Sunday, August 15, 2010

Too much. A love letter for T.

I have "100 Ways" by Porno for Pyros in my head. I thought about you and me a hundred ways. I am so glad for your brief flight into my life. I want you to know that I will always recall you fondly, that you will always be dear to my heart. I'm so grateful to know you and your uneven head, your velvet hair, your crooked smile, your caring touch, your joyful laugh, the guttural giggle you can elicit from deep inside me. The way you look at me when you read my mind. Oh that knowing stare! The gratitude in your eyes when I can read your mind.

There are so many things I do adore about you. You came into my life at the exact perfect time. You inspire in me the desire to write short stories about lust and hope and deep, deep connections. And your beautiful heart-- oh your heart my dear! I hope you find the means to nurture it to let it grow vines and wings of its own. I will always hope for you. Know that you always have a cheerleader, a comrade, a groupie in me. Good night my darling, I hope you like receiving late night semi-drunken love letters.

Birds built their homes right above our bed...

Tuesday, July 28, 2009


It's nighttime that brings it all back so real. I lay here in my bed and stare at the spot you stood in and looked at me with confusion and horror. Oh God.

And I wonder if it is all over, if we are all over, is this possibly reparable? My hopeful side thinks of your smile, your laugh, drive-in movie theaters and the way my heart jumps and your voice lilts when you call me baby.

But the last time we talked your anger was what I heard the most. The sound of giving up. Oh god. I don't want to lose you.

Could we start again please?

Monday, July 27, 2009


I feel the toxicity. Poison.

I woke up with Trent Reznor's words running over and over: "I used to be so big and strong. I used to know my right from wrong. I used to never be afraid. I used to be somebody... I was up above it, now I'm down in it."

I'm starting to understand that I have become used to expecting the worst treatment from the men I choose to love. I'm used to being the hurt one, the victim. WHich is totally fucked up and not a part of my life I think I've realized before. Even though I worked so hard to hide it, to project this image of strength and resilience, unattached to him. Even while projecting this facade, however convincing it may have been to others and to myself even, in our relationship, I was the hurt one. And he fucking knew how much and how often he hurt me and yet made no effort to stop it. And I was so fucking trapped and couldn't leave. Even when I tried to leave I couldn't stay gone because our bond was more permanent due to circumstance. And I never once felt like I could trust him at any point over the years.

And as the brilliant Tom Waits sang, "I did my time, in the jail of your arms". I did my fucking time and I finally started to feel good and like love could be possible again. That a partnership could be real and in my life and that it wouldn't look like a prison.

I'm not used to being the one who would do the hurting. And here it happened. The poison bubbled up and over and it scalded you. And my regret is burning me.

I missed you so fucking much today, A. The ache has its own heartbeat.

Sunday, July 26, 2009

A New You, the Old Me

This is the first post on this blog in 2009, and the first post in which the "you" I am writing to is a different "you" than the one I was writing to before. It has been so long since I have written and in a way I am forcing myself to do this now.

I was so awful to you the night before last. The words I chose to use were the ones I knew would wound the deepest. Why would I strike so hard at the one who has been so dear to me? Why would I act in such a stupid way, a way that would guarantee me winding up alone once again? How could I be such a wretch?

And its these fucking questions that are the reason I'm forcing myself to write this week. Because writing has saved my life - or at least my heart- so many times before and I feel so lost right now. And to try to understand this ugliness inside me so that with hope and vigilance, I can make a real promise to you that it won't happen again.

In a moment of sadness and weakness I admitted my horridness to my mother earlier today. I didn't go into detail other than to say that I was a complete asshole to you, said terrible, undeserved things and that I wished that I could turn back time and take it all back. And then she of course told my father. And hearing the two of them talk to me about what I did to you- the two most frequent victims of the vile words spit by my teenaged tongue - I couldn't lie or minimize the damage I had done. They know me better than that.

My father reminded me that I have always fixated on things that I fear - like vampires and sharks - giving them more meaning and power than they deserve. And he said that I am fixating on my ex and the anniversary of his departure in the same way. I interrupted him quickly and told him that his advice wasn't helpful, but here hours later I think he was on to something. But its not the ex that I am fixated on- it is the carcrash that was me when he left. It is the incredible pain and loss I experienced from time to time on this blog.

So I think my brain is fucking with me. And this certainly wouldn't be the first time I realized that I have walls up that I wasn't even aware of. So the question remains, how do I let these walls down so I can see things truly and honestly? How do I trust? How can I possibly risk loving, which means perhaps losing, again?

I have a lot of love to give. And yet instead it has been injury that has been flung from my body onto yours.

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Grief + Liberation

I read this line from Christopher Moore's A Dirty Job:

"There's a fine edge to new grief, it severs nerves, disconnects reality- there's mercy in a sharp blade. Only with time, as the edge wears, does the real ache begin."

As ridiculous as Moore can be, this quote expresses in better terms than I can where I am at right now. After you left I rode on adrenaline and shock for awhile. Now that you are gone the grief has settled in. Into my brain, my shoulders, my heart and my eyes to be precise.

You took the ground out from under me when you left. I realized a few weeks ago that I had no ground, I had lost my footing. This the first time I'm typing these words- they have gone over and over in my head but I haven't had the courage to type them. So I'm hoping you can imagine how hard it feels for my to say these words to you while you are looking at me -albeit on a stupidass webcam from a million miles away. I just couldn't let you see me hysterical yet again. I don't feel comfortable with you like that anymore. Time and distance change things, you know.

And I have to be honest that I have been avoiding you. As ridiculous a thing that may seem to be for someone on a different continent, it's true. It's really hard to talk to you sometimes. It's hard for me to see you seeming as chaotic as you were here but still superficially living. And I know I am totally judging and I may be wrong. But I see you still passively living, and life is floating on by. I hope I'm wrong. But its hard to perceive you this way, particularly as the distance grows further and our connection diminishes and you progressively lose the language we speak in, I feel like I have no way to shake you, wake you up a little.

How terribly arrogant of me, huh? It's true. I am spending a lot of time in my head so I have plenty of time to formulate this psychobabble. And I speak from a vulnerable place myself so what right do I have to cast stones? Because of our history, our bond I just need to tell you what's happening, however much in my head. I am sad. I am sadder than I can ever remember being. Tears remain in my eyes all the time. They have for almost 5 months now- something I've never experienced before in my life. Honestly, I think the migraines might be from me having to work so hard to keep from crying all the time- like the pressure is too much.

But the silver lining is that for the first time in almost 5 years, I am not worried. I spent 4 and a half long years with you, worried all the time. Worried about what would happen next, if things would go right or wrong on big and small levels, if you would sleep with a friend of mine again, worried about what information you were withholding from me, worried about when you were going to leave me. And then it happened, you did leave. Which deep down I always knew you would. And I'm not blaming, I'm explaining, perhaps something you already knew. And it is an extremely strange experience to feel both this pain, this sadness, and this liberation, this freedom from my worries all at once. And that is what I've been wanting to talk to you about, to tell you about. To let you know how I am doing.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008


With a million miles between us, seeing you smile at me and being able to smile back at you gives me hope that there will be happiness again one day.


This pain is a cancer.

That line was the skipping record in my brain as I drove away from the airport that awful early July morning of goodbye, leaving my love behind.

The pain felt like a tumor – it was a lump in my throat, my chest that impeded my breathing and left me teetering on the edge of explosion. It felt like a deep, raw wound that would fester and grow and consume me if I didn’t pay it proper attention and care.

Grieving, anguished, sorrowful, brokenhearted, wallowing.

Today the pain feels like a hangover that won’t go away. The kind of hangover you get when you have saturated your body, your blood, your brain with alcohol. The first day you want to die. You cry for your mother and your crimes as you crawl back and forth from the bathroom. Moving beyond that is simply not an option. The second day you’re not as damaged but you are fragile, vulnerable, cautious, aching. I feel like midnight between these days. But there’s no 3rd day relief in sight.

And its a pain that exhausts. And you don't want to feel it and you try to push it down, to think of other things, to avoid it for a few minutes.

But you've already established that this pain is a cancer, and if ignored or even just temporarily set aside, it will boil up uncontrolled. Like 7am on the first hangover day after only getting 2 hours of sleep, you remember you're just at the beginning of the awful part. And there's no option but to let it run its course.

So you hang on for dear life and cry freely. And you know that each tear wept releases a bit of the cancer from inside you. And the same goes for every word you're brave enough to write.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Once Upon a Time

Can ya ma can, fe kadeem ya zaman, there was a little girl who didn't believe in princes. She knew that princes were like the wind, blowing through her curls on a hot summer's day, feeling so joyous, so wonderful, but then they blew on to the next little girl. So she decided to be the wind instead and blew her light and love through the boys she passed.

But then one day she blew smack into a special boy. When she realized she was a prince without a homeland - one he could get to anyway - she married him quickly so he could stay. "It's just to help," she told herself.

As the years passed she grew to love the Homeless Prince and they shared so much. Great joy and great pain were theirs. There was always music and laughter in their kingdom, always delicious meals made with exotic spices.

But she felt a change in the air one day, felt the wind pick up and knew there was a storm coming. Though the Homeless Prince loved her deeply - now more than ever - his wanderlust became unbearable. She knew he would wander again soon.

So she prepared to say goodbye. She left him trinkets to remember her by and spells made of music. And then one day he flew with the wind away from their kingdom and she wished him happily ever afters.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008


There is nothing lovelier than hearing a woman you love and admire and sometimes want to slap (lovingly) say that she wished that you were her daughter. Even if she has had twelve too many drinks, you love hearing that you are the one she wishes she could call hers as you drive her safely home.