since I learned…

Ten days ago, a door to the past was closed (see previo us post) in a way that my imagination hadn’t let it before. My emotions, like a pendulum, swung between devastation and expansiveness.

I spent the afternoon listening to Taylor Swift’s “All Too Well” on repeat, the deep, heaving, guttural sobs of the early day giving way to high-pitched wailing in late afternoon.

“And I know it’s long gone and there was nothing else I could do, and I forget about you long enough to forget why I needed to…
And maybe we got lost in translation, maybe I asked for too much, but maybe this thing was a masterpiece ’til you tore it all up…
It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well.”
Taylor Swift

My son embraced me and spent the evening at my side. My daughter empathized over a video call. All over a weeks-long relationship six years ago with a man who was short, fat and bald.

I had made him into a myth in my mind. I had made him and our relationship unassailable and perfect (which it was not), all because I felt more hope, joy, love and warmth in our time together than I’d ever felt before. I had wrapped all kinds of hopes and dreams up in my wish that he’d come back. I had also bundled all the grief and hurt and pain of my ex’s death, along with a lifetime of unresolved hurts, into a package and slapped a label with Perry’s name on it. My therapist friend helped me understand terms like “complex grief” and “ambiguous loss.” I spent thousands on therapy, coaching and personal development. Yet here I was, finding I hadn’t fully healed from it all six years later. As I became aware of my thoughts, I realized I had made him into an imaginary friend, who I talked to in the mundane spaces in my day.

And yet, I had managed to go the better part of four years while in another relationship without thinking about him all that much…

[Now I realize I was on the receiving end of this same dynamic in my more recent relationship: he wanted my love to fill a gaping hole of hurt stemming from a tumultuous childhood, horrific experiences in the military and other hurts. It was as though I could see this huge void / need and, having known him such a short time, all the love I could give was little more than a bandaid on an amputation.]

Things I’d learned along the way came back to me:

You should be able to experience several soul-affirming relationships before deciding who to commit to. — from a relationship coach
Men coming right out of a divorce are not themselves and are prone to over-giving, over-promising and love bombing, none of which will last. — another relationship coach
Use the feeling as a compass. You will know your next relationship is right when it feels the way you want it to. — yet another relationship coach

Trouble is, no other relationship yet has.

When I look back, I remember steeling myself and thinking, “I have loved so deeply — and even though I’m hurting, this is a sign I’m close. No doubt I will find my mate in a few months.” Ha!

I spent the weekend journaling, clearing my energy using the intuitive process I’ve learned in the last year, and was ultimately called to a practice of forgiveness: I’ve made a list of family members, exes, friends and even former bosses I need to forgive, and used my intuitive tools to learn how many times I must forgive them. It’s become a 90-day practice, and I’m just 10 days in. I’ve already learned so much. Short version: all this stuff I need to heal is mostly not about Perry. And it’s mostly about forgiving myself and re-parenting my inner child for not having the tools or resources or power to create and hold boundaries, ask for what I need and share my truth — and for allowing my thought patterns to make us into more than it was.

This past weekend, I found myself still listening to Taylor’s “All Too Well” on repeat. But I’ve been dancing in my kitchen, singing at the top of my lungs, creating space for hope to creep back in.

gut punch

I approached the checkout and set my basket on the tray. The cashier greeted me with a smile and “how’s your day going so far?”

“Bit of a gut punch, to be honest,” I replied, putting on a brave face.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, turning around and ringing a bell.

I tapped my card on the reader through bleary eyes as a bouquet of flowers suddenly appeared on the counter next to my bag of groceries. And that’s how I ended up bawling in a Trader Joe’s.

20 minutes later, after I’d put strawberries, spinach and chicken thighs in the refrigerator at home, I found a sturdy red vase for the flowers. As I ran water into it, I thought about all the tears I’d cried these past several months and how this period in my life mirrored the time six years earlier, after my ex’s death and Perry had left. The voice in my head said, “please tell me this is my rock bottom.” Just then, the vase slipped from my hands and broke.

I stood there, crying and laughing at the same time.

—

Earlier in the week, my intuitive coach worked with me to release some energetic love blocks. As we spoke, I told her about my ex dying and Perry leaving, and my tangled mass of ambiguous loss and compound grief.

I told her that, of every man I’d ever dated, Perry had felt the best — warm, fun, generous and supportive. She tuned in for a brief read of his energy and told me if I reached out to him via email, he’d likely reply.

The thing is, I had emailed Perry — probably as many times as years had passed, but always in that vague, door’s open manner, like a photo with “This popped up in my memories and made me smile.” Sometimes I tried timed my outreach to when my horoscope said doors were open to past love or second chances. And in nearly six years, I’d never received a response. As if that wasn’t already clear enough (I am one to beat a dead horse, evidently), I found myself once again drafting a message — this time with a direct request to let me buy him a cup of tea or glass of wine next time he was in town on business. I said I’d love to catch up and learn whether there might have been something I’d said or done wrong that I might learn from, so as not to fuck up the next great thing. I released any expectation of hearing back.

So it was a surprise to find an email waiting in my messages this morning. It read:

“I hope you had a peaceful new year and that you and your family are well. I’ve been busy with work and recently re-married and am very happy. I wouldn’t take it as you having done anything wrong; it was a transition in my life.”

I took a big, deep breath as I read it and the knowing settled in. I whisked off a quick reply of “Congratulations! I wish you every happiness.” A finality came over me and, with it, a flood of emotions: grief, sadness, loss, heartache, longing, loneliness, “it’s not fair!” and many more.

I applied waterproof mascara between the tears and left for my appointment, stifling the deep, heaving sobs from my belly. My client was understanding of my vulnerability, and appreciated my showing up.

After, I stopped at the grocery store intending to stock up and allow myself to hunker at home with ALL the feelings. And that is when I found myself sobbing at the check out.

sayonara 2016

2016 will go down in infamy as the year that kicked my ass. I can honestly say I’ve hit emotional rock bottom — I’ve broken into tears probably more days than not, including ugly crying in bars with girlfriends; I’ve struggled to truly experience the upper register of my emotions, including joy, happiness and gratitude; my body has not supported me in wellness; and where I once felt sweet and feminine, I’ve more often felt brittle and bitter. My efforts to pick myself up, dust myself off and “get back out there” have been short lived and uncomfortable, as I’ve ridden wave after wave of grief.

I think about love and hope and, almost immediately, I feel the pain of loss and heartache in my chest. Of course I want to find my partner — I want my happily ever after, however unrealistic that may be. And contemplating how long it took to find something so good, that it could be another five years of searching… I just don’t know that I have it in me. Especially knowing there’s a chance I could hurt as much as I’ve hurt last year. I would like to never feel such heartache again. I would like no one ever to experience that deep heartache ever again.

I’ve also endured entirely too much well-intentioned advice and relationship maxims — among them:

It’s a numbers game; you’ve just got to keep at it.

Uh, hello? If you’ve been following, you know I’ve been single again for nearly seven years now. That’s a lot of dates. I haven’t counted. I work up my courage and psych myself up to get out there and meet new people. But I’m really over it. I want the next man I kiss to the be my last first kiss. And I want it to be wonderful.

When love comes around, it won’t look anything like you expect it to.

Lee didn’t look anything like I expected him to. He didn’t act anything like I expected. Our relationship did not transpire like I expected — it was better. And it was partly because he was so different and we, together, were so unexpectedly good that I believed I may have found what I’m searching for.

Love won’t show up on your timeline.

I took a year to work on myself and heal after my ex and I split nearly seven years ago now. I had been looking for nearly five years by the time I met Lee. One could have said the timing was bad, given my ex’s recent death. That it was so unlikely was, perhaps, just another reason it felt so real.

Forget chemistry; make decisions based on how you feel.

While I would tell you now that Lee and I had great chemistry, it wasn’t instant. Our chemistry grew as we got to know each other and developed feelings for one another. We seemed to enjoy many of the same things and share a great deal in common. I could envision him by my side in nearly any situation.

In other words, I knew I was on the right track a year ago… Now I’ve got to muster my courage to try again. But first I’m going to take some time, reset my energy / vibe, work on getting my body healthy enough to support the mental work I need to do.

2017 will be better. It has to be.

when life hands you a shit sandwich…

Lately a lot of people have been asking me how I’m doing: they know my ex has been struggling with health problems; they know my boss is certifiable; they know I’m a full-on single parent with a demanding job and hellacious commute and children’s activities and more than too much to try and squeeze into a day.

I tell them, “I’m fine.”

I am a liar.

The truth is that I’ve been struggling. For months. More than ever. And it hurts. I’ve never been in a place where my herbal antidepressants seem so ineffective, my endless optimism is so drained, my outlook — regardless of what I may tell my friends — is so bleak. I exercise and it is not enough. Summer is not enough. I am able to have fun; I am able to function; I can experience joy, but there’s a ceiling on this joy — an upper limit I don’t recall experiencing before. And my heart is broken.

Broken for the man I once loved and for the decline even our children must now observe. Broken for the friendships and full, rich life I once had and those who no longer call now that I’m a single parent. (What?! Do you think I’m somehow a threat to your relationship because I don’t have a husband? My life is still full and rich…so there!) Broken for my friend with a brain tumor, dying slowly or maybe less so after a lengthy seizure about a week ago.

There is a word for how I feel…lonely. I am constantly surrounded by friends, co-workers, children and people who want nothing but the best for me. And none of that is the same as being loved fully and unconditionally for who I am by a lover and mate. So I naturally poured my heartache into the fantasy of my one unrequited love, making so much more of that crush than ever really was…about whom, by now, I must have written a dozen times. Without ever even trying, the man completely lay me bare, left me defenseless. And I loved it because I loved me in the context of him: I loved the me who cared for a man because he was good and kind and competent and caring — and not for any superficial reason.

He had passion for me, too, in my dreams. I’ve woken at least a dozen times in his loving arms…I mean, it seemed like I had until I really woke up.

“I want to meet him,” says my friend and co-worker, Char. “But I think I’d probably slap him.” Char was raised by a single mother and, therefore, assumes that I am a stronger and better woman than I am. She thinks he’s crazy. (I do, too.)

Pouring my feelings into longing for someone with whom I’ve never had a relationship must somehow be easier than having to deal with the fact that my ex is an alcoholic and that my children have to watch his decline and all the other garbage that I won’t even go into right now. Heavens, it gets old to dredge up this shit!

So I swing between this genuine pain I am feeling, because I truly feel as thought the spate of difficulties is perhaps more trouble than I deserve just now, and the rational, Peppermint Patty voice inside my head telling me to “buck up” and, frankly (even though I’m not Catholic), guilt about feeling as I am when I know full well most of these are first world problems.

I surround myself with happy, positive people and am blessed to have this rich group of friends. Except, right now, it seems as though they’re all looking around pointing at rainbows and, the second I turn my head to look, thunder claps down around me. And I’ve been self isolating, which is never a good sign.

I don’t waste time wondering why. I do wonder how on earth I might find time to take forward steps…dare I say, to put myself out there, to date. Alas, I have no time to offer another person. I’m not even sure I have the time to be a good parent!

So when I took a walk with my therapist friend recently, she echoed what she’s heard from me for months and gently asked whether I thought it was time to try a different course of action. Yes. And what did I plan to do?

(That’s a good friend right there!)

I committed to a plan. And I spent more time in the sun and worked out and started meditating again and, for the past week or so, I have felt better. My head seems to be on straight again. My heart does not feel noticeably broken. And this, too, shall pass.

confidence shaken (not stirred)

When I re-read my post from yesterday and think of all the bullshit I’ve done to create an imaginary boyfriend in my head — and yes, among friends, I even refer to him as my IBF — I think this is exactly the sort of crap I’d expect from a younger version of myself. But not professional, healthy, adult, mother-of-two me.

And then I wonder why did I allow this to become such a big deal and why has this guy taken on such mythological proportions in my head?

Here’s why: I was so utterly convinced — and still am — that we had something so incredibly worth exploring together that it never dawned on me that we wouldn’t. He’s worth it. I’m worth it. We had / have a chemistry and a closeness and enough in common to make us worth it, whatever other obstacles there may have been. We also have genuine differences; any two people do. And somewhere along the line, based on what he had gotten to know about me, I think he decided they were too big or too important to ignore. But he was very private in many ways, so I don’t know what those things are or how far apart we are, and I never had an opportunity to be part of that discussion or decision, so it has always felt unresolved.

It shouldn’t matter anyway, because the only way a relationship can be successful (in my experience) is if a man pursues it…which he started to, and then didn’t. Game over. Move on.

That experience has shaken my confidence more than probably any other relationship encounter I’ve had in the past five years.

There’s a solution for it, though; one I have some faith will work. I’ve got to start dating again. However unready I feel I am, I have to put myself out there and begin again.

he told me so

This past week or so, feeling like the fool I’ve been, I can’t help but make an observation:

Last year, I was in a relationship with a man who full-on loved me, who was ready, willing and able to commit to our relationship. And I couldn’t love him back in the same way. Even worse, when we were together, happy as I was, a part of me was always looking over his shoulder for someone more like the guy I called more-like-it, someone who seemed to be so much better a match, who seemed to have so much more in common with me.

When it ended, this former boyfriend of mine suggested I might need to get my heart broken a time or two in order to realize how dumb I’d been to let him — a decent man, a man who could commit — go. Seems he was right.

I thought I could play around. And then there were moments with more-like-it that made me think he was the type of man I could commit to. In the end…well, you’ve read about it…

And who was there to comfort me as I cried into my coffee? The kind, honest ex boyfriend…and he didn’t even say, “I told you so.”

Kind of ironic, don’t you think?