This beauty costs $340 and I’m 99% it’s worth every penny.
This was February.
Last day mercury is in retrograde. This was the view from my front door when I got home from work. Good riddance, February.
Because you’re still reading. Tonight, you left and I sat on my couch, in a bralette and panties, the yellow floral robe with the fringe and I thought. I thought I and I thought and I thought because I rarely let myself dive into that lately. It was nice seeing you and it helped me put down some more baggage, it helped me understand what it means to really Give People Space To Be Themselves.
Because you’re still reading. I tried to list out the reasons why I stayed. Because the way you looked at me. Because the way it felt to have sex with you. Because I was invested in you. Because I wanted to know what it was like to get old with you.
Because you’re still reading. I should have apologized to you. I shouldn’t have told you you look like shit. I shouldn’t have told you about the moment. The moment I knew everything was different between us. I should have walked away when I knew that moment. Because you were done long before you left. Left and leaving.
Because you’re still reading. I remember the way you used to pull me into you like a was light as a feather while you slept. I learned to love that moment, even when I got squished into places I couldn’t always breath.
Because you’re still reading. I miss your touch but I don’t miss the strings attached. I’m fairly certain your touch can be replaced but I’m not certain I’ll ever give in the way I did with you. I should have told you how a man touched my cheek with the back of his hand, soft as lamb wool and I recoiled. I should have told you I go to yoga because it’s the only place I get a hug any longer. Laying on my back, my knees drawn to chest, arms around my shins, thanking myself for being there on my mat, hugging the self love, channeling the energy back inward.
Because you’re still reading. I’ve learned to filter in a new way. Another wall, another curtain, another blank stare. Holding back in a way I never did before.
Because you’re still reading. I miss your quick wit. I miss the easiness of our conversations. I miss hugs. But I’m fairly certain I don’t miss you. Does that make sense? My life is so full. With people. With challenges. With experiences. I’m glad you hugged me. I’m glad you hugged me goodbye. The other ex boyfriends, I’ve left things so messy, I wouldn’t touch them with any part of me before I perish.
Because you’re still reading. I should have asked for my books back. Or at least a list of what you have.
Because you’re still reading. I asked you to let me go, to forgive me, to tell me it wasn’t my fault and you refused. It’s okay though, I figured out how to finally do it for myself.
Because you’re still reading. This wasn’t about winning but I got what I wanted. It took awhile but I got it. I got what I wanted and you can’t take it away from me any longer. Patience is a virtue but so is amnesia.
Because you’re still reading. Okay. Okay.
What if the whole world was split apart what if the creation story is true what if we’re all looking for our Adam or Eve what if why I felt most alive with you was because I found my other mixture of particles I had been ripped apart from what if you were the thing that was missing what if the reason we’ve all been ripped apart is because we were never meant to be together that’s your first love or your biggest heartbreak maybe its the only time you ever loved somebody everybody has a breakup story that will rip your heart to shreds we’re all just skating by putting our highlight reel on the internet but what if I refuse to accept that what if I need more answers what if I need more answers what if I can’t stop forgetting about the steps I took backwards even when I’m moving forward what if happiness really is in Disneyland and I’m just so uncomfortable there what if nothing is ever meant to be what if all these challenges don’t actually lead anywhere what if You Don’t Have To Know Where You’re Going To Be Heading In The Right Direction.
My great grandma is 101 years old and is dying. These birds flew over my neighborhood every morning at 10a for months. They’ve gone elsewhere now, I suppose. Everything eventually goes elsewhere I suppose.
Maybe I’ll get through this by mastering handstands and forearms stands. Maybe I’ll get through this by admiring pink kitty toes and pink kitty noses and pink kitty ears and winter fat bellies. Maybe I’ll get through this by only sleeping on the couch because the bed feels like a dirty place to be. I almost forgot about it today as I felt a lumpy bruise through work pants, swollen on my thigh, wondering where it came from. I want to scream at you not because it was your fault, obviously it wasn’t, but because you weren’t there. I think the thing is, it’s so hard for me to open y heart and let down my walls because the people in my life are always leaving. You asshole, how dare you let me trust you and then you’re not there to hold me. Why would you do that. It’s just that I’ll never be the same again, I just can’t let this happen ever again. It is probably sad my greatest goal is to not need a single person. Fuck you for ruining that. I hate sleeping on the couch.
This is how it happens. The glassblower shows up to my door unannounced on a Monday night, I’m in my robe, my hair still in a bun from yoga, the thick black plastic glasses rest on my face in what I’ve decided is not an attractive way. I hold the door open for him and tell him I’m really tired and it would be best for him to go home tonight. His eyes are glazed over and he’s swaying standing still. He pushes past me to use my bathroom and a few minutes later falls over my couch. I’m exhausted and weary but I don’t have enough energy to put my foot down and say go, and no.
This is how it happens, he starts putting his hands on my body but I’m sober and tired and having an emotional evening. I push his hands away and say no, I’m not interested right now. He tells me, Boohoo. He tells me that like working a full time job and living my life is something of my white privilege. He mocks me and it’s so fast, he’s pinned me down and I’m pushing and saying Don’t and Stop and No and his hands are rough and hurtful and he bites me. He pinches and shoves fingers where I don’t want them and I’m trying to get away and the tears are there, my chin is trembling, I haven’t felt this unsafe in a long time.
It happens like this. With somebody you know on a Monday night before midnight where I am sober in my own home. It happens fast and after it’s over, he passes out, his arm and leg draped over my body and I lay shaking and silent tears rolling down my cheeks but otherwise motionless. He snores and I slide out from under his limbs. I sit at my desk, head in my hands. My thumb hovers over the contact list but who are you supposed to call when something happens like this. My thumb hovers there, over your name and I think, there’s no way you’d ever help me out with something like this.
It happens like this. A painful violation surrounded by the mundane trivialities of a weekday evening. It happens like this where you don’t have anybody to call so you cry at your desk. You’ll probably sleep on the couch and hope he leaves while you’re in the shower in the morning, getting ready for work. It happens like this and you thought you’d never be here again but the bruises are blooming on my breasts and the soreness below is a radiating warmth, burning sensation. It happens like this and you learn all the complexities of loneliness. You learn how strong your desire for a free phone call can be. But I know you wouldn’t answer and I know you won’t call me and I just don’t know what to do because it’s been so long since I’ve been here. I wish you were still my friend. I wish you would be here for me now. I’m really fucking lost and scared and sad right now and goddamn I could use a friend.
This is how it happens. It happens like this.
I’ve been dedicating my daily yoga practices lately to Giving People Space To Be Themselves. This has slowly worked into including myself, though sometimes I forget I need space myself, too. This simple sentence probably has a lifetime worth of therapy behind it but I’m so tired of talking about everything all of the time. Therapy is great, I’m a big supporter and have had several therapists in my lifetime. All mine have been women that have been supportive and strong enough to let me sit on their couch and wear my struggle, to cry and breakdown and whisper how I am afraid of myself. They’ve been from all backgrounds and several have told me they are bad therapists because they can’t handle seeing me beat myself up, can’t handle the way I feel guilt for things I never caused or participated in. Therapy is amazing but therapy isn’t action driven and I never felt myself able to fully live through the ways I was trying to better myself. In yoga, I breathe through every difficult pose, every incredibly intense sensation, keeping calm and flicking away the desires to move out of a pose. I’ve learned to watch my fellow classmates and notice how we are all at different spots in our practice, for better, never for worse. Giving People Space To Be Themselves. I’ve been working on handstands and forearm stands and after every single one, I’m beaming and giggly and so fucking proud for conquering the fear to get into the pose, to do something I thought impossible to me. After class the morning after the most amazing Valentines Day of my life that was full of smoking weed in the park, bike rides through downtown, countless drinks purchased and spilled and friends all wearing tweed and loving each other until we are crying we were laughing so hard, class the next morning felt like an emotional hangover as I conquered yet another forearm stand.
I’m working on setting my baggage down. I’ve been working on putting the luggage and the struggles down and walking through the door only with the things I need. Everything else is not serving me. I am working on holding the things I carry with pride. My love for those who broke my heart has changed as I’ve dropped the sad and worthless parts of that love. It’s grown and morphed and I care for these people so deeply some days it feels like it’s going to make my chest burst open. I may never speak to those people again but my love for them is there, deep inside of me and right there on my sleeve. I’m working on being vulnerable, telling people how great they are just because I’m thinking it. I’m trying to radiate exuberance and I’m trying to attract it into my life. Even if nobody joins, at least I feel this way, at least I’ve got me going for me.
This has given me a new perspective on this cavity inside of me, left by all the people who I loved deeply, who I still love each and every one of them, that broke my heart. The most recent heartbreak from Alex I thought I would never learn to live with this hole inside of me, that it would feel overwhelming for the rest of my life. But recently this intention of Giving People Space To Be Themselves means when he’s exactly who he is, as passive aggressive and terrible communicator, it doesn’t sting the way it used to. The first time after we broke up when I experienced this, I threw up and sobbed for hours like I was just broken up with all over again. The second time I nearly had an anxiety attack in public and this time, it’s like, well, okay, that’s who you are. Who am I to judge that or to put a value on it. I shrugged and went on my way.
The difficult part of this is these lessons have to be learned over and over again until they stick. In yoga, we hold the pose for the first time longer so we have muscle memory. My brain has muscle memory of how terrible it feels and there’s the abyss of sadness at my toes and I’m trying to retrain everything so instead of the sadness, it’s an abyss of space that person needs to be themselves. I’m putting everything down and retraining my muscles to only carry what I need to move forward. The hole in my chest, the cavity the feelings live at the base of my ribs, it’s space those people needed to be who they are. I can’t judge anymore. I’m sorry I ever did. Please forgive. I’m working on forgiving myself and not needing your support. I don’t want the cavity to fill anymore, it’s part of who I am but I only accept it because it’s not extra weight on, it’s not luggage I’m struggling to carry through the door.
Sorry for writing about yoga so much. I’m having a day I guess.
Some days I wake up and it’s so hard to be alive. I can’t be the only one who feels this way. I do everything in my power to fix it. I lay in bed with my eyes closed. I make granola. I make soup. I make a giant salad and two kinds of miso dressing. I sit in the sunshine and eat a blackstrap cookie a boy baked for me. When I shower, it’s extra hot and long. I braid my hair long down the middle of my back, a middle part in my hair. I wear leggings and a neon tank top I got while on vacation. I wear a jean jacket over that even though it’s 80 degrees outside in February. I wave to my neighbors and say, Hey guys. But the feeling doesn’t go anywhere except deeper inside me, rooting itself to a familiar place right where my ribs end, tucked right into that cave and I feel the old familiar clenching of my fists. I don’t let my onion tears turn into real tears for fear what that will lead to.
I think about it like this. I go to yoga, I set intentions, I work on myself. A boy baked my favorite cookies for me. He left them on my front porch where they were warm from the sunshine. I threw away my mail and I haven’t been letting the dirty dishes pile up like I used to. I am being challenged in nearly every aspect of my life in excellent ways. I am excelling, I am exceeding expectations, I am doing so well I want to be sick three times a day.
I think about it like this. I’ve kissed people since you and I can’t remember the way it used to kiss you. I can’t remember but these other people aren’t as good though I couldn’t tell anybody why. I stopped holding my breathe waiting for you and most days I can’t even remember what it was like to be with you. The moments of the wide aching lonely are nondescript and not related to anything. My house has become my home and my cats seem to love me more every day. I live for myself. I rarely think about sharing the things I love with other people anymore and I’m a little worried that means my lack of interaction might lead to a lack of meaning to my life. Am I even alive, some days I ask. Am I even alive, I ask when it’s too much to be alive. I sit in class and wonder inane thoughts like, What is language. I sit in class and wonder about success. I’m running full speed ahead and I’m not sure what I want. Do I miss you? Do I miss us? Now when I meet people who educate themselves so thoroughly as you do, I don’t ask them to share it with me. I don’t ask them anything. I’m trying to listen more. I’m trying to give people space to be themselves more. I’m trying to do that even when it makes me feel smaller, less significant. I’m always focused on my breathe now. Sometimes I feel like I’m so at zen, that I’ve done so many lion’s breathes, that I have evacuated most of me and what’s left is this shell of skin and bones being knit together where the cat scratches and where the bruises bloom. Sometimes all that space is filled with the wide aching lonely. Sometimes that space is just… empty.
The thing is, with you I was more alive than I’ve maybe ever been. I was not at peace and I was so broken but goddamn was I alive. This journey has me questioning until I forget I’m questioning because it is my status quo. It spreads through my veins and I carry it like a piece of luggage. It makes me think about all the emotional luggage you’re allowed to carry on an aeroplane. What will make this plane go down and what will fill this wide aching lonely that sometimes tucks up into a ball in the cave on my ribs.
So do I miss you? I can’t even remember you. I don’t even masturbate to you anymore but maybe that’s because I’ve nearly stopped that altogether. I don’t remember your touch and I don’t remember your smell. A few days ago I got out of the shower where I had used the soap you always used and I tried to breathe myself in deeply but it triggered nothing. I pulled a shirt I appropriated from you from the dresser drawer and buried my face in it. It’s been worn countless times since I last saw you and only smelled of the lavender dryer sheets I use. I looked at myself naked in the mirror and wondered what you saw but I never was behind your eyes. Are you gone to me then? If you are, what is this feeling inside, the one that fills up the big open with the aching lonely? What is it all about? Why is it here and why can’t I forget you completely if you’re gone from my recent memories. All my skin has been renewed since you last touch me and for some reason, I can’t forget that tone in your voice when you said, I love you too. I’m going now. Goodbye. I didn’t look back that night yet I can’t help but wonder what I would have seen if I did.