Everything is beautiful,
though, we still hurt.

We hurt and repair as one,
growing in unison.
Thriving through protests.
Shining with progress.

Bit by brick,
yet instantly,
he and me,
rebuilt into "we."

I am in a state of constant happy. I'm finding that the need to write for therapy is not needed with so much happiness around me. I have also shifted to running for therapy over the last several years. Though, thoughts, reasons and the processes or paths my brain follows to sort things out are often lost on the road, which is okay most of the time. The results of such self evaluations remain. I revisit here and there the problems that arise, and how to work through them. I do think about how I once loved and relied upon writing as a means of self-reflection. I miss it, so sometimes I sit and try to write. That isn't always effective. Almost never, actually. I've always needed for it come organically, often while driving because my brain wanders while driving.

Now, I have this man. This man. He "mans" more than any man I've ever know has "manned". I know that sounds silly, and like I must be telling you a joke, but I'm completely serious. We can argue what makes a real man, and there are nuances here and there, but some traits are undeniable.

Strength (and I don't mean physical), compassion, reason and action. This man possess each of these traits in marvelous fashion. He is strong. He can admit his weaknesses (and what's more strong than humility?). He is kind to all. He is understanding. HE IS A FEMINIST. He does what he says. That last one seems like such a simple thing, but it is something that men and women repeatedly screw up. He is smart. He blows my mind with the knowledge he has, and he does research, which is always to be respected. He respects people. He recognizes hard work. He can identify his failings, and better yet, work on them. That takes strong character, as any person who's spent time growing themselves can admit. He's generous. He is sexy in ways I never knew possible.

I could go on and on about all of the positive traits he possesses, and seems to do so naturally and effortlessly.

Here's the thing--He loves me. Undeniably. There is no question in my mind or anyone else's when they see a picture of us, see us together, or hear me talk about him--he loves me and I love him. He also shares my love of running. He also shares this desire to express himself. These loves/desires seem to be needs for us both.

Though, as of late, I have had trouble fully expressing my feelings for him. There just doesn't seem to be enough words, the right phrases, or sadly, time. We are both such busy people and my spare time I prefer to spend staring into his eyes and sharing experiences with him. I've found the one. Who knew, right!? Is it enough to say, "I never want anyone else. I want you forever." Is that enough!? Somehow I feel he would say so, but I'm not satisfied.

I am luckier beyond belief. I will not take him for granted. I will quiet my mind and body when I am with him. I will breathe in each moment slowly, inhaling all the love he spreads upon the air around me. I will have my own failings, but I trust he will love me anyway. I will spend the rest of my life ensuring he knows how much I love him.

THE REST OF MY LIFE.

I am always under construction.

I have the inclination to apologize for my drunk heart.  Not to my love for he is intoxicated as well.  The flowing love is out there for the world I know to see, and I'm not hiding it.  I can't help but feel suffocated for others.  What's that say?  I suppose I've felt claustrophobic with happiness not belonging to me.  Sad realization.  If I were the me just some weeks back I might have not believed in magic.  I might have been skeptical, but still "liked" the post because they appear happy, and I do wish I add to it.  Doubt surely would convince me, quietly, that it wouldn't really last because love like that isn't real.  Though, as it turns out, magic has made itself present.

I know love when I see it and it's all over me.  All this time, and those chances that have been given out in hopes something might spark, and my instinct has been right all along.  Instinct is shouting at me now.  I hear it belting love ballads with our names and stories of all to come.  I feel as if I'm home.

So, my perspective has shifted.  I am forever growing, and for the first time I feel it's okay.  Growing is living.  I am always under construction.

I'm under construction.

I have a question.  Where were you on Sept. 11, 2001?  It’s hard to believe there are indeed people that don’t remember because they were too young or something.  That's how long ago it was now.  For years, the radio station morning shows would do nothing but play remembrance shit.  It’s so god damned hard to hear.  I don’t know if they do it anymore because I don’t listen to one second of radio on Sept. 11.  No.  Way.  I’ll always remember.  I’m still overcome with sadness at the thought of that day.

On Sept. 11, 2001, I woke up in the bed of my newest love interest.  I had to break up with him after the story that follows.  It was all just too intense to be dealing with a person mostly unknown, and given the emotional state I was in.  A second phone call came from my eldest sister, Alena.  I answered.  She said, “okay, so this is really scary.”  I felt the tears swell already.  I was so scared her next words were going to be, “mama…”  Something happened to my mama.  My worst fear in life ever—to lose my mother—and that will happen.  My worst fears will one day become true.

She filled me in… I felt relieved and guilty all at once.  Mama is okay, but… well.

On went the news just in time to see tower two get hit.  I won’t recount the horrors of that day.  We won’t fucking forget, okay.  Stop SAYING THAT.  God.

I started a new job that night, 9/11/01.  I’d lost my other job at a hotel because I just fell completely apart after my breakup a year earlier.  I had just been spiraling out of control.  Long story.  It was also the last semester of college.

I started working at Joy of Austin as a cocktail waitress.  It was a deplorable job.  Contrary to popular consideration I did not strip.  I did show one boob for a $50 once.  For about 3 seconds.  He said it was worth it.  Whatever.

The next three months were spent working in an environment where women subjected themselves to the grossest of human beings.  It was exhausting.  I self-medicated with tequila.  I wasn’t supposed to drink while working, but I did anyway.  I wanted to forget everything—Steven, 9/11, losing my job, my completely shattered heart, my lack of direction, my hatred for school—everything.

Just before my birthday that year, I got a judge at one of my tables.  He was loaded.  He had a team of associates and he asked for me as his waitress.  All I had to do was sit there and talk to him, be nice to him—that wasn’t hard, and he’d tip me really well.  Bill always $300-$400, and he was a 30%er.  His associates began buying me tequila shots.  I did six.  My tip was $150 that night from one table.  I didn’t want to lose yet another job.  So, when asked if I was “fucked up,” I declared, “no.”

I drove to a guy friend’s house.  Nothing beyond friendship had happened between us, but I wanted it to, and so did he.  I was so drunk.  When I got there, his ex-fling and her friend was there.  So, I got back in my car, crying… not because I really cared all that much… I was sobbing due to the situation in which I found myself.  I drove the rest of the way home.  I lived in Leander then… it was easily 30mins of trying not to puke or crash.  I’m so ashamed of it.

SO FUCKING ASHAMED.

I opened the door to my bathroom and just barely made the toilet to vomit my night away.  What followed was the worst hangover I’ve ever had.  I drank coffee and water, took some advil and just sat… stunned.  I knew at that moment something had to change.  So, I called my mom.  She said she wanted me home to help care for her elderly parents who’d just moved in.  It was true, that was hard on her, but she didn’t really need me.  She was just saving face for me.  She told me to quit my job and stop drinking until school was over.  She’d help me the last semester of school with bills, and then I could come home.  Fuck I missed her so much.  So I agreed.

Then, I called Steven.  I hadn’t spoken to him in a few weeks.  But, so much had happened.  9/11.  I felt the need to hug everyone I saw, and get in touch with those I don’t any longer.  I guess I was waiting for some kind of “don’t go” sound in his voice.  It wasn’t there.

So, I finished school.  I went home.

I didn’t drink for a year.  It was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made.  That breakup tore me up.  9/11/01 was the catalyst for me to acknowledge something had to change.  I hate such a terrible thing had to happen for me to change.

I’m working on it.

I thought of this specific post today: http://memoriesmysterious.blogspot.com/2010/11/return-my-love.html

Read it.  It's not long.  First off, forgive my horrid grammar and punctuation.  I was lazy about it at that time.

I still remember writing it. I feel the same heaviness that caused all those emotions... again.  For the first time since the first time.  It's like he's collected the pieces of me that I left behind, and he's come to return them.  I feel drunk--every time and completely by him. 

I even forgot to eat today.  Drunk as fuck.

I almost cancelled that first date for a run because my legs were sore.

BECAUSE MY LEGS WERE SORE.

I almost didn't meet him, and now I'm intoxicated in the most wonderful way.  He actually likes ME.  Me for me!  Who knew that was possible?  This doesn't feel real.  Maybe I took too many ZMAs and I'm in a dream that seems to last weeks, but it's really only a few hours, and I'm going to wake up, drunk AF off these butterflies giving me goosebumps, and I will just be here, alone.

Tragic to wake from such things.

Intoxicated, and I just want more.  I am greedy.

I carry your heart with me, by E.E. Cummings.

i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it
(anywhere i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate
(for you are my fate, my sweet)
i want no world
(for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)


********************************

Who ever said that their life was whole without two hearts? I'd like to meet them. I'd like to methodically break down their idea of happiness. I'd like to know step by step, aspect by aspect how they came to be happy. I would read a 500 page book on happiness minus one heart. I'd like to hear their heart beating alone. No doubt I'd find a murmur... a piece of longing. No doubt they'd end up in tears because there lies a flaw in their plan. Like seeing the sun rise and not caring to see it set... Unfinished.

Who ever said life continues with one heart?

Because Forever is a long time to promise.

"Because Forever is a long time to promise."

I get a lot of skepticism from married or never married people on my "not getting married again" stance.  Honestly, telling people I'm just not interested in getting married is easier than explaining why I would actually marry again, under proper circumstance.  If I said that, as simple as it sounds, I'd get, "oh the conditions will never be perfect."  True.  Proper circumstance does not equal perfection. 

But, that's not my point. 

I say, "because Forever is a long time to promise," because, well, it is.  I look back on clothing style choices back years later and think, "what the heck was I thinking?"

And, I've done the same with boyfriends, and one husband.  A few friends.

So, for me to marry again... well, it requires very special circumstances, and I don't know how to describe them.  I'm not certain I even know them myself. 

I'm really betting on, "you'll know it when you see it."  Risky.

This is a really good read:
___________________________________________________
Tomorrow is my second anniversary, which means it's time to ponder marriage again. Or, rather, it's time to ponder the real horror that underlies it - to remind myself of what it means, and make sure I'm measuring up to the reality it exposes. It's time to dust off and ponder the realization that hit me right about the time I decided to propose to my wife, the one I haven't been able to shake since:

When you stand in front of your friends and family and say "I do," you're promising that one of you is going to watch the other one die.

I realize that this is old hat to a lot of people, but to me it means a lot. It means that some day I am going to sit beside a bed in a darkened room and hold her hand, and then she will be gone. It won't matter what I do or what I say or whether I'm ready or how many mistakes I've made - I'm going to have to watch it end then and there, and the beautiful, loving woman I've spent my life with will be gone. Or - maybe I'll be the one feeling my life slip away, having to watch the despair in her eyes as she whispers comforting, meaningless promises and entreaties into the stagnant air.

Maybe we'll get lucky and die together suddenly, and painlessly, after a long and happy life. More likely, something will happen at a distance, and one of us will be killed while the other one goes about their business - unaware and way, way too far away. Maybe we'll die fast, or well; maybe slowly, or badly. No matter how it happens, one of us will be suddenly and irrevocably deprived of the other, forever.

That's what marriage is, after all: it's giving up the choice of when to part. It's promising that it won't be a petty argument, a decision about a job or money, or changing personalities that separate you. It's going to be the Grim Reaper himself, with his scent of roses and his dry laugh, that does it for you. For all you know, he was standing at the altar too, looking into your eyes and taking oaths of his own in a low, heartfelt voice.

That's the decision I had to make back then: was I willing to hand one of the most life-altering and painful decisions one can make over to the ultimate horror of human existence, for a chance to live my life with this woman? That's the decision I remind myself of every year - it's not up to me anymore which day is the last day, which trivial utterance will be the final legacy of our relationship. In the end, of course, it wasn't a difficult decision, however difficult it is to think about. And I didn't see any black robes in the church that day - just a vision of loveliness with bottomless eyes that shone with just the suggestion of tears, and with infinite sincerity. So I said "I do," and I made my fateful bargain. I haven't regretted it yet. I just try every year to make sure that I remember what I meant when I said it, so I can live my life accordingly.

Credit to Velox: http://everything2.com/user/Velox/writeups/I+do

Perspective is Life

Can I tell my story here?  I hope it's okay.  It might sound like a "humble brag", but I ask you to please remember–perspective is everything.  Perspective is life.

I have been thin and, what I call, "class b pretty," my entire life.  I was never popular... but, I was the girl the popular guys liked, but were embarrassed to pursue.  I wasn't the girl you were supposed to be into.  I was by no means ugly growing up, but still...  I was kept in the shadow.  The back up girl.  I always felt if something better came up for "him," he'd leave in an instant.  I wasn't pretty enough.  I wasn't enough.

For so many reasons, I have such a difficult time disconnecting my worth from my looks.  They aren't a 10, or anything, I know that, but so much emphasize is focused there.  I am collateral damage from my mother's damage.  Much like many woman, her childhood and adulthood was all about staying thin and pretty.  If she wasn't thin and pretty and young, she was worthless.  She stood in the mirror daily--sighing in disappointment at herself and mumbling negative self-talk.  She tried hard, but this attitude of inadequacy passed to me–not quite so intensely.  My sisters were less lucky than I.  They are worse off, and I can't even imagine being more hindered than I am.

It's all really difficult to explain.

I'm not enough.  I think I let people use me because I thought, "This is what I'm made for.  This is what I am."  I've always liked being helpful.  So, I pleased in the most efficient way I knew how.  I sacrificed me.  I did for them.  For motherfucking decades.  Right.  Walk around and look pretty because that makes people(men) happy.

Since I was 15, men have been noticing me.  I know how to be sexy.  I don't mean just eye contact.  I know everything about being sexy.  It's natural to me.  I can turn it on and off.  But, I'm not allowed to want sex, right.  Women should be sexy, but not sexual, right.

While being told I'm pretty or beautiful or sexy does make me feel good (probably for psychological reasons that even I don't understand), that shit fades, right.  It's very rare someone sticks around long enough to break through my self-defense mechanisms (by the way, being sexy to distract is one of those mechanisms) to see me.  I know it's not fair they exist, I know, but so much has happened.  Think about how fucking long a decade is... think about it now.  Imagine meeting someone who has a DECADE's worth of living to do to catch up to you.  Think about where you were a decade ago.  Do you even know that person anymore?
 
Well, here I am, 35.   I've been divorced for 8 years, having been married 5 years.  I see the stress lines in my face.  I have a lot of scars... flaws, I guess.  I feel my age.   I'm 35.  While my looks begin to fade, I've changed so much internally.  I know what I am now.  I know how much more I'm worth.  I mean I can speak the words, at least.  To myself.

I know better than to lead with my sex, and I know better than to accept less.   So, I quit leading with my "class b pretty".  I quit leading with my sex.  I stopped making eye contact with every man and woman I passed.  I quit seducing people.  I decided I wanted to force someone to know me. 

Well, now I don't know how to make a connection without it.  And here I sit alone. 

I guess I'll just wait.  I mean... what else can I do?  Just wait.  Wait for someone to see more.  I'm just here alone in the meantime.

It's been about a year.  A year since I lost him.  I've lamented over the reasons.  Over and over and over all my actions I've gone.  Trying to find the 'why, who, what, where & when'.  But.  It's really come down to, I thought I found happiness.  I really thought maybe I did.  Now, whether or not I did isn't really important.  If I was happy, a true friend...a companion in this shitty life, should support and be happy for me.. Right?  Maybe he thought I had chosen incorrectly.  Maybe he had never seen me like this... Happy.  Maybe he was unhappy that HE wasn't my happy.  Maybe he's just a shitty friend, after all.

See.  There is the issue.  I don't fucking know what his god damned problem is and he won't speak it to me. 

So. I'm forced to make up my own mind. 

So. I've lamented. Over and fucking over.   He obviously doesn't care or deserve so much of my consideration.  So, I'm done. I will not look you in the eye, I will not mourn our friendship any longer as its obvious, you no longer wanted what I had, since you've found it elsewhere, so you're done with me. 

I'm hoping one day that it's less surreal and more normal.  It's getting there.  I don't care near as much and I only cry sometimes.  Progress.

Fucking dickhead. 

Not related but related, 2015 will go down as my hardest year.  It'll be my hardest year and in years passed I've sat through deployment, been divorced and undergone horrible treatments for disease.  But, 2015 is the hardest because I lost what I thought was the most important friendship I would ever have and it would never be gone. Ever.  The losing isn't the hard part.  The realization that he was never truly my friend is the hard part.  In 2015, I lost my hope.  Any sense of innocence is gone. Men and women cannot actually be friends.  That's a shitty thing to finally accept.  Or to swallow because so many told me I was wrong and in fact, I was indeed. So very wrong. I doubt I'll ever meet a man that can just be my friend without the desire for more. Men are such a flawed deviation of the species. I know that if the incomplete chromosome 'y' never occurred, women would have found ways to procreate.

He is so weak.