Let Go and Let Godiva

I have fallen off the wagon. Or  more  accurately, I have vaulted with focus and determination from the wagon of moderation, control and possibly mental health. I didn’t plan it, although looking back I can see that I’ve been leading up to this moment all week. I am prowling the bakery section of a Safeway gazing at the displays of donuts, boxes of cookies, individual slices of cakes and cheerfully decorated cupcakes. My rational voice whispers, (from far back into recesses of my consciousness were it’s been relegated), “Why are you doing this?” And my emotional voice, the one that is in control right now responds, “Because Fuck it. That’s why.”

I don’t even know what I’m looking for, its been so long since I indulged that I can’t even remember what my favorites are…did I ever even have a favorite? I feel sad and a little lost not to have a ”go to” dessert, a fall back indulgence, a fail safe cheat. “What has my life become?” I wonder. “Maybe this is the problem,” I think and I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans and I feel my new stomach muscles and this provides another opening for the rational voice to say ”Just leave. You don’t have to do this.” And I feel a moment of doubt about my actions, but it is quickly squashed with another eloquent “Fuck it! I’m doing this.” But I realize that I might better be able to control the rational side if I apply some rules to my fall. So I decide that I can get anything I want, as long as I can consume it all in this one night, because Monday I will start over, I will confess to my trainer and get back on the program. And that makes this night of over-indulgence ok. And it feels good to own this choice, this choice to jump into the abyss , and I know then that I will do it.  Fuck limits. Fuck calorie counting and “smart choices” and food journals. Fuck all of it. Rational voice, now pushed further into the recesses of my consciousness  wonders “why now, why this night?” But I’m not about to start inspecting my reasons. I’m excited now – its been months since I’ve given myself this kind of freedom.

“Ice cream,” I think  suddenly, “THAT’s my fall back dessert.” I head toward the freezer section and feel better for having direction.

I start at one end of the aisle and walk slowly, evaluate each item I pass.

I make it to the end of the ice cream aisle without having found IT. I turn and make my way back down. Ice cream cookies…maybe…individual servings of Ben & Jerry’s, a box of Godiva ice cream bites…possibly. I narrow my choices to half the aisle- the half that contains the individual servings of ice cream and the novelties. I’m pacing back and forth, casing the freezer case like an alcoholic outside a bar, waiting for something good enough to justify pulling the trigger. As I pivot on my heel to make another pass at the giant cooler my path is suddenly blocked by a family of plus size individuals evaluating the cheese selections across the aisle.  Then another family stands huddled in front of the ice cream cookies. I look around and realize that the formerly empty aisle is now fairly crowded with people.  “What the fuck?” I want to shout. I am completely indignant that they have interrupted my my moment. I have to bite back the words “Get out of my FUCKING WAY – this is my night, my only chance to do this and you are IN MY WAY!” I’m momentary unfamiliar to myself as I realize how irrational that sounds, but then I don’t care. But I take a deep breath and hover near the Popsicles (not even entered into consideration) until the aisle is again clear and I can resume my pacing. I start to get frustrated that I can’t find what I want, which is because I don’t know what I want. This is no small choice – you can’t fall off the wagon with a Weight Watchers single serve ice cream cup. There’s no glory in that. It has to be big, gooey, overflowing with calories and fat and sugar enough to drown out the guilt, to shut down certain brain functions. It has to be Absolute Decadence. My rational voice whispers ”That’s going to make you sick,” and I know that’s true, but I also know that I don’t care. I welcome it even, because then I’ll know why I feel hollow and gross inside. Which I think would be a nice change from now, when I can’t understand where this vague sense of depression and self loathing are coming from.

Suddenly inspiration strikes and I leave the ice cream aisle and go to the “dessert” case – where the cakes and pies and whip cream are kept…As I evaluate the options I realize I’m chanting Absolute Decadence in my head like a mantra.  Key lime pie? It hardly counts if its not chocolate. Chocolate volcano? It has to be heated up, too much effort. Defeated, I return to continue to stalk the ice cream aisle again. I’m starting to get frustrated with myself and my rational voice pipes up to say “You don’t have to do this. You can just go home, have one of the peaches you bought yesterday and go to bed.” “NO!” I say, almost out loud. “I’m doing this. I’m not going to fail in my attempt at self-destruction on top of everything else!”

I know I’m losing focus, won’t be able to fight the rational voice much longer, so I grab a single serving of Cherry Garcia and Mint Chocolate Chunk and I head to the checkouts. I drop one or the other of the miniature ice cream containers 4 times before I’m out of the aisle. As I walk toward the checkouts I start to second guess my choices, knowing I haven’t achieved total decadence. “Krispy Kreme!” I think and I go past the checkouts back to the pastry section. I arrive at the donut display cabinet to find a young couple standing in front of it, and I’m  immediately irritated. I circle around the displays of cakes and cookies in case something else might catch my attention, but no, it has to be a donut. The girl has wondered off, but the guy is standing there, door to the display case open, blocking the Krispe Kremes, not choosing a donut, but instead staring at them as if he doesn’t know what they are for, and I am completely overcome with a sensation that it is utterly and completely absurd and offensive that there are any other people here at all. I am filled with a ridiculous belief that in this momentous moment I should be alone in the store – alone in my moment. “Fuck it,” I say knowing I’m dangerously close to ceding control of my night to my rational voice, because I’m starting to scare myself with the number of irrational thoughts that are filling my head. And I know that to fail in this mission will be the final straw. I head back toward the checkouts, and see for the first time that no open line has fewer than 10 people in them, including the self check which probably has closer to 15 people. “WHAT THE FUCK IS EVERYONE DOING AT SAFEWAY AT 9:30 ON A SATURDAY NIGHT?!” I scream in my head. And I know, with absolute certainty that  to attempt to stand in one of those lines with my two measly containers of ice cream will put me over the edge – toward rational thought or insanity I’m not sure, but either way, it won’t be pretty.   I consider ditching the ice cream right there in the cracker aisle, but then think “its not the ice cream’s fault,” and so head back across the store to the freezer section. I throw them into the first freezer I get to and, free of my reason for being in the store, claustrophobia begins to set in. The store is too dark, too dirty, I feel like everyone is watching me and its getting hard to breathe. I head to the exit doors on that side of the store, focused only on getting outside. I walk up to the automatic door and nothing happens. I push against it, assuming that the sensor is just too slow, but it won’t budge. I try the door next to it, and it won’t budge either. I take a step back and run my hands through my hair as I suppress a scream and say instead,  ”I’m going to lose my mind!” I turn and now I KNOW everyone is watching me, so I speed walk back across the store to the other exit, wondering when this Safeway became such a dump. I burst into the parking lot, and gulp air as I craft Plan B – the Carvell Store near my apartment. I’ll go there and I’ll get an ice cream sundae.

As I drive over there I acknowledge that it is unlikely I’ll even eat half of the Sunday before I’m too sick or too full to continue. I fully acknowledge, for the first time all night that its a waste of money, of time, and of calories. But I don’t care. Its never really been about the junk food, and I’m ready to face that now.  I am not craving ice cream so much as a definable ill.  I just don’t get why I feel so…bad. So he’s gone. So what? I knew he was going, and technically we broke up months ago, and I’ve already done the processing, I’ve put everything in its boxes and put the boxes away, so why have I been plagued with this riotous concoction of anger, relief, fear, resentment, freedom for the past 2 days which has now simmered down to be just a pervasive feeling of…ick.

And now that I’m finally facing it, I know that its because this time it’s for real and forever. This time he’s on the other side of the world, fighting in a war because that’s the only place where he really feels happy. That’s the only place where his life makes sense to him. I get that now. There is a part of me that’s relieved, relieved because its so clear finally. Clear that it’s not about me, it’s not about how much or how little, or how well or how poorly I loved him. It’s not even about how much or how little he loved me. Its really nothing more than the old fish/bird real estate question: We are from two different worlds – two worlds that can’t be bridged. And so this is it. The real and final end, and I feel it in a way I never did before. And I know it is as it should be, and I know that I’ll be fine, better even than I have been. I know this in a way I didn’t the other times. And that, I realize as I pull open the door to the Carvel, is  why I can have this night, why I need this night of self destruction and gluttony. Because I have to embrace all of it and face all of it before I can fully move on. And if there is one thing that I am confident in, its my ability to move on from Army Guy.

 

Attachment Disorder

***Warning – extremely long, potentially emotional blog follows. (But if I keep trying to edit it, I’ll never finish it)****

So, the ”Army Guy Story” picks up a few short weeks after moving, when I was just getting used to living in a world that I had finally accepted did not hold Army Guy, Army Guy naturally comes back. (Technically I brought him back – but it was an accident. Except that I don’t believe in accidents, so I’ll say that it was an unconscious action. I accidentally included him on a mass email… ) At any rate, he replied to the email, and I replied to his email, and a week later, we were back together. But it was a long week filled with hours and hours of talking and emailing, and phone conversations in which he apologized and I went into excruciating detail about how much he’d hurt me. And it was a week in which I remembered how nice it was to have him in my life, and a week in which he told me, while sitting in his car in the pouring rain, that he loved me, that in fact he suspected he’d always loved me, (but was scared of such intense emotion so early, and it was that fear that had motivated him to accept his ex-girlfriend’s offer of reconciliation, followed quickly by regret, followed shortly thereafter by their break-up, and followed eventually by a lame and thus unsuccessful attempt to re-establish contact with me.)  In response, I admitted that I was in love with him as well, and suspected I had been since the moment I laid eyes on him way back in September in that cheap Mexican restaurant.

Over the course of our conversations that week, I was able to get him to see that his mistake had not been in doubting his feelings, or feeling scared, but in not talking to me about it, not processing it with me and not making decisions about our relationship with me. As a result, he promised, (literally said “I promise”) to always process out loud, to tell me his fears and his thoughts and let us work through them together.  

But I didn’t just fall blindly back into a relationship with him because he said he loved me, or promised to “process” with me. I decided to take him back, to give it a second chance, because I needed to know. I needed to know what would have happened if our relationship had just been allowed to run its course, and because I needed to know that I’d given it every thing I had. I needed to get rid of all those “what if’s” that had been haunting me for the past 4 months. I went into this second round of our relationship with my eyes wide open to the possibility that it wouldn’t work again, but knowing that it couldn’t possibly hurt as much as it had the first time, and that whatever happened, I would know I’d tried.  And of course, beyond, or maybe below, all of that, I took him back because I was ass over elbows in love with him.

Initially things were wonderful. In those first few weeks, he was expressive, and communicative and emotionally connected. We communicated via phone or email every day, he confirmed and reaffirmed that he loved me often, in words and actions. We saw each other frequently and continued to get to know each other again, and to color in the sketch of what our relationship would look like and feel like. For the first time in my life, I went into a relationship assuming it would last, assuming he was what he said he was, and trying not to hold back parts of myself.  It was a great feeling: to go forward with optimism instead of doubt, hope instead fear.

He constantly amazed me with his ability to not just tolerate, but to seemingly adore the most annoying, quirky parts of my personality, things I don’t think even my closest friends would count as attributes:  He found my inability to filter my thoughts endearing, even when he learned things he would have preferred not to know. He handled my insecurities and overly emotional reactions like a champ. He loved my stories – even, no especially, the really long ones. He said that he thought my (somewhat) excessively emotional approach to life was a good balance for his often emotion-less approach, and I believed that I might learn to hold myself in check a little, learn to process quietly more from him. And he shared things with me about his life as a soldier and his experiences in combat that helped me to understand him on a level I hadn’t had before, and confirmed my impression of him as a strong, reliable, intelligent, brave individual. I was still awed by him, (though not as much as I had been the first time around) and saw him as the most intelligent, compassionate, courageous, witty,  loving, and endearing man I’d ever encountered.   And he made promises to me, which I kinda loved. Promises I didn’t even ask him to make, but that he seemed to know I needed to hear. Aside from his promise to process his thoughts with me, he also promised that he would never disappear on me (I have a weird pattern of men just disappearing), he promised that no matter what happened he would always face me, always process with me, and always do the right thing by me.  And I believed him because I could see the sincerity in his eyes, and because he was, for better or worse, “Army Guy,” which I believed meant he always did the honorable thing, the right thing, even when, or maybe especially when, it was the hard thing to do. In return, I promised to always believe in him, to trust his promises and to always accept all parts of him -the good, the bad and the ugly.  

I don’t know what caused the shift, if it was one event, or more a slow slide into dysfunction. All is know is he started to slowly slip away from me. It wasn’t like the first time, where I felt him cut off from me from half way around the world; this time it was just gradual degeneration of our connection. The storyteller in me wants to go into the details, but I won’t, because to recount the details is to reopen them to debate and interpretation in an effort to understand “why”, and I don’t have the energy for that anymore. But more to the point, it simply doesn’t matter. Going back over what he said, and what I said, and what I thought and what I thought he meant doesn’t change the outcome, which is that he broke every promise he made to me; he pulled away, he refused to process with me, and he disappeared.

There is  a part of me that occasionally wonders what I did that was so awful, so overwhelming, so intolerable as to force this mutation of his character, push him to break his promises and run like a coward. But then I remind myself that I am not responsible for his behavior or his choices. I remind myself that not only is he a fully grown, adult man with the gift of speech, but that I also gave him multiple, explicit opportunities to tell me first what he wanted out of the relationship, and later what was wrong. Disappearing was never his only option.

Even when things were good, they never exactly easy. The Army always came first, he made no secret of that, although often expressed guilt about it. I accepted that as part of the deal, although I’m not sure he ever really trusted that I had. His schedule was often unpredictable and his hours long, and it was not uncommon for me to go a few days without hearing from him, which initially caused me stress, which resulted in some level of nagging of him, but eventually I started to relax and trust his promise that he’d always come back, that he would check in as soon as he could. When I would be seized with insecurity when I hadn’t heard from him in a few days I would remember him, the day before he left for the first trip looking me in the eye  and saying “if I don’t call, its because I can’t, not because I don’t want to. I will always come back to you eventually,” and I knew that he meant it and it would calm me immediately.  And everytime he did “come back to me”, my trust and faith in him grew, and my anxieties lessened. 

I started to need reassurances and confirmations less often, and I started to try to find a comfortable rhythm for our relationship. But I think by then, about 4 weeks in, he had already started to pull away. He would get so upset with himself when he couldn’t commit to plans or had to change plans that he became unwilling to discuss schedules, and so I stopped bringing it up. When we interacted on a purely intellectual level or traded funny emails he seemed to do ok, but any straying into relationship territory, like when I tried to talk about his increasing distance and his propensity to overreact to his perceptions that he was letting me down, he shut down. As my frustration and stress level started to rise, I thought about just giving up and walking away. But the thought was always unbearable, and always reaffirmed that a few minutes on the phone with him every few days was still better than no minutes with him ever.

But perhaps more importantly, I didn’t want to take off at the slightest sign of trouble, I didn’t want to break the promises I’d made to him.  I saw this as not only a pivotal period in our relationship, but also in my own life. I’m not generally one who does well in a crisis or a challenge. I’m pretty quick to pack it up when its no longer fun or easy. But this time, the goal felt worth the effort and I was a little curious to see if I could do it.  I think he was waiting for me to say I’d had enough, that he wasn’t what I wanted, that he wasn’t who I wanted, which was a pattern in his life. I didn’t want to be another person in his life to turn and run because things got hard. So I decided to stay and try to show him that I could do this, that I could accept and support him, and that I could handle his lifestyle.

I knew that being in a relationship with a military officer, even one who wasn’t “on the line” anymore, was not going to be easy, but I figured I was uniquely suited for it. I was comfortable enough being single, and had been single for so long, that I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend to go to parties with me, and take care of my car, or do whatever else “traditional” boyfriends/husbands do.  In fact, the idea of having to integrate him, make room for him, in my life was a small source of stress, and when I realized that his schedule would make that integration a very slow process I was relieved. The bottom line, for me, was that I loved him for his sense of humor, his ideals, his intelligence, and for the way he saw me.  As long as I could talk to him occasionally, see him occasionally, and know that he was a part of my life, I was fine with everything else. I was in love with him, but not dependent on him to engage in or support my life in any specific way. He was what I’d always looked for – a bonus in an already good life.

The first thing I did was to reconnect with my life independent of him.  I’d gotten fairly wrapped up in the drama of him – the drama of him reappearing, and wonderfulness that was having him back, and then the drama of realizing he was pulling away, the insecurities and fears it sparked and the emotional spin that sent me off into. In taking a step back I realized that I was probably overwhelming him, asking questions he couldn’t answer and making him think I was more dependent on him than I was. So I came up with a plan to distract myself from how much I missed him, and the reality that the relationship wasn’t going exactly as I had pictured it.  I  immediately started to ramp up my social calendar.  I started spending more time at the gym – finding immense relief in the all consuming nature of a hard workout. Not only did I not think about him while I was working out, but afterward, I was always infused with boundless optimism and a belief that I could handle anything that happened, and in that haze of endorphins and self satisfaction, I was able to face the possibility that the relationship might not work, but either way I’d be able to survive it.

Communication continued to devolve into misunderstanding, hurt feelings, and failed attempts to connect. I started to feel like I couldn’t say anything right: no matter what I said or how I said it he heard something judgmental or accusatory in it.  Periods between communication grew, and I continued to struggle to let him set the pace, to find “neutral” ground on which to connect.  But eventually I reached my limit, and I sent an email (since he didn’t generally answer his phone), offering him an opportunity to tell me if anything was wrong – if he was avoiding me, ignoring me, annoyed with me etc. His response was that he wasn’t avoiding or ignoring me, but was slammed at work and needed more time. I assumed he meant more time to fully address the email and told him to take all the time he needed. He apparently took that literally. I determined not to push him on the topic anymore, and to wait for him to initiate the next communication. I filled my the days with work, friends and punishing workouts. I wasn’t sleeping well, I wasn’t eating, and every muscle in my body hurt. After 10 days I finally sent him an email asking him to check in, which in the past always yielded a response.  24 hours later, when I still hadn’t heard from him, I was struck with total clarity. I was the only one working on this relationship and that meant I didn’t owe him anything anymore. I suspected he was hiding out, not knowing how to tell me that he didn’t want to be with my anymore. I imagined that was causing him a fair amount of stress, and that made me feel bad. So I emailed him (because he wasn’t answering his phone) and I told him what I was sure he already knew. Our relationship was over and that I suspected he’d been struggling with the same issues I’d been – not wanting to break his promises, but not knowing how to keep them, and so he didn’t have to hide out anymore. I told him I wasn’t mad, I wasn’t falling apart, and I didn’t hate him (all true). I said that I didn’t think this was the end of our story, and that I hoped he’d be able to talk about it with me soon, because I hated doing this over email. I hit send, and had the first good night’s sleep I’d had in more time than I could remember. I woke up the next morning happy in a way I hadn’t since we’d broken up the first time. I felt free, and I felt light, and I felt confident that things would work out the way they were supposed to.

I was also confident I’d get a response to my email within a day or so. I imagined various scenarios ranging from him agreeing we weren’t a match but suggesting we be friends, to him showing up on my doorstep explaining that he’d been off saving the world and begging me to give him another chance. Neither of those things happened, and after a week or so, I finally accepted that he’d actually disappeared. But I also believed that at some point he’d turn up again,  the only problem was I didn’t know if it would be in a week, a month or a year. Part of me wanted to track him down, to stay on him until he was forced to face me. But another part, the bigger part, wanted him to stay disappeared until I was ready for him. Free from the drama, clear of the distractions of trying to achieve this “goal” of a successful relationship, I could see that I didn’t like what my life had become, not just in the last few weeks, but since I’d first met him. It had been non-stop drama and upheaval, both good and bad, and I was done with it. I didn’t want to be so stressed anymore, I didn’t want to be so panicked and unsure, and fueled by drama anymore. And to get away from all of that, I had to become someone who did not love him anymore.

 I decided when he did turn up, I would be someone else. I would be someone who wouldn’t be susceptible to his charm, I would be someone he wouldn’t want to be with, and most of all, I would be someone who was not in love him, not even a little bit. I started with the external and kept to my new interest in working out. I hired a trainer and I worked out as hard as I could. I welcomed the pain in my muscles (mostly) as a welcome distraction from my emotional pain. My trainer told me to keep a food journal, and my natural love of tracking  and measuring things kicked in and I became obsessed with counting calories and seeing how few calories I could eat in a day.   Army Guy had never been shy about his appreciation of my body I drew a sense of satisfaction in watching my body change, knowing that it would look and feel completely different when he next saw me.

I also decided I would not be consumed with hate and anger. I deemed him ”emotionally unavailable” and adopted the rhetoric that he had his path to walk and his issues to address and it wasn’t my problem or responsibility.  I had done everything I could to make the relationship work, to honor my promises and I had no regrets about any part of the relationship. I believed I’d found a sort of Zen-like acceptance and I was doing well, I was on track for my transformation. With one exception.

Every so often I would find myself struck by how out of character it was that he’d disappeared, and from there I’d worry that something had actually happened to him. I’d recount his risk factors – after spending the better part of his 20 year career in combat, he had suffered multiple, severe head traumas, which was why he now had a desk job. During one of our last phone conversations he’d told me his blood pressure was through the roof, he was fighting a cold that wouldn’t end, and was immensely stressed out. What if he’d “disappeared” because he’d had a stroke, or a heart attack or worse? That thought, without fail, would literally bring me to my knees. It always kicked up feelings of guilt for having abandoned him and a desperate, agonizing realization that I might have to accept that he was no longer in the world. I realized I could handle the idea of never speaking to him again, of never having any contact with him again, as long as I could picture him sitting at his desk, hanging out with his kids, being alive and happy. The idea that he could be incapacitated or dead was way, way more than I could handle, and so I would  remind myself that the simplest answer is usually the right one, in this case that he was a feckless coward, and I would regain equilibrium and go back to working on my transformation.

About 6 weeks after I’d sent him the final email ending it, I finally felt ready to try to find some closure. I felt confident that if I talked to him again I wouldn’t be vulnerable to anything he had to say, and more importantly, if it turned out that something had happened to him, I felt ready to deal with that. I was ready to move on.

I sent him an email asking him to, at minimum, confirm he was alive, and if possible tell me what had happened. He answered that he was alive, but a coward, and it was vindicating to hear him use that word. It also helped to further break the spell that he’d had over me - coward was nowhere in the list of things that drew me to him. He also said that he thought he might be broken, which was a specific reference to a deal we’d made in the beginning that neither of us were interested in dating people who needed to be “fixed”. I hadn’t yet used the word “broken” in my mind, but when he said it I knew it was true, knew that on some level I’d always suspected he was at least a little bit broken - how could he not be broken? He’d spent his entire adult life, not just in the Army, but the Army Rangers, the elite of the elite. He was barely legal to drink the first time he had to kill someone in order to save his own life. But I also believe he was broken before he joined the military. His family was severely dysfunctional, and by his own admission he joined the Rangers because he was trying to outrun his past and prove himself worthy of something he couldn’t define. Broken, broken, and broken. But he didn’t act broken. Until the last few weeks of our relationship.

His attempt to explain why he had disappeared read like a case study of depression and PTSD. Suddenly I saw the demise of our relationship in a different light. Suddenly I realized that while I had been so wrapped up in my own issues about commitment, and honoring promises and being the type of girlfriend that I thought he wanted, I’d barely noticed him flailing right in front of me. All that time I was so proud of myself for being so unselfish, so focused on him and the relationship, when really, I was as selfish as I’d ever been. It was all about my growth, my insecurities, my needs. All. of. it. And this makes me feel so guilty. Not just to have missed it as his girlfriend, but to have missed it as his friend, as one human being to another human being…

I replied to his email and pointed out the signs of depression and I urged him to get help. He, not surprisingly, didn’t respond. What I didn’t do in that email though, was apologize. Now I’m torn between wondering which would be better for him- for me to apologize, or to just leave him alone. There is a big part of me that believes the best thing I can do for him is to stay far away, knowing that for him I represent only things that he doesn’t want to face. I think, now, that the source of much of our conflict and disconnects wasn’t really ever about me, but about whatever demons had finally caught up to him, and whatever spiral of darkness he was sliding into. Somehow I think I became a symbol for his self doubts and his perceived shortcomings. And if that’s true, then the nicest thing I can do (I think) is stay far away from him.

And so I haven’t contacted him again. I fight through the moments when I am overcome with a need to email him and apologize for failing him and I fight through the moments when I want to find a way to save him.  I’m still not sure if our story is done now, but part of me thinks (hopes) not.  I know that I’ve achieved the transformation I sought and the spell is broken, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get a point where I don’t wonder or care about him. He was my first love and I think that means I’ll feel an attachment to him forever. So be it. And at least now I know.

 

Moving and Moving On, Part 2

Moving on has been a solid theme in my life for the past 6 months or so. As a result, pretty much everything I’ve done has been viewed through that lens.

As I wrote about in Moving and Moving on, Part 1 The Inauguration in January was one such events. And moving into a new apartment in February also became about not just the physical reality of moving, but also the emotional reality of moving and of moving on, specifically from Army Guy. It was emotionally exhausting as well as physically exhausting, and as a result, I managed to end up with the flu for moving week, which just made the already awesome experience of moving in the middle of winter that much better.

Major life changes, (ok, small life changes too) have always been fraught with emotional turmoil, and this was not only no different, but it was emotional turmoil to the 10th degree. I was moving out of a place where I had lived alone, and fairly contentedly, for several years, into a shared living space. As a result I was forced to downsize my possessions by a much larger percentage than  I would have if I were just moving into another apartment. Downsizing is a particularly traumatic experience for me because I am, in every definition of the word, a pack rat. I’ve always known this about myself, and I have generally admitted, accepted and acknowledged it with a mix of acceptance and self conscious humor. But during this move I realized that being a pack rat is about more than just not throwing stuff away. Being a pack rat is a result, and to some degree function of, being someone who assigns emotional significance to basically every object that passes through my life. 

As I picked up each object in my apartment and had to decide “keep or ditch”, I would remember why I had it. Generally, it was because I  had deciding that it would make my life better in some way. That I would entertain more, sleep more, eat better, date more, be warmer, cooler, cozier, funnier, more secure, more adventurous, less busy, more busy, more organized, more relaxed, more social, less social, go out more, stay in more, or in some other way move a step closer to the life I thought I wanted, or should want.

And as I remembered the specific expectations I’d imbued each object with, I would then immediately recognize the ways in which it had facilitated exactly none of those aspirations, and then debate keeping it for hope that it might still. This is not to imply that I was, or am, unhappy with my life. In many ways it is exactly what I want, but not always what I pictured. Which isn’t a big deal on a day to day basis, but can create overwhelming cognitive dissonance and painful moments of self awareness when one is forced to confront that gap approximately 7, 416 times while under a deadline. 

Eventually, as I realized my “keep” pile was far bigger than my “ditch” pile, I started to reevaluate my sorting method. I recognized that in many cases I had achieved some of the goals, but often without the use of the object, and without really even noticing. The “keep” piled thined a bit.

Next I evaluated if the aspirations painted on the object were still something I wanted. Pile thinned a bit more. Could I achieve them in another way? Pile thinned a bit more. But there was still WAY too much stuff left, and I hit a wall of emotional desperation.

Sitting in my living room, most furniture gone, surrounded by piles of “stuff” that for all intents and purposes represented my life, real and imagined, I found myself at a complete loss as to how to go further. I had parted, sometimes painfully, with SO much stuff…how could I possibly survive more loss? “Its inhumane,” I thought as the tears started to fall and heaviness settled in my stomach. “This is my stuff, and its good, useful stuff. Who says I won’t make fajitas with this fajita maker?!” I railed as I wiped the inch of dust off of it. “I could need this smoothie maker some day and I won’t have it, and then where will I be?” I ranted as I searched for the missing piece to the spout.

Eventually I forced myself to recognize that this was not really about the fajita maker, or the smoothy maker, or even, the coco-latte machine. It had even moved on from being about the failed aspirations of those items and their counterparts. It was, or had become, about a fear of what the future held, it was about the recognition that I was being forced to make repeatedly with each item: that things don’t have power to predict, or even facilitate my future, or to protect me from pitfalls and disappointments. I’d lived most of my life  with the sense of security that comes from a belief that things have power. But, I now wondered, did I still need that belief system? Where had it really gotten me anyway?

At that moment my eyes fell on my couch, which in theory I’d always believed was too small, but a mental slide show of nights spent chatting cozily with friends or snuggled up with boyfriends, told me that in practicem had been fine. I remembered the moment I’d started to suspect I was falling in love with Army Guy had been on that couch, when it had felt wonderfully cozy. It was on that same couch that he had sat, miles away from me, and told me he couldn’t see me anymore.   

I acknowledged for the first time that in moving out of the apartment, I was moving away from his ghosts as well, and felt both relief and sadness. Sadness because those ghosts of him were the last pieces I had, and in giving up those ghosts I was also giving up the fantasy I’d been quietly nurturing that one day I would again open my front door and find him standing on my porch. And I knew, finally, that it was time to MOVE ON. With renewed focus I thinned my keep pile to a manageable size. 

On the day I dropped the key off at the old apartment, I took a moment and said goodbye to the apartment, to that life, and a final and offical goodbye to Army Guy.  And for the first time in months had a sense of optimism and enthusiasm for the future, whatever it looked like without piles of random crap.

Too bad ”goodbye” isn’t always goodbye…

 

Out With The Old…In With The New

After I broke up with Army Guy everyone, and I do mean everyone from my closest friends to my accountant, predicted I would hear from him again. Most bets were for 4-6 months. I got an email from him right before Christmas, so everyone lost that bet. But everyone predicted he’d contact me to try to get me back, but in fact he emailed me to see if he’d left something at my apartment.

My initial reaction (aside from almost driving off the road when I saw the email on my blackberry (I didn’t mean to look at my email while driving - I was trying to make a call and it just jumped out at me), and after I pulled over, stopped shaking, started breathing again and got past a brief rush of tears) was that he was shockingly insensative and stupid to email me about something like that. But not trusting my instincts, I took it to a friend, and over tea (the great healer of all things) we decided he was in fact being insensative and stupid and even if he was attempting to reconnect he was doing it badly and so I returned a one line reply that I didn’t have what he was looking for.  

As I told a few people that I had heard from him, and more people voiced their opinion that the email was just a lame cover to reconnect with me, I became obsessed with finding out the truth. I spent many hours playing out the possible outcomes of emailing him and asking him, and decided that the best and easiest response he could give would be to say “no, I was really just looking for that disk.” The answer that would open a can of worms and be messy and hard and scary and agonzing would be “It was a lame excuse to get in touch with you.” So I emailed him and asked him point blank the day before I left on my holiday travels.

I got his response while stopped at a rest stop somewhere in PA, and in typical AG fashion he said “I really was just looking for that disk, but I also used it as an excuse to see how you were doing. Your brief response answered that question, sorry if i caused you any confusion.” What I got from that is that he just wanted to see if i hated him, b/c of his need to always be the good guy. So I just didn’t reply and put it out of my mind.

Then when all of the holiday hoopla settled, I started to obsess on the fact that by not replying it would look like I was disapointed or hurt or whatever. And then I started to wonder why I cared, and on my fourth long car tip in two week, I finally realized that while I’ve moved past the whole romantic hurt/disapointment, but what’s left is a feeling of embarassement born of feeling like I was scammed. For years I managed to see through all those “pleasing your attention Sir/Madam. I have come into large sum of money, but needing your helping for to transfer to USA. Much blessings on you for kindlyness.” And then I got an email with a Nigerian prince with proper grammer and he made a strong case and no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t find the catch in his argument. Finally deciding it was true, I gave him my bank account information and BAM! promises broken and identity stolen and I’m just left feeling stupid for having fallen for it. But oh well, I’ll get over it.

OK. That was the old – that’s the last moment I’ll spend looking back on 2008. I mostly wanted to acknowledge that everyone was right, and I did hear from him again, just not in the way everyone thought.

Moving on. Here are my RESOLUTIONS for 2009.

1. Lose  at least 20lbs thereby winning the Friends Biggest Loser Contest and winning $1000.

2. To spend more time looking forward than looking back.

3. To actively explore adjunct teaching positions at area colleges.

4. To build new friendships  and grow exisiting friendships.

5. To laugh or dance (preferably both) at least once every day.

6. To call my grandma more (or at all).

 

First Time is the Hardest

The summer when I was 6 years old, I broke my wrist. It was a pretty bad break and it happened while I was playing with some older kids in my neighborhood who I couldn’t keep up with very well. They knew they’d get in trouble if their mom found out I’d gotten hurt, so they convinced me not to make a sound while they walked me home. And I didn’t – I walked with my right hand holding my broken wrist bones of my left hand still and didn’t make a sound for about a block until I saw my older brother and finally burst into tears. From there much drama and excruciating pain ensued as I was whisked to the emergency room and separated from my parents and poked by unfriendly doctors and shoved under scary machines. When I got home, with my full arm cast and my powder blue sling I was in a state of shock and my mom made me a little cocoon on the couch and I stayed there for a couple of days before venturing to a cocoon on my bed.

Looking back on this episode now, I realize that the most traumatic part of it was the shock  of learning that my body could a) break, and b) playing could result in an inconcievable amount of pain and confusion and stress. I stayed in my cocoon on the couch for days because I was averse to any movement. My whole understanding and conception of the world had shifted — it was now a place where playing could result in great calamity and pain. My 6 year old brain could not fully process what my body had been through – I had no context for it.  How was I now supposed to navigate a world in which these things could happen? How could I go back to playing now that my eyes had been opened to the risks? Clearly, staying on the couch was better.

Eventually I ventured forth from the cocoon, but only to play cautiously by myself in the house. Of my entire childhood that’s the only period where I have memories of playing alone – without at least one of my brothers involved. One day I was playing with some toys and I had this little pink rubber dog that I was filling with water – I think it would spit water if you squeeze it or something. I accidentally dribbled a little bit of water on my cast and I went nuts. The doctor had a made a really big deal about the fact that I could never get the cast wet. I start to scream and in my mind’s eye I can clearly see myself holding my cast out in front of me staring at it wide eyed and wondering what the repercussion was going to be now that it had gotten wet, I’m sure on some level I was convinced it would be more awful pain. My older brother came bounding up the stairs followed by my mother to see what I had done to result in my shrieking, and I remember my brother’s relieved face when he realized that nothing that bad had happened. He and my mom explained to me that it wasn’t enough water to do any damage, and when nothing had changed on my cast after a few minutes I reluctantly believed them that I was fine.

I wouldn’t let anyone write or draw on my cast for weeks, afraid that it would unbalance the new relationship I’d come to with my arm – I kept it very still and it didn’t cause me any more pain. When I got the cast off, my arm was all shriveled and gross. I remember coming back from the doctors and my mom demanding that I go outside and find someone to play with  – the time for hiding was done. Time to learn how to use my arm again, and how to trust that I could play, and ride my bike and be with my brothers like I used to without falling apart. I started by enjoying grossing people out with my shriveled little arm, and in no time was back to my normal, pre-broken arm place. Except. Except for my new knowledge of the ways in which my body could betray me – could cause unimaginable pain and debilitation without warning.

For some reason, this story has been on my mind a lot lately, and I couldn’t figure out why until last night.  Last night I hung out with two good friends and then another new friend who is a cute single man. So because  he was a was cute single man, as soon as he left, we started talking about him as prospect for someone I could date. (At this point, I’m interested in getting to know him better, and that’s all I’ll commit to right now). But in the course of the conversation I had to imagine, in more detail than I have so far, dating someone new: Going on dates, going throught the process of letting him get to know me, and having to get ot know him, and all of the pitfalls and summits that come with that processes. And I suddenly felt nauseated in a way I haven’t since that that day I was dumped and spent a week throwing up. And I was surprised, b/c I’ve been dating for a LONG time, and I know the process, and sometimes it sucks and sometimes I have more energy for it than others, but I’ve never wanted to throw up at the idea of a simple date.

And then I realized, up until recently, that’s all been just playing. And then I fell, and I broke something, and I learned how much pain and drama and calamity can result from just playing. And like the experience when I was 6, the most salient point is the shock that that kind of pain can come from inside my body, and the sense that I won’t be able to anticipate or stop it from happening next time.  

Which of course isn’t true. After I got my cast off, I was a little more careful with how I played, and with whom. And I when I got hurt again it didn’t seem as bad, because my baseline had shifted and my context for pain had grown. And I suppose the same will be true for dating now.

But you know what else? I was having a lot of fun right before I fell, both times, and I’ll probably still be seduced by that kind of fun in the future. I just probably won’t be as shocked if calamity follows.

 

A Single Frustration

In one (or perhaps) more of my blogs post-Army Guy-break-up, I talked about how I didn’t care about being single again – that that wasn’t part of my upset about the break up. But don’t think I was totally honest with myself.

I don’t actually care about being single, in the sense that I don’t mind spending time alone, going to events alone, I don’t fear I’ll spend my life alone, I don’t feel like being in a relationship will make me a better/fuller/more complete person.

What I don’t like about being single, is having to identify with the cultural subgroup of “single women over the age of 30.” Mostly because I don’t actually identify with many members of that subgroup, exactly for the reasons I just outlined above. I’m not judging people who do dislike being single, who do feel like their lives would be better/fuller/more complete if they were in a relationship. I definitely don’t judge them because in those brief moments when I was with AG I saw the advantages to being in a relationship. Its just that I see those advantages as bonuses, not necessities for happiness.

What I don’t like about being part of this subgroup is the way other people react to me/treat me/view me. I feel like most people see being single (especially people who aren’t single) as a condition that needs to be addressed.

I’m not saying I don’t want to date or be in a relationship. And I appreciate efforts by my friends to help me find men to choose from…to a point. I’m not even sure where that line is, where it goes from being helpful to being annoying, but its definitely a fine line.

I hate the expectation that “finding a man” is always my top priority, that it is (or should be) what dictates my social activities, my dress, my behavior in general. I hate the pressure and the expectations that come from those for whom that is their top priority or who can’t understand why it isn’t mine.

Sometimes I really enjoy being single, sometimes I hate it, and most of the time I’m just content with what is. Sometimes I enjoy the act of dating and sometimes I hate it, and I don’t really know what makes the difference. Sometimes I wish I was in a relationship JUST so I could be part of that club, be part of the cultural majority, instead of this subgroup. Just for a change. Just to see what that would be like.

 

Happy People. Screw ‘em.

Today was a pretty good day. I was more productive, functional and focused then I’ve been in the last three weeks. For those not keeping track, Army Guy exited my life three weeks ago. This is the longest its taken for me to get back to normal after a romantic disapointment, but at least I’m finally back. Mostly. I seem to still have one side effect that hasn’t gone away yet. I hate happy couples. I do. I don’t want to, but its a visceral reaction. Everytime I see a cute, happy couple I get this negative reaction. Actually, to say I “hate” them is overstating it. I’m not exactly sure how to explain the emotion – its not jealously in the normal sense, but its a negative emotion.

Here’s what happens. I see a happy couple and I get this tight feeling in my chest and my first thought is “that was me like 5 seconds ago,”(it still feels like that 5 seconds ago at times). Then the next thought is “How come the can do it, and I can’t?” (stay together), then the next thought is something like “eh. screw em” (which is really an attempt to make myself feel better).

I don’t want to feel this way, because I don’t like begrudging other people their happiness, but also because having that reaction is a reminder of the mark that he left, the piece of me that isn’t healed. Everyone keeps telling me to be patient, that it takes a while to heal after something like this, but I’m just so over…getting over it. I’m so ready to move on, but then these visceral reactions to things sneak up on me, mocking me and my efforts at moving on.  

The good news is that I’m getting used to it and it doesn’t really interupt my day that much. Its kinda like having the hiccups. Annoying, but not incapacitating.

I feel guilty every time I have this reaction, but the one thing that makes me feel better is that my reaction is the same whether its people I know or people on tv or strangers in the street. I don’t hate real couples any more or less than pretend couples. I don’t know why, but I take comfort in that.

 

Tuesday

Somehow, the below blog didn’t get published – i must have gotten distracted before I actually hit the publish button. So even though its a little old, i’m publishing it anyway, just because I can’t stand the idea of deleting it after I spent time on it.

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I had planned to have today be the “first day of the rest of my life” (i couldn’t find a non-cliché way of saying that). I had set today as the day because yesterday I finished with a big, yucky client that was the last hold-over from my “old” life.

I probably should have know that today wasn’t the best “launching” day because I always feel like a big pile of crap the day after an event and today is no exception. It doesn’t matter how well the event went, I always feel blah.

But also, and this i didn’t see coming, I seem to have taken a step backward in my attempts to get over Army Guy. Actually I don’t know if backward is the right word, I’m just not over it yet. I’m usually over it much faster than this. I did have a revelation recently though, which might explain it. In general I’ve been pretty unhappy with my life as of late. In august, had a mini-break down over it with my parents, decided on some changes. Came back to my life, and started trying to make the changes, hit some roadblocks, accepted some distractions, and didn’t really achieve a whole hell of a lot. And then I met Army Guy.

The main motivation for staying the course of making a life change was that I was unhappy. Army Guy made me happy. Motivation for change…changed. Which isn’t to say a roadblock -  he was all for the change – he cooked up a plot that had me spending a significant amount of my time writing. I like the idea of that – of the writing, but also of him supporting me in doing that. For the first time, I kinda got the idea of what it would be like to have a “partner” in my life. So its not like I let go of the plan just because I met him. But the urgency, the sense of desperation that I’d felt previously was gone b/c the heightened sense of misery was gone. He made me happy. He gave me a million little bright spots throughout my crappy day. So much so that I hardly noticed how crappy my day was. If I was in a frustrating meeting, or stuck in traffic, or stressing over getting all my work done, at minimum I just had to think of him and I’d feel better. At best, I’d have an email, a phone call, or a plan to see him to get me through. Rushing to get work/housework/ errands done so I could have time to see him: easy. Rushing to get work/housework/errands done just so I can do more work/housework/errands: crappy.

Yesterday/last night at my event, every time something happened that stressed me out, or upset me or made me feel too tired to do another thing, my mind cast around for something good to think about – sort of like forcing yourself to eat your veggis by picturing the piece of cake you’ll get afterward. But there as no cake waiting at the end of my day. Just an empty apartment, a car full of shit that has to get unloaded, and a pile of work to attend to. And everytime my mind cast out looking for the “cake”, I thought of him, then remembered he’s not my bright spot anymore, and felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. This happened so many times over the course of the 14 hour event, that by the evening I was literally physically ill – as if i had actually been kicked in the stomach 37 times. (which mean a perfectly good dinner of crab cakes was wasted – BUT on the bright side, the venue had really nice bathrooms).

This sounds so pathetically “without a man my life is worthless” I want to kick myself in the head. But that’s not it. It just turns out that the thing that was my bright spot was a guy. Its an easy bright spot to have – lots of emotion and hormones make it a good pick me up.

I don’t want it to sound like I have nothing in my life that I enjoy or that I’m grateful for. I have so many wonderful people in my life, a fact I’ve been reminded of so many times recently. And I’m not sure why being aware of my blessings isn’t enough right now. In an attempt to be logical and avoid being any more dramatic, the only answer I can come up with that I miss?/want?/need? the adrenaline rush that comes from something new and fun in my life like a new man, which in honesty has been my drug of choice for years. But I’m also older, and my heart really is broken, and I just don’t have it in me to run out and find a fling to distract me like I did in my 20’s. But I think that if i can find something else to focus on, follow my own break-up advice and find a project to focus on, something that makes me happy, even if just a little bit, I might do better.

And I think if i keep reminding myself that I’m missing the symbolic role that AG had in my life, more than him personally (which on some level is definitely true), that should help.

_________Post Script____________

Before I could post this blog, I had to take a conference call and then I went on a walk and in general now I feel much better about everything, more specifically I feel more able to face the rest of my life – whatever that is. Mornings seem to be my “bad time”, so maybe I shouldn’t blog when I first get up A few minutes ago, I was looking through some pictures to find new ones to put on my eHarmony site (onward and upward!), and I came across some pictures of me and AG, and while I had a slightly nauseated feeling, I didn’t throw up, or cry, and I think that’s an improvement. And then I deleted all of those pictures.

 

Progressing

I’m starting to feel better. I’m starting to feel more like myself for the first time. I guess in the grand scheme of things, it hasn’t been all that long, but it has felt like a LONG time. I hate feeling bad, I hate feeling sad, I hate feeling like my emotions control me. I hate that, and fear that, more than almost anything I can think of. 

This morning I woke up and didn’t give in to the impulse to think of him. For the first time since I met him I didn’t immediately go look at my phone to see if there was an email from him. I’ve been awake for an hour and still haven’t looked, which is partly about him, and partly about managing my stress in general. I was hungry this morning and I cooked and ate an egg, which is the most substantial meal I’ve had since wednesday night – and I think its gonna stay in me too! So I’m just focusing on right now, on eating, on sipping my coffee, on writing a blog before I dive into all that awaits for me today.

I’m even feeling a little…I don’t want to say excited, but ready for my event on monday. As I was cooking my egg I thought to myself “yeah, lets knock this damn thing out of the park.” Which is the attitude I must have to get through such a huge and multi-faceted event, and it was the attitude that I couldnt’ access this week and that was stressing me out.

I’m not sure what made the difference today – if it was just passage of time, or the fact that he and I exchanged another round of emails yesterday with more explanations and processing, or the conversation I had last night with a friend I’ve had for 20 years where we talked about the new direction I want to take my life in. Actually, I think that conversation might have a lot to do with me feeling better today.

One of the ways in which Army Guy hooked me in was in his insistance that I should be a writer. He saw the ability, the potential in me and expressed it in a way no one ever really had before – not as a vague “you’re a good writer” way, but a concrete “you must do this as a vocation. Let’s talk about how you make that happen in a concrete way.” I liked the way he saw me, I liked how sure he was that I could do it. That was one of the things, in talking to my friend last night, that I said was hard to let go of.

But last night she, this friend of 20 years, expressed the same vision and the same faith in me, and I realized that I didn’t need this man, this virtual stranger to help me to see who I could be. In fact it meant a lot more coming from her because not only has she known me since we were pre-teens, but she’s an extremely practical person and if she thinks giving up my company to try to earn a living as a writer is doable, than it must be. In many many ways I’m closer to her than my actual sisters, and I can believe in what she sees in me, much more than I believed in what Army Guy saw.

She and I talked about my future, my new future. The one I had started to map out this past August. The one that will take me away from running a business, away from trying to be an executive which has caused me to segment my life – “professional” over here, “creative” over there. She’s the first person I’ve really talked about this change with. Some of my other friends have heard pieces of it, but I haven’t mapped it the actual vision with anyone since coming up with it months ago. I don’t know why, other than perhaps an unconcious fear that these friends, who knew me as a business owner, wouldn’t be able to accept or understand the new plan and would make me doubt myself. It all keeps going back to my need, or at least instinct to segment myself.

Army Guy was the first man who saw “creative” first, and actually was only just about to get a glimpse of “corporate”…Maybe that was part of the cosmic plan. I was sliding back into professional – I was pushing writing aside (as I’ve done my whole life) as work that had been scarce started to flow. I was sliding back into super stressed, 70 hour work weeks with no fullfillment or purpose other than cashing checks (which I know is no small thing. But its not everything.)

The last time I saw him before he left for his trip, the trip where this other chic emailed him and started the unraveling, I was trying to talk to him about my fears at getting sucked back into the corporate life style. I wanted him to say “don’t do it. Fight it. Stay on the new path, everything will be ok.” But he didn’t. He said “you can’t pass up money,” and “You know what you need to do? Organize your objectives and goals for the next 18  months and then work to accomplish them.” It was an unsatisfying answer to say the least, and I remember thinking “ok, fine. We’ll let him see what i’m like when I’m ‘corporate girl’ and see if he’s sings a different tune.” And then he was plucked away, and maybe that’s why – he wasn’t going to help me make this change in my life afterall, he was perhaps nothing more than a sign, a signal in the road (as I suggested previously, a spirit guide of sorts) meant to help illuminate part of the path. AND, the reason he had to go now, at this stressful and busy time of my life, was maybe to remind me of just how much I don’t like this lifestyle. If he had dumped me next week, it would have sucked in all the same emotional and psychic ways, but I wouldn’t have also had to juggle so many professional comitments and be reminded of just how burnt out on it all I am, and just how little satisfaction or joy I get from doing this kind of work. It seems like all of the major turning points in my life have been forced by extremely dramatic or traumatic events, so maybe I just keep needing a cosmic slap in the face to get me moving.

A cosmic slap in the face. Yeah, I think that’s as good a description of this week as any.

I’m not fooling myself into thinking that I’m not still gonna feel like crap at points over the next couple of days, but I think I’ve turned a corner. I think yesterday was the worst of it (I hope.) I’m focusing on Tuesday – Tuesday will be the start of the rest of my life, my new life (I’ll write another post about what the new life will look like later. Right now both of my blackberry’s – yes I have two blackberrys. Yes I’m one of THOSE people. But only on the surface – are blinking at me, and I need to dive into my day.) But I’ve made it  90 minutes this morning without feeling like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. So I’ve got that going for me.

 

Small Comfort

I was doing ok today, overall. I was processing quickly, and I was having revelations about myself and I was finding the lessons and I was doing ok. I was intellectualizing. I was focusing on the fact that I’m not scared to be single, I’m not mourning the loss of the relationship, but the loss of him. Army Guy.

He sent me something of an apology/explanation email today. And I sat on it for several hours, going through my day and turning it over in the back of my mind, trying to decide what, if anything, to write back. Late this afternoon I finally sat down and wrote a long email back. I said everything I wanted to say, and I felt good. Better than I’d felt in a few days actually, because I’d known something was wrong for a couple of days. And I kept that good feeling with me for a while. And I talked to my brother and processed intellectually. And I had dinner with a girlfriend, and I processed intellectually. And I talked about him. And I see now that that was an act of keeping him with me for a little while longer. And my girlfriend and I got off the topic of him and my relationship specifically and we started talking about abstract concepts of war and politics and the military as an institution. Her boyfriend is military, and we talked about what she knew from him and I talked about what I knew from Army Guy and it was a good conversation because it let me invoke him in an abstract way, but it let me keep him with me a little while longer. And I felt good. I felt whole for the first time since he told me he couldn’t see me anymore.

And then we exhausted that topic of conversation, and we talked about a few other things, and then my phone rang, and I didn’t take the call, but I remembered my phone – my blackberry, with email. And for so many weeks that blackberry has been my main connection to him. For so many weeks I’ve pulled up the email screen with only one thought “Will there be an email from him?.” This was my thought when he was here and we emailed several times a day because it was always a bright spot to get an email from him – to see what funny, or sweet, or interesting thing he had to share. And I thought this when he was traveling and I got intermittent emails because it was my connection to him. And I looked at my blackberry tonight, and I knew there would be no email from him. I knew, without doubt, he would not reply to my email b/c he has made a decision and he will commit to that decision and follow through on it in the way that Army Guys do.

And yet, a pang of disapointment when I scrolled through my emails and didn’t see his name. And then the pang became consuming, and I started to shake. There will never be another email from him him. There will never be another phone call, there will never be any more Army Guy. And I realized that the feeling I was having, the sort of anxious, nervous, itchy feeling, was the feeling I got when I was waiting for an email from him when he was off the grid or traveling. And I realized that I had a window of time where I could go without contact with him before I went into withdrawl.

I’ve developed a dependency on him – not literally, but emotionally. I can only go a few hours before I need a hit. I fooled myself today – I carried the unopened email for 2 hours. I contemplated my response for 4 hours. I spent an hour writing the response and 2 hours talking about him. I was tricking myself into thinking I still had him. But the empty blackberry reminded me of the truth. And I was literally in withdrawl. Shaking. Heart racing. Eyes burning. Itchy on the inside.  Its ridiculous. Its withdrawl. Its heartbreaking and aweful.

I wish my biggest issue was a fear or sadness at being single, because there are things to be done about that. Plans to be made to find another man. If all I wanted was another man to fill the void, I could have an action plan and that I could focus on to get me through the next few days.

But I don’t want any man. I want him. I want his deep brown eyes, and the shoulder that fit my head so perfectly. I want his soft voice with the twinge of southern drawl on the phone tomorrow morning teasing me about “sleeping in” until 8:30. I want to know what he thinks about the debates, and I want to hear the laughter in his voice when he provokes me with a conservative statement. I want to see him in his khaki t-shirt sitting on the edge of my bed while he laces up his boots before work. I want him. And he doesn’t want me. And there is a part of me that accepts that, and a part of me that just doesn’t. That doesn’t understand how he could walk away so easily. I know, because he’s army guy, that he was faced with a decision, he bulleted the salient points for each side, made a decision and acted on it. Its an adaptive skill that every career soldier developes. It is literally a survival skill. I get that intellectually. But emotionally, I can’t accept that. I think he’s crazy. I think he made a mistake, not just b/c I’m the jilted one, but because I think he made the decision for the wrong reasons and in the wrong way. In his own words, it had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the fact that he had invested more time into that relationship and had an opportunity for a do-over, and he was taking it. Nothing to do with me. How does that make sense? And how is that fair to her? And how is that going to work? And why do I care? I care because I care about him, and i can’t just turn it off. I’m afraid that he’s making a mistake and he’s going to regret it. And because I know that if that were to be the case, he would not be able to come back. I would not let him. But he knows that, and so he won’t try to come back. If it doesn’t work with this girl, I’ll never know. And its probably better that way.

I’m rambling. I’m intellectualizing, because it makes the shaking stop and distracts me from the feeling that something is missing from me. Its an actual feeling like I’ve misplaced my phone or my keys. But its just him that’s missing.

If i’m honest, I’d predict this will only last another day or so. I’d say its exaggerated b/c i only had about 4 restless hours of sleep last night and that if I sleep well tonight tomorrow will be better. It has to be. I have work to do. I have to get back to my life.