you know how i feel

Dear You,

It seems you've finally caught yourself a break.  Don't let your scared side take over and ruin a good thing.  You've got an opportunity in front of you that you didn't think you were worthy of.  Maybe, just maybe, you are.  Don't be a perfectionist; at first you may need a little work.  After all, you know little to nothing about the world you're breaking into.  Be patient with yourself and remember that good things come to those who wait. If you keep doing that next right thing you can't go wrong.  Show up for life and the impossible may become possible.  Up until now you've worried that you ruined your chances at this sort of thing because of your disheveled past.  You were wrong.  What you were is not what you are.  Maybe one day the negative thoughts will finally completely dissipate so that you can be that best version of yourself more often.  Take each day and use it as an opportunity to face your fears and get creative.  You're good at that remember?  What you're doing isn't rocket science; it isn't even something you've really aspired to do; but guess what?  It's something that you're naturally good at (or so they say): it gives you the chance to communicate, to be heard, to be challenged...and to drive around in a car you don't pay for.  Being a self-employed novelist doesn't come with a perk like that.  And hey, you never know, you could find great writing material in the characters you meet each day. 

The world is your oyster. 

To others, a new chapter like this may not mean this much.  But that's their loss.  Every new opportunity in your life is a blessing and a half. 

Most of all --- don't f*ck this up or I'll kick your ass b*tch.

Love you more than you let yourself believe,

You



* my pre-interview jam

Where are you?

And so you went
To the place we don't know
Though we pretend to

We write it down
And say we've been there in our dreams
And say we're trying to get there with our good deeds

But we don't know
The way it feels to be
In between a memory

Perhaps you're watching
A telescope graces your weightless hands
You watch her cry for you in the morning
Subconsciously waiting for your morning call
That won't come
Or sigh for you at night
Missing your sweet dream wishes

I will try
Although I know I will not be much
I'm much too selfish to remember
To call her
When she's waiting for you

some other beginning's end.

I don't know, I guess I just wish I could write as well as John Irving.  If someone happens to be mulling over the perfect gift to give me just because I'm pretty, I will provide a suggestion:  every novel John Irving has ever written (minus The Cider House Rules because by George, I've got it).  I used to own three others but they've been lost in the madness.

Oh, and I just finished The Hotel New Hampshire.  So don't buy me that one either.

Can I provide you with a quote that epitomizes the beauty of this ridiculously unrealistic yet so there book?  No.  Because it's not like that.  It's not direct.  It's the entire story -- the whole freaking thing -- the intricate nuances of each character, the obsessive attention to detail. Ah yes, I can pull a quote after all!

  "You've got to get obsessed and stay obsessed." 

How many times have I become obsessed but couldn't stay? 

Just recently, however, I put my all into a really intense work presentation.  I sacrificed my body for this work of art, spending about 16 hours on it within two days.  My lower back aches, my neck is threatening to send me to the chiropractor again and my hands are sore enough to affect my tennis game (sending me reeling into a sea of expletive-filled tantrums last night at the courts).  But who gives a shit right?  I very rarely feel useful at work and I needed this to keep me just getting by there. 

My great aunt Zi-Zi died last week.  My great aunt was my grandmother's best friend.  And my grandmother and I have a sort of closeness that fits into the space reserved for the love of mother and daughter.  And since my mother and I haven't been able to get there yet (I'm saying yet now because I've decided that since I'm moving home in a month I should try to be optimistic about her) what my Mom-Mom and I share far surpasses where my mother and I stand.  The woman is blind but graceful.  She is the type of woman who makes you feel like she's been sitting on the edge of her seat anticipating your arrival with an excitement usually reserved for those who win the lottery when you walk in the house. 

And her best friend died.  And I cried for the loss of Zi-Zi and I cried for my Mom-Mom's heart breaking.  But we all celebrated Zi-Zi's life and grieved her death together as a family and even though this may sound selfish, it felt like a little victory to me.  I become instantly terrified when tragedy strikes, fearing that I will return from it losing the ability to smile ever again.  It's very selfish really.  Why did you die?  Didn't you know I have a hard time coming back from sadness?  You should think before you go and do something like that.  I cried and I grieved that day with one of B's large, warm hands wrapped in mine and the other stroking my back.  But I also smiled and made Mom-Mom laugh too.

Healing happens when it wants to.  I read John Irving's novel with a certain tinge in my heart as he described parts of my life.  And I felt the pain and the nervousness that revolve around those parts.  I realized I hadn't yet fully healed.  But I didn't pick at it to try to make it go away quicker.

I let it live without trying to control it.

And here I sit now, emptying myself of the words and picking the scab on my cheek to make it heal faster. 

Damnit.  Didn't I just say I learned that healing happens in its own time?  Do as I say, not as I do.

Learning when to zip it.

You pay a price when you decide to divulge the details of your very personal life on a public forum.  I have hesitated more than a few times before pressing "publish post" after writing descriptive details of what's going on in my heart and head.  Believe it or not, I have many unpublished drafts that have been seen only by my eyes and I believe they'll stay that way.

I've even posted things only to run back to the computer an hour or so later to remove what I've written.  I think there's a balance in divulging your personal affairs.  I've yet to master it.

In the grand scheme of things, only 26 people subscribe to this blog of mine and I am pretty sure only about 12 people read regularly.  It's really NOT that big of a deal that I'm revealing my shit to y'all because I'm not going to be published in People Magazine or featured on an E! News broadcast.

I'm not that popular, thank God.

But I sometimes struggle with wondering how much I want my circle to know about my love life.  I struggle because for onee, I think it's unfair to my significant other.  He doesn't read what I write and he's reminded me that he doesn't want to read it because he doesn't want to influence my writing.  I completely and utterly respect and love him for that.

However, those who read my blog and see what I say about the details of our relationship are able to paint their own picture of this man sometimes without even meeting him.  Not to mention the fact that some of my writing is a bit fictitious.  I write things a certain way or describe details a certain way to strengthen my writing.  The best writing comes from personal experience and then I build off of that.  And I think I've done B an injustice. 

I am not downplaying the reality that our relationship hasn't been beautifully smoothsailing.  There have been very powerful waves.  But then again, would I like a relationship without passion?  The challenge and the boldness of this relationship has allowed both of us to put cards on the table that I'm so glad we've put there before we decided to live together or get married. 

What I'm trying to say is this: I think I'm going to refrain from committing the details of my very personal relationship to this blog from now on.

And a much as I love the relationships I have with certain family members, I find myself more confused than anything after speaking to too many others about what we've got going on.  I feel like my family is asking for updates on us because I'm the oldest and I'm at the "marriage" age.  They want to have a family wedding and so do I!  I just think it should be Thumber (number two in line) that should be pestered from now on.  She's much closer to that type of commitment in my opinion. 

There's all this pressure.  Seriously, there is.  I see my close friends getting married, I see Facebook updates informing me of yet another engagement, and then I  begin to compare my relationship to these relationships.  Should I be engaged by now?  Am I with the right man?  Are we marriage material?  Is he ready?  Will he ever be ready?  Does he love me enough?  Do I love him enough?  Blah, f'ing blah.

I begin to get way too ahead of myself and it's unbelievable to me that I've become this type of girl.

To ease my anxiety over this stuff, I ask others to weigh in on the ins and outs of my relationship.  Mistake.

On top of all my unnecessary questions, I have their unnecessary answers.

I have no idea what my future holds relationship wise, career wise, etc.

I do know that I'm ready to try to become a bit more private.

I love this man more than I can put into words.

And it takes a lot to make me speechless.

I had imagined how this would transpire many times on the way to his house after work recently but always ended up with a fake smile and a kiss on his cheek when I reached his door.  

Until today.

It had become very difficult for me not to feel child-like in his presence, waiting for him to tell me what I had done wrong.  Whether it was the fact that I left water on the floor in the bathroom after a shower or that I didn't walk my dog for what he deemed as a sufficient amount of time, I simply wasn't doing life right.

He had picked up on the fact that I was someone perpetually jammed into 5th gear we began dating a year ago, and he noted it, but it wasn't until this week that he sent me a picture text of a box of cereal that I had ripped open, leaving the perforated tabs to fend for themselves, no longer able to interlock because of my carelessness.  Yes, I agree that it must have been annoying for him to see that I was in such a state of rush that I didn't have time to open a cereal box correctly, but it was just as annoying to come home from a long day at work to his lesson of the day.

Wasn't the man I was meant to be with supposed to laugh at this maniacal aspect of my life, knowing full well that I had a lot on my plate?  

I sent him a text as I waited for the light outside his neighborhood to turn green that said, "this is not how I'm built." He's not a woman so he didn't pick up on the fact that this line was stolen from Jerry Maguire, as Dorothy explains to Jerry that she knows he's not actually in love with her and she can't continue to pretend their marriage is real.  She admits she's fallen in love with the idea of the relationship more than the relationshp itself. 

I often wonder if he knows what love is.  He admits he has never heard of unconditional love until I came along and explained the term, secretly hoping he would get the hint.  Unconditional; accepting of flaws; understanding of mistakes; love knowing no bounds.

When my doorman called me last night to tell me a package had arrived for me, I knew it was from him. I ran to the elevator hoping he had returned my glasses.  Did I also hope that there was at least a Dear John letter explaining that he did love me more than any other woman he's ever been with, did think I was amazing, did try, wished me the best and would never forget me?  Perhaps.  Did I simultaneously play a scene in my mind of me exiting the elevator to him standing there, tall and handsome as ever, smug smile slightly hidden by his beard, awaiting an embrace from me?  Maybe.

What I got was a bag of junk.  An old rusted razor that I had left in his shower, an empty box of dog treats that I had bought for his terribly neurotic dog (the apple does not fall far from the tree?), a few of my t-shirts, my glasses and the tiny pebble I had given him after a walk, just for fun.

Without words, he had said too much.

My first reaction was--excuse my french--a giant "fuck you, you fucking awful fucking fucked up asshole!"

However, a wave of calm - a gift from my inner self perhaps - came over me, buying me time to compose myself.  I shed only about three and a half tears, laid in the foyer of my apartment with the bag of shit next to me and realized that this could not go on. 

His lovely parting gift may have been his way of baiting me to react.  He may have wanted me to break the silence and berate him with texts and calls and tears and screams and "fuck you's", and I will not lie -- you're damn right I thought about shipping the running shoes he got me that I don't like to his front door. I thought of driving to his house in the middle of the night to "decorate" the lobby of his apartment with aggressively ripped open cereal boxes.  I even thought about cutting up the blanket he left in my car and decorating his car with the pieces.  However, the fact that his deceased mother gave him the blanket stopped me dead in my tracks.