You down with BPD, yea you know me

You down with BPD, yea you know me

I hated the work books my therapist would have me add to my Amazon cart. They always came equipped with an “also purchased” display of herbal sleeping pills. Because people like me were insomniacs. They ate anti depressants in their cereal and kept a journal of poetry about their suicidal tendencies. They were also my friends and my family; people I’d never know weren’t firing on all cylinders. 

For a couple of years there I wanted everyone to walk around with a Hello My Name Is: Manic-Depressive sticker. Or Hello My Name was…is…used to be: Acute Stress Disorder, Body Dysmorphia Syndrome, Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder. Like the dumb little avatar Sims characters or everyone’s mom at their first PTA meeting. Something, anything to feel less alone. 

In my head, we all suffer. And in my search engine, I wasn’t too far off. According to google there are over 200 classified mental illnesses ranging from more common to less wide spread. All of them being a label that none of us want to wear; none of which any of us can diagnose on our own. 

“Mild to severe disturbances in everyday thought processes” sounds like an easy equivalent to any of my Mondays. But it’s the literal definition of a term that gets more bad publicity than our own fucking president. Mental illness is exactly what it sounds like; an illness of the mind and you wouldn’t walk away from a cancer patient, so where’s your empathy for a schizophrenic? 

It takes a real champ to stand up to their own unwavering ego. The voice inside our head that speaks at a painful volume with little remorse. When I was considering treatment for the diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder (get this, it’s just a work book, some flash cards and a yoga membership) I toggled with the list trying to find one that sounded more concrete. Because BPD made me feel like I was labeling my ongoing incompetencies as a head cold and nobody would take me seriously; not even my own ego. 

Below are some of the signs and symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder: 

* Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment 

* A pattern of intense and unstable relationships with family, friends, and loved ones, often swinging from extreme closeness and love (idealization) to extreme dislike or anger (devaluation) 

* Distorted and unstable self-image or sense of self 

* Impulsive and often dangerous behaviors, such as spending sprees, unsafe sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating 

* Intense and highly changeable moods, with each episode lasting from a few hours to a few days

* Chronic feelings of emptiness

* Inappropriate, intense anger or problems controlling anger

* Having stress-related paranoid thoughts

* Having severe dissociative symptoms, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside the body, or losing touch with reality

Maybe you check off one of these, maybe you feel deeply about them all. Or maybe you think I’m completely insane for being any of them. (Wait until we outline pedophilia for that kind of judgement). You don’t have to be sick to understand crazy. You just have to be open minded to the fact that it’s not a choice to be ill. It’s a choice to be critical and unapologetically unhelpful. 

All I know in this life is that your mind is a terrible thing to waste. It’s either working for you or against you. Those of us who are at war with ourselves have a never ending internal battle that should be externally acknowledged and offered a hand. Nobody fights a war alone, that would be silly. So is mental illness being more taboo than weed in the year twenty seventeen. 

You wouldn’t call the morbidly deteriorating leukemia victim “ugly”, so don’t call us crazy. Call us…more often. To break everyone of this stigma that mental health is a facade of a generation unable to express itself; an excuse to be absolutely out of control. Nobody chooses to wake up and be overwhelmed by their own existence. Your poorly chosen name calling and ignorance to mere science are triggers. 

Work smarter, not harder at how you speak to everyone you meet, know, and may already love. You never know which of the 200 are plaugung their thoughts daily. Or maybe it’s just me, and the rest of the world is perfect. Who am I kidding, that’s just my bpd speaking…

Famewhore

Famewhore

Stop trying to be a headline. Or an article. Or the feelings-accelerator to my anger flame. There’s this never ending “if you can’t beat em, join em” mentality from potential suitors lately and I assume it’s cause I’m as transparent as a glass door. 

Be you, and if you warrants a 450-word count about why the fuck I can’t stand you or why I did everything in my power to try, then, well…you’re welcome. Some people go their whole lives without ever knowing how other people feel about them.  [I bet it’s bliss] If I’m being honest, it’s happened to me a handful of times: Getting on a plane and finding out too little too late that I was somebody’s one who got away. Far from bliss to me, cause in my world, knowing is my only euphoria. 
              Maybe we could have been something. 

When I’m asked what super power I’d want if I’m ever to meet the opportunity, without a second breath I choose the ability to read minds. Sounds exhausting. Like the amount of stairs I’d take instead of just choosing the gift of flight.

Whats even more exhausting is meeting a new person everyday and trying to decode them like the pile of genetic flaws they are. What better way to sift through intentions than with the ability to hear unfiltered, raw emotion. It’s 2017 and my dog can get hand delivered treats from a robot on the counter that I’m talking to from my phone at work but I STILL CANT READ MINDS. The amount of time I’d save in a day would be unparalleled. We need this guys. 

Trust me when I say, I get it. I understand why you want to be a post.  I know you think I don’t, and that’s fine because that allows you the option to live with your choices unjudged. (People who don’t understand can’t judge you, right?) but I get it, I’m not stupid, you’re not stupid. We all want to read minds, and mine just so happens to be public. 
Just don’t push me to hate you because you aren’t totally sold on the ability to make me feel anything else. When you’ve hit a wall with me, Im probably not going to write it out. You’d be one lucky son-of-a-bitch to even have me scribble a haiku about your good hair on my hospital locker. 

My point is, you need to stop striving to be an article. I mean, if I had a dollar for every time I got asked “Am I gonna be what you write about next?” I wouldn’t have to write, I could pay somebody to do it for me. I can’t read your mind, yet…and that’s a total bummer. But I can imagine the whole idea behind infamy is wanting to feel like someone acknowledged your incompetencies and praised you for how amazing, awful, or amazingly awful you were. Because a life undocumented these days seems like a total fucking waste. Like the amount of days I spent trying to read your mind before I found out you were only sticking around to find out what I’m like between the sheets and if I’d write about you in the morning…

Vigilante of Love

Vigilante of Love

I am an advocate for healthy relationships. Don’t let my all-too-often cynicism make you skeptical of my allegiance to love. Or romance. Or that [sometimes] painful, but ultimately raw intimacy that only a few of us find in our life time. I believe in good people and I hold constant faith in a humanity that has let me down time and time again. I always keep hold of it, because we only allow opportunity to cease when we stop believing in it’s ability to exist.

Somewhere between wanting to fall in love myself, and watching everyone else fall in love around me, I found a bit of a knack for drawing from people, their truths. And even when they don’t want to give it to me, I sense their lies deep within my core. One small reminder that I’m not the kind of girl who’s eyes are easily covered with wool and people just kind of share their skeletons before either of us know what’s happening.

“I’m a heroin addict. I want to cheat on my girlfriend. I hate my wife.

The only thing that feels good is this. New interaction.”

I’ve been told I feel comfortable. I assume people mean that they lack a filter in my presence and it feels….well, OK. I want every time I hear this to be special, because it’s nice to be able to console another human being with just your presence. It’s even nicer to change people’s lives by simply lending an ear. The truth is, being comfortable to strangers has found a way of making me less-than comfortable more often than not and holding too many secrets is a sure fire way to make yourself miserable; or so I’ve learned.

Earlier this year, I lent an ear. And then I lent some advice. And then I totally used all of the intel I received against the person who I made comfortable enough to give it to me. But, frankly…he had been cheating on his girlfriend for too long, and fuck you, girl power. I’m not telling this story because I want to rat myself out for being a rat. I want to share this story because it went from a tiny step to clear my conscious, to one of the bravest and most important things I could have ever done for a stranger.

We swiped right on each other. His profile suggested he had been single long enough to be serious about a real connection. A handful of messages back and forth lead to the exchange of numbers and then almost immediately a phone call. He told me he lived with his friend, that he couldn’t wait for me to meet his dog, and that he had an ex who was ‘crazy’. As progression would go, I found his facebook profile a few days into our dialogue and there she was. A girlfriend of a lot of years.

It’s happened to me a few times, but usually when I call a man out for his blatant display of a relationship on social media he back pedals and apologizes for wasting my time, then ghosts like a true millennial. This one was different. He spent hours, days, weeks telling me sob stories about how he was being emotionally abused by this woman he barely sees anymore.

Fast forward to a month later when my gut tells me to reach out to the girl in the photos labeled ‘in a relationship with: the tool on tinder’. I went into it thinking I’d be a fool to think she would even believe me. Broken relationships are always filled with denial. I would know, I frequent that step of the grieving process often. She didn’t believe me at first; shocker. I provided her with months of back and forth conversations that otherwise deemed all of his stories a lie…down to the revelation that his roommate he spoke so frequently of…was in fact…her.

Man did that suck. Relaying to a woman who knew her relationship was rocky, that it was even rockier on the outskirts. And that someone knew only half truths about the woman she was because her sociopathic boyfriend confided in a complete stranger about their relationship, seemingly using the foundation of his twisted story to fuel compassion. He lied about the way she treated him. About the seriousness of their status. But most importantly he lied about being a victim to someone who truly played the part, every god damn day.

This story has a happy ending folks…cause when she found out, she eventually left him. It took her a couple months, as most many-year relationships do, but it finally happened. And despite how horrible it sounds to break two people up, I’m so grateful I was given the opportunity to do so, and did it without fear of repercussion.

This shit doesn’t fly with me anymore kids. I can smell a liar from across our cell signals these days. Don’t play me for a fool, or I’m gonna make your current girlfriend my more current best friend and we’re gonna roast the fuck out of your dick pics in the comfort of our own single-hood. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like a superhero, but if being online and trying to date makes me a vigilante for love, keep me logged in and signed up,  cause I’m ready to detect the bullshit you douche-canoes keep feeding me.

 

Boom. Nailed it. 👍🏻

Plateau

Plateau

Rock bottom isn’t just a bar and grill, to some, it’s a platform for change. I’ve swam pretty damn close to the depths of sunken debris, where fellow friends visited and found permanent residency in the strength it provided. But, my lowest of lows never seem to be “bottom” enough. I haven’t been an unlucky divorcee, I know nothing of addiction, and frankly even amidst my saddest hours soaked in misunderstood tears, I’m still not seemingly low enough to always find a higher self. 

I find a bit of guilt in wanting to seek a lower-low for the sake of a higher-high, but this is a cliche and monumental line that makes me think about the what if’s of its potential. What if I already hit my rock bottom and did nothing with it? What if one persons rock bottom looks nothing like someone else’s? What if rock bottoms aren’t for everybody?

They aren’t. And it’s fucking purgatory

A place where we stand in limbo, totally dissatisfied with where we are; destined for neither hell nor heaven. What do we do here? Funny I should ask, because I’ve been told that the definition of hitting it is the moment you begin to question everything that you know to be true. 

I’m here. It’s happening

I never thought I’d long for a crash so fatal. The kind of carnage that leaves me with just a skeleton of shambles that need rearranging. For too long, I’ve been lost, playing hide and seek with myself over fifty states and too many years to count on one hand.  

At the bottom, you can look up and see how far off course you were. Staring at a road you paved with other people’s ideas of someone you never wanted to be. At the bottom, all of your previously-ignored defective behaviors are projected into the light. Finding each of your faults floating freely; as you sink deeper. At the bottom is a fresh perspective; a positive perception of a life that felt unsatisfactory. At the bottom is responsibility, humility, but most importantly prosperity. 

I’m starting to think “hitting the bottom” isn’t a once in a lifetime occurrence. It can facilitate its way into our lives on a weekly basis if we aren’t cognitive enough of it’s purpose. Just when I thought my bottom wasn’t as low as others, I realized quickly it was bottom-enough for me to hit restart and re-establish the person I am. Not only that, but publicly. 

This blog is a constant rock bottom. I come here to recognize my failures. To accept self pity and take responsibility for how my life is lived. It gets me out of hiding and allows me a platform for vulnerability when my feelings feel hardest to feel. It allows me to loath, to be thankful and to sometimes be completely numb to everything I just stated above. I witness it connect me with old friends, and often times it connects me with complete strangers; but most importantly it connects me with me…time and time again.

The Coward With The Key

The Coward With The Key

I think I’m going insane. 

Not the kind that voids me of being a productive member of society and forces me to medicate pharmaceutically, just the kind that makes me cry on my drives home from work to songs that are other-wise meant for dancing. I used to chalk it up to mother nature; engulfing my hormones into a fiery inferno of mass hysteria every month like clock work. Making me eat chocolate chip cookies by the handfuls and overreacting about literal spilled milk. [I’m clumsy, it happens.]

But this, this isn’t my menstrual cycle anymore. This is a men-suck cycle; this is war. Some would say I ask for it. And those people aren’t totally wrong. I ask for the attention by way of social media, by the way I wear my makeup or the low top cut I adorn. I ask for it on the dating profiles I solicit; in the blog I post publicly for everyone to read. It’s funny cause I rarely get what I seek. The kind of attention that is more than just a hit off the pipe, the kind that starts as a friendly gesture and could manifest into a true connection but finds its way instead to be reckless and debilitating.

I may have asked for ‘it’, but ‘it’ is vastly different to two totally different people who’s lives have yet to collide on anything deeper than a filtered selfie and a couple of drunk late night “I miss you’s”. These days, I miss you is equivalent to “I miss your body”. I want you is just backwash for “I’m scared to be lonely”. It, to me, is always just some sort of foundation of reliability from an outsider. The ability to come together as two humans with similar interests and mutual respect. Day one, we’ve got it. Day thirty six, it’s gone. 

I wish people who plant trust-seeds in strangers’ hearts and forget to water them weren’t long for this world. I’d say I understand the idea of being selfish, but I really fucking don’t. Even people whom I don’t believe deserve a second more of my time, got it. Why? Because communication is the key to mental health stability. And everyone’s just walking around with all of the answers in their pockets; tight lipped…destroying society. You know what changes the whole game? Not even playing one. Just being as straight forward as it’s physically possible to be to make sure that every word you say is followed by a similar action.

Because, when things don’t make sense, and the world seems so very fucked…that’s when the mind gets weaker and the heart grows an aversion to love. And frankly, that’s all we ever need in this life. To love and be loved. The idea that someone can strip us of that possibility feels like murder: Death by coward; the one with the key. 

Ex Marks The Spot

I get it, Ex’s are an ‘off-limits’ topic. They fuel insecurities and create unnecessary reminders of lost time. But, most importantly they are pieces of our past. A past that molds who we are today.

Understanding your current partner’s previous relationship is equivalent to taking Calculus your senior year. Nobody wants to do it, it’s going to seem like a giant waste of time, but in the end, it’ll get you to where you want to be much faster.

The Ex is around somewhere. They exist. Find them and research their failures. Or, when that feels entirely too invasive, simply…just ask your partner. Your significant other’s ex’s faults are a streamlined path to triggers that could be easily avoided with the knowledge of their existence. They say, that what we don’t know can’t hurt us…except in this very instance.

What made him leave? Why was their relationship less than successful?

Before doing some irresponsible social-media stalking take a moment to engage with your partner and find out from them what they were looking for, and didn’t find, in a potential spouse. Sometimes you will get the ol’ “She was crazy” which you will come to find out translates into “stayed out late drinking and fucked my best friend”. Note to self: don’t do either cause it doesn’t label well. Clearly infidelity is a huge turn off for everyone, but more specifically it’s important to remember that the partner with this kind of “EX-file” is probably more fragile when it comes to trust.

You may even get the “She wasn’t my type”, translating into: “She let herself go about four months into the relationship and by the time we moved in together she was able to eat a slice of pizza off of her belly Fat-Bastard style”.

Whatever you get for a response about what was enough to end their relationship, it’s enough to help you not end this relationship. And that’s such a one up, it’s absurd. Grab a front row seat to any kind of evolution, even if it’s a taboo topic like who your boyfriend used to bang. Honestly, being aware of you AND your partner’s boundaries is probably the single most important influencer in the confidence people need to create solid connections.

Normalize your past, align your objectives and TALK ABOUT YOUR EX’S.  It’ll make things so much easier for you when you realize your not asking someone to repeat any former regrets. You’re setting them up for success by giving them the tools they need to not be another tool you don’t need.

Don’t Tell Me How To Love You

Don’t Tell Me How To Love You

A broken woman is like a dirty diaper, nobody wants to touch it. One quick change though and everything’s fresh again. I’ve learned a lot on my journey to thirty. Absolutely nothing about baby-changing protocol; mostly about which diners serve the best sweet potato fries across the country, but you all knew how bad I was at analogies from the beginning, so…you’re welcome.

Real men change diapers. They just do. Now, I’m not a parent but I can imagine it’s probably incredibly endearing to see your partner (who has no innate child bearing tendencies) fasten your baby to a brand new under garment with joy. Wanna know why? Because, those same men are the only ones who will offer a shoulder to cry on when it’s the 8th day of your period from hell and life is just too hard to life. So, maybe this has nothing to even do with diaper changing and everything to do with being a good human, more importantly a good partner

Nobody likes to do the shitty stuff. (Pun fully intended) you know, like console an upset girlfriend. Frankly, I wouldn’t ever expect a man to blatantly offer himself up to be the punching bag to my insecurity jabs, but if he chooses to love me; he chooses all of me. And sometimes me, is shitty. Thats why I would hope he would change my proverbial “dirty diaper” without hesitation. My broken pieces most likely just need to be coddled with care, not stared at like a disorder. 

All too often I notice the silence. When it would mean the most; that’s when men are the least. Defense mechanisms tend to prevent them from offering themselves up to the fire that is an argument, but sometimes you just gotta go through it, to get to it. Most of us women just want to be heard. Forget that it’s half truths and jargon, just lend an ear and accept me for my mistakes; they’re the only stepping stones to any true happiness…

Round 3. *Ding*

Round 3. *Ding*

“So, what you’re saying is, this relationship you’re working on is the definition of insanity?” 

By definition, my relationship with him is a lot of things. Its intense. It’s insecure. It’s perilous. But what it’s grown into; from before, is far more important than what defines the path we took to get here. 

Ok, fine. By definition, maybe I’m a little crazy. But by definition, I’m also unapologetically in love. In terms of chemistry, for me love isn’t all of the feels that can be mistaken for lust. Love is risky. And those who take the most risks are often thought to be farthest from sane. Call me the Evel Knievel of relationships and move along…

Upon arrival home, I sat at a bar with my best friend, appetizer in cue. The air was cold, but my heart was warm. I was curious about how others viewed my triple attempt at dating the same man within five years and three states. Surprisingly, she didn’t have the same sour response as the stranger who pegged me as insane prior. She reminded me of her rocky on-again-off-again relationship of five years and how it didn’t matter how many times she felt hate in her heart, it was never enough to give up. That this was what defined love; the risk of being hurt and being able to overcome those challenges. We’re all reckless. Doesn’t matter if it’s round one, two or twenty four

I, like most, often fall victim to believing that relationships portrayed on social media are “perfect”. That nobody has bad days, or bad years, certainly never bad lives. [Holy definition of insanity batman] Everybody’s pretty bad at love, if even for a moment. If being bad at something stopped me from trying it ever again, Id be a pretty sorry excuse for a human being. 

I’m sure you’re wondering why not leave my ex in the past, you know, where Ive left him before, and where he’s also left me. Frankly, I don’t need to explain why I’m going back for more, but I do know that a substantial amount of time has passed to lead me to believe that resolutions have transpired and life has handed me an opportunity far more pertinent to his and I’s happiness than ever before. Timing can be a real bitch (see blog 1-75) 

If you don’t think it’s possible to fall in love with something more than once, travel more. I went to the Grand Canyon when I was young. I sat in the car and complained about how tired my feet were. And then I drudgingly walked to the edge and felt my stomach turn. I knew then that I wanted to be on the edge of things that were completely out of my control on grand scales, with good people. And when I went back ten years later as an adult, it strummed my heart strings with the same frequency as its premier. I wanted a thousand encores. 

With him, I always want more. Encores on encores. And when it ends, if it ends; hell EVERY TIME it ended….I never stopped searching for us; for our sequel; our trilogy, praying we won’t need a saga. With every fear I have of failure, comes hope for something bigger and better than anything I was ever offered in the past. So, call me crazy. Call me whatever you want. Just don’t call me on a Friday after six cause, well,  I’m dating my ex, for the third time…and I’m not afraid to say it. 

Got Guilt? 

Got Guilt? 

Guilt is the devine creator of some of the most extravagant lies I’ve ever heard. A guilty conscience manifests itself in our hearts and bleeds heavily if it’s sin. [In false pretenses or hidden agendas.] I speak, with guilt, in truth. And it’s almost impossible for me to find a like minded soul in a millennium of storytellers. 

Once upon a time, you didn’t wake up and forget how to be a good human. Nobody is that absentminded. And I am not that dumb. If, one morning I wake up, completely void of feelings for the person I had been pursuing, I would, without hesitation gift them with reasons, not penetrate their confusion with excuses. In the moments that I feel shame for change, I also feel courage for sincerity. And you should too. I share that bold and beautiful attribute with everyone I come in contact with. The good, the bad, and the I wish I never gave you my number. 

I know you don’t want me. 

I know you hate pressure.

Or the way it feels to get caught up in something outside of basic routine. I know that it’s easier to have a story benefit your conscience by manipulating the content. That’s life, and it’s awful. 

I am not a moron. I am, however, stupid enough to pet the dead cat. It’s cute, it has nothing to offer me, but it’s cute. 

                  God I’m bad at analogies. 

You can stop pretending. The weight is only lifted when honesty is present. 

When I was younger I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. I came to terms with my impulsivity by redirecting its usage. I impulsively loved while the untreated impulsively lied. I even loved the way people lied. (Cue Eminem and RiRi) It kept bringing me back to this streetlight of uncertainty. Sitting at a red light, staring at people knowing exactly what to do, and then there’s me, the asshole, full-fender-freak out

Feelings for you are like an intersection in a power outage. A total blackout of direction; constantly waiting for a green light…

I think I’ll die in this car. 


Terminal. 

Terminal. 

You are a special kind of awful 
The kind that disguises itself as understanding; sucks me from vulnerable to empty, ground to air.

Cloud nine-hundred and forty two

That’s how many times our cabin pressure has dropped.                       Your eraser apologies are translucent like the window of the exit. 

The way a parent lies to their child as the plane goes down; thats how you coddle me. 

Everything’s gonna be ok.

The heat rises. 

You’re safe with me. 

Alarms sound. Flames and flames and flames…

I wish I could black you out like the impact of metal into the softness of unprepared soil. Release myself from the seatbelt of your consistent carnage.

Save yourself before you save another. Masks drop. Pressured bodies. 

                      The way I feel when we lift off. 

The way I feel when we’re going down. 

Always taking off, barely landing…

Come Home

Come Home

A dear friend of mine, who remains to be unnamed, wrote a letter to his ex-girlfriend in hopes that the raw pen-to-paper confession would heal a few wounds. He asked for my opinion, and I asked if I could post, because as a fellow advocate of untamed hearts, I fell into a similar passion for his desires on the outskirts of his plea and I needed to share.  Not a lot of people know what it’s like to bare their soul. We sure do. 

It’s Monday night, June 13th, 2016 – 10:03 PM. A little while ago, I sent my goodnight text, saying I’ll see you Wednesday night for dinner. As I’m lying here in bed, I’m trying to figure out what we are going to talk about and why we’re even meeting. What’s the point, right? More or less, I guess I just wanted to see you again.

I can’t tell you how many nights I’d wake up, check my phone, and pray that I had a message from you saying, “Come home.” No apology needed. No explanation. I was cool with just the two words. I was waiting for you to save me. I messaged you drunk last week because I miss you, I think that’s a given. Drunken minds are sober thoughts, right? I was out with friends, having a blast and I still enjoy doing that. I hit the level of drunk where all I wanted to do was come home to you. It didn’t matter how much fun I was having on my own or how much personal growth I was achieving. I wanted to do those things with you, together. I called you years ago on St. Patrick’s Day to save me, remember? That’s where I was the other night. Well, I am writing this one sober.

I’m not the dull, careless, boring, and sensitive person you made me out to be. I’m tough at work. Fearless, selfless, compassionate, and strong. Admired, honored, recognized, and a true mentor. (I know you’re saying, “Really?! You grandiose prick!”) Yeah, me. There are plenty of accolades and accommodations to show for it. I’m damn proud of my career and I should be. I thrive when supported by those around me. In writing this, however, I realize I just jumped to conclusions about the way you expressed yourself. I didn’t listen to you when you repeatedly said that was just your personality. Those who knew you understood it. I should have just been that warrior for you, instead of work- but with passion and love. It’s so much easier to decipher after the fact, isn’t it?

Nine years ago, while studying theology and ancient cultures, I learned about the dualities in nature. I became spiritual. I lost it when I had to grow up and be an adult. That man disappeared entirely. The curiosity was gone and life was full speed ahead. Relationships came and went, some good and some bad. Many hopes of a future and many three-word sentences exchanged. Plenty of confusion. There wasn’t anyone like you, kiss your ass, I know. I’ve been in healthier relationships and I know you have too. It doesn’t make any sense to me either. There’s just something different about you. 

Years later, and like the true dick that nature is, when timing couldn’t be worse, this perfect girl comes along. She has tattoos. A full sleeve, a back piece, she’s spiritual… Or something, I don’t even know. She might not either. She was mysterious, cryptic. Her smile could light a room and you could feel her love just by looking in her eyes- I mean really looking in her eyes. She was confident and stood affirm in her beliefs about the world. Adoring, and perhaps the hardest word to use, innocent. It’s a hard word to say because there’s some heavy guilt behind that exploitation of trust. That part is never going to go away. That’s the flower in my sleeve, I’ve told you that before. I fell damn hard for you. I’m convinced you will never truly understand that and I wish I could just sink into myself and let it out. That was a long time ago and that person is still inside me. I am truly sorry for the past. You must be tired of hearing it by now.

As soon as I had fallen for you, and it was quick, I peered through the peephole, opened the door, and let The Other in…

Life is crazy-beautiful, isn’t it? We spend decades trying to find ourselves. We build and shape some incredible memories. The kind you can only dream up in your head after watching a sappy love movie. Onesies and s’mores by the fire. Raw love. Remove the ambivalence from a stupid boy’s mind. Remember the feeling? Raw love, to the core. Innocence. Bliss, even. The kind that makes you post hearts around your photos. The kind that he’s not afraid to post, too. The kind that makes him cry when he’s alone every now and then, because he misses it. The kind he held onto for a long time. That makes him text you drunk at two in the morning. That despite failed attempts, still makes him believe it exists, because it did once even if it was short. The kind of love he knew he needed, but had to let go. The kind that is right, but he’s so fucked up he thinks there has to be something wrong with it. Like the perfect balance found in nature, a duality must also exist in love. We must go through hardships and we must succumb, even be enslaved by The Other. We don’t know why we bind the chains, but hey, life is crazy-beautiful. 

The Other arrives late at night, pounding on the grand door of your own happiness. The Other will always manifest itself and you cannot hide. It could be anything: love, a big decision, a career move, a fear, whatever. 

You’re frightened by the thunderous knock and peer through the peephole. It’s just a shadow, but still, curiosity haunts us all. We always want more, don’t we? More adventure, more danger, we’re never simply satisfied. Blame Eve, I guess. That bitch fucked it up. We will say, “Don’t answer the door!,” “Go away!,” “Leave me alone!.” But The Other already knows… We are going to let it in. The Other will stand outside and wait, like a predator stalking its prey in the night. The Other is patient will always accommodate your agenda. The Other is going to light your soul on fire, but just for a moment. The Other is a reaper, and your time will surely toll. 

You continue living your life, ignoring the ghost outside. The Other is there but you’re searching for answers. An insatiable need for love maybe, like a true hopeless romantic. You’re digging a well. Your well is different from mine, and mine yours. I’ll never understand yours and you will never understand mine. That’s okay.

Sometimes in searching for the thirst of life’s water, you dig the well dry. You become a desolate product of your own search and you stop digging. Each day you visit your well, peering over the edge, waiting for it to fill. It never does. When it rains, you dance, you celebrate, and you truly feel alive. Those sparks of life that promise spring and new love, they feel damn good! And just as soon as the rain fills the well, the earth strips it away. We continue to peer down the well and wait for the water to return. Oh how we forget nature’s duality. The Other, the Reaper. It’s time. 

You’re swept off the ground with one blow of his scythe. Heel over head you tumble into the well, slamming hard on the floor below. You’ll wake up some time later, make no mistake, but you won’t remember how you got there. 

After you endure the pain of the fall, you sit there at the bottom of the well, knees to your chest. You’re left with nothing but to find a quiet place in your own head. Down in the well, looking up you see a ring of light. Dim, and clouded by it’s own surrounding brilliance above. Unattainable. All sounds muffled against the damp earth. Sitting at the bottom, submerged in that last puddle, after the big breakdown, you discover something. You take that one breath, time stops. You find solace, you become grounded. You feel the air pierce your nostrils and slide deep into your soul. That first breath…

In…

out…

In…

out…

Your breath is deafening and your heart roars like a quiet storm in the distance. You feel your pulse in your veins and you realize you’re alone, but you are okay. You are alone and you are safe. The Other is gone, for now.

For the first time you appreciate the mud between your toes, the moisture in the air, in your breath. You appreciate the warmth from the light above and even the loneliness feels good now. You are doing just fine, but you can’t help but wonder about life outside of your well. 

You hear a sound from above, you look up, and your vision blurred from falling debris. A rope falls over the edge of the well and you call out, but no one answers. You’ve got a way out, but you pause. You reserve a few moments for yourself before grasping the rope to climb out. You know part of you will miss the well and the lessons learned while alone. You shout out again, “Hello!?” 

You hear a faint voice, a whisper, “Come home.” You climb out of the well and you remember life before The Other. A fresh start in a familiar place, another adventure. Life is crazy-beautiful, isn’t it?

You met me tonight, maybe because you got tired of sitting down there too, I don’t know… but we met. The rope was thrown down the well and here we are. I don’t know what happens next, I really don’t. I won’t make a move, I’m sure you won’t either. Somehow though, I know you understand what I’ve written here and I hope it resonates with you. 

The Other was outside and we were inside. We took our turns looking through the peephole on opposite work shifts, never wondering if maybe we were going through the same things separately. We knew The Other was there and we were curious. We focused on the pinhole of light outside, completely missing the light of our home inside. We both opened that door, we both fell in the well, and we’re both wondering why the fuck the rope came down and let us back up. And we’re both wondering, whose voice is calling for us… 

“Come home.”

Level up. 

Level up. 

Excuses are like assholes, every one I meet lately is one. That’s not the saying, but my heart is bitter and I don’t give a fuck. For what it’s worth, at least I get to start over. Not the kind of starting over that happens when some shitwad steps on your sand castle, but like…the kind where you know that everything happens for a reason and the person who couldn’t figure out their life is probably gonna be alone forever. While you’re lucky enough to be capable of finding the 2.0 version of what you thought was the one, but also unlucky enough to have to be doing this for the 57th time.

Ive been frantically trying to retrace my steps today, back to the purest form of my heart. Because lately I’ve been feeling like this might be the type of situation that breaks me. ME. BREAKS, Me. The woman who’s been writing for a year about not giving up on something I truly want. Today I actually found myself thinking…what if it’s just not for me? What if my purpose is to just write about the impossible feat of having someone love me in return? For the first time in my life I had feelings that felt so right that there was absolutely no way this couldn’t go in my favor. At least that’s how it played out in my head. I’ve been dealing with boring, narcissistic, incapable of holding a conversation idiots and then the universe was like here you go, this is what you need. Just kidding, go fuck yourself. 

My happy endings these days are just a series of being able to move on in a timely manner so that I can do it all again. Cutting my recovery time in thirds and being able to close up heartbreak hotel quick enough to look like it doesn’t almost kill me, every god damn time. The truth is life isn’t over until someone changes my Facebook page to that creepy obituary one that people who never spent a moment of their lives caring about me post about how funny I used to be. [I can’t untag myself when I’m dead, so be kind people.] With that said, I keep truckin. 

Truckin on into work where I can make money to be able to travel and forget about him. Truckin on into the gym so that I can keep a physique that compares to my personality. Truckin on over to tinder, cause I get lonely at night and something is better than nothing. Even if something is a 35 year old aspiring rap artist who talks in emojis and owns stock in low cost hair gel. Ugh.

It’s just getting old, you know, like me. Having to start over when you have exactly what you were looking for and that person just wasn’t on the page you needed them to be on. Maybe there’s someone out there right now wondering what it would be like to know someone like me. Or maybe while everyone else has a king to their queen, I’m just a forever pawn on this chess board of life. 

This morning I woke up and I felt like I didn’t want to feel like this anymore, so I’m trying to do just that. End the confusion, block out the pain. But I can’t help but wonder what the point of all of this was. The only logical explanation is that since nothing could be worse, it’s a stepping stone to something better.

It only takes one person to alter your thinking; color your perspectives, to force you to reevaluate what you think you know. And it only takes one moment for you to ask the toughest question: Do you know who you are, and are you capable of starting over?  

If nothing else comes of this, I have gained a new found appreciation for turning my gaze inward and an ever exhausting but truly capable mind set of continued and passionate stamina. If I fall twenty more times, I’ll get up twenty one and someday someone’s not going to be able to walk away from this kind of hopeless romance. 

Cheers to the people who try their hardest to be good enough for everyone, we are the ones who walk alone. We are the ones who will find eachother one day. 

Road Trips Over Rings 

Road Trips Over Rings 

I read somewhere in a book buried in my hallway closet that if you’re brave enough to love someone you’re brave enough to lose them. I highlighted it cause it felt incredibly definitive in its meaning and I like statements that are absolute. But then I lost the book, and I couldn’t find the quote, and I kept thinking, what if I’m not brave enough for the in-between? What if I can’t read what they advised me to do after? After you love someone. Or after you lose them. Or your mind. Whichever came first. 

Lately, it’s been a lot of all or nothing’s. My least favorite place to be. I used to cringe at the thought of living in limbo and then when I realized that living in limbo meant never having to lose anything completely, I didn’t hate it so much. There is peace in the unknown. Which is why so many people claim that ignorance is bliss. God was it bliss. 

There’s still a peace within me currently that I can’t explain. It makes about as much sense to me as it does the people who think they know what I should be feeling. Pain. This is the calm before the storm. Never have I known a calm before the calm, so I’m geared up for some pretty tough weather ahead. With that said, if I can hang back, in my tornado shelter and fight off insecurities and abandonment, maybe I’ll open up those doors again someday to sunnier skies. Or maybe I’ll open them up to a fucked up town of mangled homes and lifeless corpses. 

That’s the thing, I don’t know. If this shit storm is a category one, or a category five, or if it’s not even going to strike my path. But, I have to be prepared. For the good and the bad. And just like he told me not to, I wait. 

Because no sane human being just doesn’t take shelter and stands on the porch staring the storm in the face. And they certainly don’t run from it. And they certainly don’t stop waiting. This is their home. This is my heart. 

The bravery is in the steps it takes to wait it out, while things you can’t see are taking its course outside of your control. You wait, and you wait, and then it’s over and you make due with what comes out on the other side. Be it wind blown daisies watered heavily but unharmed, or a car turned sideways in your swimming pool. You’re alive, cause you waited. You’re the same because you caught shelter. And you’re there minutes, months, years later with a new perspective on the things in front of you. 

I’ve met a lot of cowards in my lifetime. Not one of them is the girl I face every morning in my bathroom mirror. I am brave because I know there is something to be said about never fearing anything that’s even slightly attainable. Because fear sucks the life out of us every second of every day as it is. It keeps us from thriving just enough to not be able to find true love. Or to keep that fire lit long enough to never experience loss. 

I want to die quickly and similarly in each other’s hearts on our death beds, not on the beds of our dying hope decades prior. Or on the porch of a home amidst a tornado that I refused to seek shelter from because I failed to wait. Or because I waited too long. I want to lose you to the heavens above or the sea below, not to the idea that you aren’t good enough, or ready. I stay faithful to my hearts desire while we stumble over the difficulty of unplanned time. And I stay brave enough to learn to love you, even while I’m braving losing you…

6 Reasons They Might Be The One

6 Reasons They Might Be The One

You know what they say, when you know you know. For the more oblivious suitor in all of us, below is a list I’ve comprised of no-brainer reasons that might indicate he or she is the one.

1. It doesn’t matter that you fight, it’s how you fight. Drunk parking lot brawls followed by verbal altercations were the highlight of my high school relationships and about as productive as the four day lemonade cleanse. If you find yourself less defensive with a partner and more open to coming out of an argument smarter and not just ‘right’ then there’s a good chance you will both fight fair in the future. A constructive dispute turned into a valuable lesson is a real testament to your respect towards one another and ability to power through conflict resolution. If you guys are good at the bad, the good will be even better.

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2. I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. Bucket lists are for celebrities and retiree’s. Or so everyone assumes. If they allow you to write one, and join you in your admiration for the seemingly impossible, there’s no stopping a duo with a true passion for adventure. Anybody who coddles your sense of thrill is worth far more than just a one and done. Keep this type of person around forever. Take chances with each other when you’re young so that you can tell those epic stories when you’re old.

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3. Get luckier than a box of charms. Every time you look at them it’s like getting the high score at ski ball and having the ticket machine malfunction to the point of endless rolls of winnings, and then when you go to cash-in, the person at the redemption counter is your friend from middle school and he needs to get rid of the rest of the cotton candy in the back. That’s what standing in front of them on your shittiest day should feel like. It feels like the sugar rush after a girl scout cookie binge. Or like sliding into a brand new pair of jeans. If winning their love makes you feel incredibly grateful, don’t stop til you get enough.

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4. Embrace irony at every cross road. Maybe you guys have the same infrequently viewed youtube video in your list of favorites. Or maybe you say the same thing at the same time. A lot. Jinx. You owe them a coke. Or maybe, you owe them your future. Once is coincidence, twice is strange but more than that is totally fate. When you find yourself wondering if there is a possibility that you two knew each other in a different lifetime, maybe it’s smart to think about spending this one together as well.

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5. Love me, lights out. Physically and emotionally we all have good days and bad. Sometimes those days are pieces of good decades counted in bad years. Or better mornings with significantly horrible nights. The fact of the matter is that life is a series of peaks and lull’s and the person who stays steady in their interest through every bump and curve is the only face you need to see at the end of that roller coaster. If you can look at your partner with the same adoration when they’re sick as you do when they’re glowing, you may have found yourself a keeper. Truthfully, if your worst still brings me to my knees, sign me up immediately.

NOTEBOOK2

6. Do what it takes, not what’s convenient. If the person in front of you is committed they will find ways, not excuses. This is the defining moment for ‘the one’. Because I feel that ultimately we may meet a couple of ‘the one’s’ in our lifetime, I put a lot of emphasis on dedication to a relationship in order to pin point longevity. You’re either in it together, or not at all. When they choose you everyday, you choose everyday with them. A person who is meant to be in your life will never let your connection slip through their fingers, no matter the extenuating circumstances or daunting obstacles.

NOTEBOOK

 

When the above is true of anybody’s existence, the universe has handed you what maybe you didn’t even know you needed. The one. Don’t waste anymore time trying to figure out why it’s happening, just embrace the signs and jump right in.

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The Flaws in our Logic 

The Flaws in our Logic 

The world will never devote itself to making you happy. It owes us nothing, cause frankly it was totally here first. It’s selfish and it’s cumbersome. It’s overcrowded with people who’s thoughts are not yours. There are bad losers and there are better losers, but one thing we all know for certain, none of us are going to survive. Ashes in an urn, bones in the ground, our destiny is all the same. The key is to remain emphatically undiminished while we circumvent the chaos and remind ourselves that there is passion in the search. There is beauty in the disaster.  

What I know of myself is my second biggest fear in life, the power to ask. What I try to remember is that it’s  silly to be afraid of not getting what you want, because you already aren’t. By not asking. Burn every single bridge in the selfishness of reason, fuck it…you’re not going back that way anyway. 

I hated my job of 8 years, so I quit it. The state I was born in made me restless, so I ditched it. He often times forgot to show me that he loved me, so I left him. Nothing in life is concrete if it doesn’t make you risk your entire story for the sake of its existence. Nobody is stuck in the confines of their own losses. They are only trapped in the exhaustion of their own mind. Repeatedly reminding themselves that progress is just another stepping stone to eminent failure. Buried in their own insecurities, gasping for someone else’s air. 

This is when I ask you to ask.

More questions, for help, to be educated, to find answers. I love being presented with a problem and asking “well what did they say when you asked?” “Uh, I dunno. I didn’t”. Those are the people who deserve nothing. Because without even the smallest risk, all you are asking for is to lose all potential for reward. 

I hate saying it, but I like [no]. It’s definitive and its responsive. Obviously I prefer the word [yes], but either way I’m not in limbo with my thoughts having either. What you want and what you get are only powered by making the world around you aware of your desires. Ultimately the source of all knowledge is in continuously bending other people’s truths. Pushing the limitations of their words; of their love. By asking questions and challenging logic nobody is set in their path from beginning to end.

Everytime I’m brought to a place of frustration by argument I know in the end I’ll have exactly what I needed; understanding. That’s not with everybody though, only the select few who require the same amount of knowledge to properly function. Some people are happy with mediocre, with being naive to the world. I’m privy to my need for more than basic human understanding. I don’t want to know that my seeds didn’t grow, I want to know why they didn’t and what I need to help them do so in the future. 
Be brave in your acquisitions. Be humble in your requirements. But never forget to stop asking for what you want. Think you can have it, and you will. What would you ask for if you knew the answer would be yes? 

Everything…”

Butterfly Effect.

Butterfly Effect.

My dashboard clock on my four door sedan is unusually tiny. It wasn’t until recently that I realized how much I liked it hidden behind the steering wheel, away from life’s uncanny ability to send a paralyzing fear down my spine with just the change of a minute. Like toilet paper, or a breath, the moment you run out of something with no preparation is the moment your world seeks desperately for understanding. Time often makes a mockery of my calculated plans, for it see’s exactly what I want and reminds me often that destiny is not, and will never be under my control.

I bet she never really wanted a second dog. But, as life would have it, he’s there and he’s always hungry. His shelter name was Bruce Wayne, so in an essence to keep with the theme she named him “Batman”. Since his arrival he’s had a penchant for gnawing on her work shoes. Not the whole pair, just one…deeming them unwearable. So, she threw on a pair that was questionable to walk in, but at least aesthetically appealing until she could get to the mall. The barely worn pumps beneath her feet caught the gas as she rear ended a fellow traffic goer coming off of the freeway exit. Of course the tail end of the pile up was not the kind of pedestrian that takes your plate numbers and insurance and lets you off easy. He called the police and they showed up at the site of the accident. As the officer inspected the scene for damages, he finds her suspended license on record due to a series of poor decisions on her drive home from Mexico this past summer. Mandatory court appearance and nothing less. Five weeks later, she sluggishly opened the doors to the Starbucks across from the courtroom. After all, her girlfriend’s birthday was the night before and she was running on three hours of sleep. As she grabbed for a coffee stirrer, he reaches for the same straw and they touch for the first time, but as fate would have it, not the last. Thank you Batman.

Life is essentially just a string of trivial events that subsequently lead us to the end of our minutes. What most of us fail to absorb is every minute for what each is worth and how important they are to the final objective. If there was any reluctance in purchasing a shoe-hungry black lab days before the freeway accident, maybe she would have been wearing the proper shoes to brake. And what if her license was never suspended because she never went to Mexico because of weather? She wouldn’t be at the Starbucks across from the courtroom. And what if her best friends birthday wasn’t the night before? Maybe she wouldn’t have been tired enough to need a coffee. Which means,  she wouldn’t be grabbing for the same straw he was. And she may never have gotten the opportunity to know him.

You see, every single thing you do matters. If it’s said that the flutter of a butterfly’s tiny wing can essentially cause a typhoon half way across the globe, then every thought you have, every move you make, ultimately creates your destiny. Small, seemingly insignificant facts unlived are capable of changing the entire outcome of your story. And nobody stops to think that in knowing that, life is a thousand times easier to understand because there is literally no sense in trying to understand it. If you sneeze today, and wear blue tomorrow you may have just missed your chance at having a child. That’s life.

Our lives are defined by opportunity, even the one’s we miss. And I’ll be the first to admit, I miss a lot of them. I think about that when I find myself indifferent about timing. Despite infinite potential, he tells me he’s just passing through. That this state is just a stop and I’m just a quick connection in an over populated terminal. Even if the possibility has it’s limits of justification, I know what it’s like to lose a moment out of fear that any amount of time with him, wouldn’t be long enough. Like when I’m late for something and I’m staring at the clock, worried about the time, wasting my time on looking at the time as it literally slips away. Losing it all in my own anxiety. That’s what falling for him feels like.

Everything difficult seems impossible until it’s actually done. When you look back and you see the series of events that led you to knowing better; living better, you’ll realize that no action, be it great or small is useless. A mere second can change your life forever. Don’t ever doubt that. Time is our greatest enemy, but the miniscule minutes that count down pivotal moments are our most sought after gifts.

 

Leap Year

Leap Year

Don’t wait for me.

Trust me, I wont.

I woke up to an orange and pink sunrise. It reminded me of the drinks I used to order back home on the beach if I was looking to get black out drunk and sleep in my car. The colors of the Colorado sky took me from a nostalgic feeling of utter depression to a moment of complete clarity. I went to bed painfully and emotionally exhausted. More confused than ever before. But, as luck would have it, I woke up to try another day, another beautiful way.

It’s February 29th. Every four years we are granted with an extra day. How are you making use of these additional hours? Today is a day I wasn’t promised last year, and I almost utilized it’s existence this round to sulk. I can’t blame myself though, I’m pretty bummed that my life is becoming the definition of insanity. A repetition of the same scenarios that I can’t resolve so I essentially just absorb them and repeat the cycle, ultimately expecting different results each time. I know for a fact that when he says ‘it isn’t you’, that there’s no way it’s not. But, what if it isn’t me? Who’s gonna fix this?

I live in a city of quitters. Denver is where people go when life gets too hard. We are a melting pot of broken; a dumping ground for disconnect. I however, can’t get on board with the constant reminders that nobody is capable of anything remotely difficult. Like, following their dreams. Or living financially independent. Or my recent favorite, knowing what you want and not back pedaling when you find it. I’m not stupid. I know I can’t really fix anybody, but at this rate it feels like we all have our insecurities and I’ve just gotta swing for the fences when I get thrown a semi-decent ball.  That’s absurd right? Keep your standards high and your heels higher? Well, I’m tall. And tired. Just throw me something I won’t strike out on.

I used to think emotionally unavailable men was an Orange County thing, part of the reason I left. And then I blamed it on my generation. Now I don’t know who to pass the torch to anymore. Everyone I meet in life is so god damned misinformed on how to treat others, or how to treat themselves that I feel like I was basically born to babysit. So, listen up kids…this is how it’s gonna work:

You meet. You have similar interests. You find each other attractive. You treasure the ease of your togetherness. You steadily move in a direction that would benefit you both mutually. You choose monogamy. You bask in some happiness. You travel a lot. You make memories. You start a life together. You raise a family. You die complete. The end.

Note that there are no asterisks in the above situation. There’s no “we went to bed angry and woke up stuck”. Or, “but after the family was raised he cheated on me profusely because he hated the way I needed him to love me”. Or ” and then he stopped talking to me because he was too scared to feel”. Dating is not for the weak of heart, but it’s the only fucking tunnel to love we have. So, prior to giving up at every bump in the road, maybe hold on to the idea that the easiest things in life are usually the least fulfilling. By nature, nobody will ever fall in love at first sight. And if you did, good for you, but it’s probably because you had a baby and you were forced into some sort of bond that was theoretically impossible to break. Or maybe you’re in that one percentile of people who didn’t ever have to deal with the pain of heartbreak because they fell in love with their boyfriend from third grade and married him in college. If only we could all be so lucky.

Speaking of luck, I’m pretty lucky that I got an extra day this month. To rearrange my thoughts on paper before March came marching down the calendar. I’m also pretty lucky that most men’s response to me is “you’re amazing I’m just not ready” instead of “you’re kind of a bitch and you smell weird”. I think I’m a catch. I exude confidence and intelligence. I provide men with space, but also adoration. I’d like to think that my biggest challenge is being totally prepared unlike the rest of the population. But where do I go from here? Quit my job, roll a fatty and question all of my feelings? I’d so regretfully be willing to bet that might score me the relationship I’ve been looking for.

Shoo fly, don’t bother me.

Shoo fly, don’t bother me.

I’ll never understand revenge. I think about it. I’ve committed it. I’ve regretted it.

I’ve literally witnessed people sell their souls for a feel-good moment of karma, and you know who always wins? The asshole. Want to know why? Cause honey badgers don’t give a fuck. Like this. Tell me, what part of the brain is so incapable of forgiveness that it short circuits and violently unleashes a wrath of insanity upon unsuspecting patrons? Is it the synapse between needing to level the playing field and being socially inept?  Or is it at the base of the cerebral cortex where your insecurities run wild?

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I get it. Misery loves company. But, you know who loves company more? Happy people. Go do that. We’ve gotta stop stomping our immature feet with anger about situations we can’t control. Nobody in their right mind gives a shit about our sadness. The people we want to care are probably the same people who got us there. Your best bet is getting out of it with integrity intact and dodging any opportunities that might bring you back. Like, I dunno…finding yourself outside of their house, next to their car, with a carton of eggs, a packet of bologna and a face mask. (I’ve only been on the receiving end of a bologna paint peel once, and let me tell you, there’s no type of revenge quite like turning a brand new car into a twister mat). Anyways, don’t do that. None of that. Problem solved.

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Comfort is arguably the true culprit. And it always brings us back to a place where we’re making the same mistakes but expecting different results; the true definition of insanity. I watch grown men and women fall back into routines that are literal set ups for retaliation. You know why? Because you can’t bring someone down, until you’ve brought them back up.  I can smell the premeditation as they strive for the upper hand. And when they fail, all they have left is revenge.

You can’t leave me, I have to leave you.

My heart hurts, I want yours to, too.

I have nothing, so you aren’t allowed to have anything.

It’s not always tit for tat in the game of love. You win some, you lose some. And at the end of the day, do what’s right and let the rest go peacefully. The biggest struggle this dating scene has ever presented me was coming to terms with unforeseen closure and not wanting to MURDER every person who selfishly didn’t give that to me. Those unanswered questions always brought me to a place of hatred, and where there was anger, there were words. When those words didn’t cut deep enough, there were actions. And so on. Revenge left me nowhere but at the crossroads of guilt and regret. When I didn’t get a response, not even a blink out of the administrator of my pain, I was farther behind on the journey to forgiveness than I’d ever thought possible. And he was light years ahead, dismissing of my mere existence. Had I chosen acceptance, I’d have chosen a much quicker road to satisfaction. But, as you all know acceptance is a tough pill to swallow. And frankly, I’m all out of water.

This Side of Rejection

This Side of Rejection

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.”

~ Maya Angelou

       Most of the shadows of my internal darkness are caused by blocking out my own sunshine. Its hard to admit it guys, but I have a dirty habit of settling. There he is, my future, waiting patiently in the fields of utter perfection, and I’m over here on the corner of “Just” and “Love me” finding ways to justify the negativity in my life. My track record of men I’ve spent longer than a week tolerating screams something is sadly missing. It’s come to the point where it’s almost impossible not to feel hopelessly devoted at the mere mention of long term interest. Genuine needs fall by the wayside in the beginning and I find myself forgetting what’s truly important in a partner. Until compatibility comes knocking and I’m standing at the door with more questions than answers.

News Flash: there is more to a relationship than just being in love. There’s security and there’s pride. There are similar interests and way more moments of happiness than those troubling instances of doubt. But sometimes, when he’s holding your hand and telling you how beautiful your unmade face is, the sensitivity overshadows all of the concerns, and you’re whisked away to a land of make-believe. And it’s in those moments folks, that futures go to die.

My two week love affair is obsolete.  Happy birthday to me, right? I have a request for a last minute present and it goes as follows:  I want his heart to heal quicker than it took me to break it. (Which was a two minute convo via text, cause I was admitably too exhausted from overthinking the break up to make the phone call) Mark my words, the pain of my own punishment is far worse than dealing with any outsider’s rejection. Mostly, because I know that good people deserve answers (despite wanting to hear them)and at the end of the day I was never one to leave a story untold. He’s not going to thank me for breaking his heart, but I hope sooner rather than later he realizes that painful losses are often times the most sought after lessons.

For a while I was happy to know that someone out there wanted to get to know me as much as I want to get to know them, even if I already knew it was for nothing. I guess you could say I gave it the “good ol’ college try”. It took me years to learn, but there are significant similarities that need to be aligned to foresee a stable future with someone, and I know my place in each of them so well that it’s absurd to most that I’m able to make decisions so quickly. Obvious incompatibilities are a dead give away in the game of love. And yet, we dance around them like children hoping to be swept away by instant gratification.  I’m rambling, again. I guess what I’m trying to say is I don’t want to defend my decision. Not for him, and especially not for myself. Because it’s my decision and there’s no explanation to how my soul chooses to find it’s mate. I am plain and simple on a journey directed by pure intentions with the same goal as every one around me, to love and to be loved in return.

Needless to say, this round was mine for the loss. I kind of set myself up for failure because I took his adoration for me and I used it to fuel the parts of him I wasn’t ready to accept. Plain and simple, he wasn’t a match. Not his fault, and not mine. If you had asked me a decade ago, I would have dated his face off, because hellllo…lust. At twenty two years-young I’d allow three months of euphoria to be followed up by eight months of irritation and a month of recovery. That’s a whole year wasted on ignoring life’s red flags. But, at the end of the day it still pains me to say goodbye to a person who would have done just about anything to make me happy. Something that honestly was never his job in the first place. You have to wonder if this will be the last time you’ll get an opportunity, if the grass is really any greener on the other side? If it’s not any greener,than I’m honestly still content knowing that I didn’t settle for doubt. I am committed to the desire to find someone to fit into a life I’ve created for myself and I won’t take any less as an option. If it takes me an entire lifetime to find what I’m looking for then I’ll see you on the other side, the other side of rejection.