Hi. I want to start exploring a topic that’s pretty damn important to me. Like much of what I write, it begins with a story. An old story, but a goodie. And by a goodie, I mean a baddie.
I remember the day so vividly. It’s the kind of memory you want to reserve for mountain peaks and outdoor concerts and homemade ice cream with chunks of juicy strawberry. The sky was cornflower blue, with cotton ball clouds. It was July on Long Island, so even at 7:30 am, it was sticky and uncomfortably warm. The weight of the previous night’s conversation sat heavy.
I want to tell you it was a rager. A massive argument. However, I think for the purposes of this correspondence, honesty is the very best policy. The more appropriate discussion is that he lied, I summoned the courage to address the lie, he lost his ever-loving shit, and I, cried. I sobbed and pleaded and begged. And then, at the very climax of my sorrow, he hung up on me.
Visiting his grandfather at a rehabilitation center at 9:30 pm? That was an absurd notion. There’s not a facility around that would allow such a late visit, not even with strings to pull. And there were no, strings. I knew it was bullshit and so, for once, I said it. Quietly. Shakily. But I did.
“Oh. Wow. I didn’t know anywhere was open for visits this late. By the time you get out there, it’s going to be like 10. Won’t he be resting?”
I lit the match and there was no extinguishing the fire I started. I had challenged him. HIM. How fucking dare I do such a thing? I’ll finish this little tale, but first I think it valuable to side bar, briefly.
THIS moment in the story. This one. This is where I usually falter and fall apart. I tell someone what I see and how I feel and what I know. Not paranoid excursions into make-believe land. What I REALLY know. Then, the rage and defensiveness and annoyance come, and then, I break open. I regret. I retreat. My fear of loss is so gigantic in THIS moment that I freeze. I play dead. I hope the moment is just that, a moment, and it passes.
I welcome characterizations of crazy and dramatic and silly. Call me whatever you like, but keep talking to me. Don’t stop loving me.
Brutal and gross to read? Yes. Worse to feel. So much worse. It scrapes your insides out, this dance. It empties you. Then, it leaves you, and you are a fragile husk, swaying precariously in a sharp breeze. You wait to see. Further destruction or silence?
My retreat that time was best evidenced by post-hang up texts. Please call me back. I’m sorry. I believe you. I know. Cringe. Tis true though, and this story requires the most painful form of honesty.
I had barely slept that night. I lay in bed, awaiting the welcome glow of my cellphone screen. Nothing. I went for an early jog, legs leaden and breath short, got dressed, and began the drive to work. Coffee didn’t feel like a treat. It was a necessity. I was not functional.
I’ll tell you a secret. On days like that, I like my coffee a little too light and a little too sweet. Something about the cloying, saccharine taste grounds me, comforts me. And so, I did, use too much creamer. Noxious artificial vanilla rendering my coffee a pale tan.
Despite the near eighty-degree heat, I recall that it felt good to wrap my hands around the warm cardboard cup. As I wedged my wallet under my armpit to open the car door with my free hand, I had been vaguely conscious of someone calling my name.
I straightened and looked around the parking lot. Hey! Over here! There he was, across the street. Waving like a deranged parent, having just put their kid on the bus for the first time. I tentatively lifted my hand and wiggled my fingers.
Greetings, you insane lunatic.
And yet. Relief. Palpable, welcoming relief flooded my body. We were fine. Right? Forget the screaming. The words. Those words, dripping with condescension and furor. We were waving. Demented, happy waving.
I slid into the car, heart beating an irregular rhythm in my chest and sweat dampening the fabric underneath my armpits. And then, the text. I picked my phone up from the plastic cradle in the center console.
He had texted. I was in the twilight zone.
I won’t relay the full back and forth. That would be gratuitous. I’ll summarize. Cliff Notes. I’ll skip to the interesting bits.
I apologized, more than once. I expressed sadness over the current state of things. And then?
I’m trying to be your friend, but I don’t want to be disrespectful to her.
Um, what?! Wait, what?! The woman who you said was nothing? The woman you said you hung around with because you were lonely and sad? The woman who was a regretful travel buddy? THAT woman?
My heart shriveled. I could feel it, wringing itself out in my chest. A painful squeezing and shrinking. A drying out. Agonizing.
I was….
Embarrassed.
Tired.
Devastated.
Heart-broken.
Angry. Very angry.
Confused.
I had known though, really. My deepest, gooiest insides told me weeks prior. Months before. I knew that he had cheated. I knew he no longer wanted any part of me. I knew he had set his sights elsewhere and was looking for a solid landing before taking flight. I knew all of it, but I was paralyzed with that knowledge. I didn’t want to lose him. I didn’t want to lose myself.
And so, I buried. I force fed myself plates of fabrication and fantasy, until I choked. Stomach pains and indigestion and still, I persisted. I would not fail, again. I would not be rejected, again.
I did and I was, anyway. That’s the way that it works. That’s what no one tells you, not really. It’s just a game of kicking the crumpled can down a bumpy and pothole-ridden road.
This wasn’t the first time I had used my fear as a superpower, and it wouldn’t be the last. Like many apprentices, my power grew stronger over time. I mastered my ability to deny my own unhappiness and ignore the obvious.
Sometimes people are deliberate in their harm and sometimes, it comes from a space deep within them. It doesn’t matter. Both yield the same result. Both demand strength and bravery and the ability to lose, gracefully. Lose people. Lose feelings. Lose everything.
I’m just starting to figure this out. I’m just now sorting out how to breathe my way through the agony of loss and the reality of failure. I’m barely dipping my toes into that murky water and already, I fear drowning.
I have no pain when I bring that story to the top of my consciousness now. I am not holding on. I have no regrets. I have awareness.
I am connected to bullies. I have always been connected to bullies. However, I will not always be connected to bullies. You feel me?
It’s a process. An evolution. The first step is admitting you have a problem.
X
L.
P.S. I’m a bit scarce these days because I’m working on something kind of major. Fingers crossed. Talk soon.
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