say something

The most difficult part of trauma and depression is how unpredictable it is.

I had an entire day of activities planned and I woke up sobbing. 

It was the kind of crying where I didn't even feel like I was the one crying. 

But rather the crying had a life of its own and was having me. 

And I had no choice but to let it consume me.

I've been sad before. 

But there's always been a reason, a simple cause and effect, and I've understood what I was feeling and why. 

I've known it was coming and could prepare and adjust accordingly. 

What's happening to me now is so erratic and inconsistent, it frightens me. 

I cancelled my brunch plans and am now laying down with a blanket and a book and my cat watching the leaves dance outside the window. 

I know why I'm sad, at least partially the cause, but I'm at a loss as to why it's effecting me so intensely in this moment. 

So there's no way to prevent it or even anticipate it. 

Because it has a life of its own. 

That's the difference. 

Sadness can be controlled and understood. 

Depression breathes its own chaos without any effort on your part. 

And I fucking hate it. 

I don't currently have a solution except to give in when it gets like this.

Cancelling my plans, though it wasn't what I wanted, did have a calming effect, so I guess the cancellation was what the depression wanted. 

I feel almost like I could name it, my depression.

And it would be a him, because it feels so very unfamiliar to me another female would never cause me such consuming confusion. 

And then to cause even more lack of understanding, I feel angry.

Angry for feeling so profoundly unhappy.

So I feel unmotivated and have only the energy to lay on this couch and then some other part of me resents me for giving in. 

Like I've failed and lost some war and while the depressed part of me is grateful to only lay here the angry part of me shakes its head in disgust and wonders why I don't get up and fucking do something. 

So I can't win. 

This war in my mind pulling me in conflicting directions. 

This self doubt and disgust and confusion. 

And all I want to do is sleep.

Sleep and dream of times where my mind was balanced, when I could wake up and have the day I'd planned instead of waking up blind from the amount of water pouring from my eyes. 

And I don't know what to do. 

I don't know which part of my mind I'm supposed to listen to. 

Who to give in to. 

And that only adds to the exhaustion of such confusion. 

No wonder people who are depressed are always so tired. 

We never get a break from ourself. 

Our contradictory, chaotic, inconsistent self.

Happy Sunday, indeed. 

In C Minor

I'm not really sure what put the idea in my head.

Maybe it was reading about music and what it does to the brain.

Maybe it was listening to so much Rachmaninoff.

But I suddenly decided what I want to do.

What I want to pour my energy into.

I'm going to learn to play Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto Number 2.

It's been my favorite since I first heard it in my twenties.

I've heard it live.

I've listened to it countless times.

I've always thought that if I was ever going to get married I'd walk down the aisle to my favorite part of the concerto where the music is dramatic and grand and really if you're going to parade in front of a room of loved ones and strangers in an insanely overpriced but fabulous gown I can't think of a more appropriate soundtrack than the intense drama of this piece.

I wrote a paper on the concerto in college because I was fascinated that it'd been written out of a mad depression because Rachmaninoff's previous work had been such a failure.

He locked himself away with his suffering and wrote this.

And it's incredible.  

The piece is entirely beyond my skill level. 

Laughably so.

It's the equivalent of me cooking all of Julia Child's recipes when I can barely make toast or sending a V10 on the bouldering wall when I poorly send a V1.

It's just really fucking hard.

Insanely, monumentally hard.

I don't even think I'm fully aware of the level of its difficulty.

Miraculously, (like it was meant to be or something) I actually found the sheet music free online the next morning.

I printed it off, all 37 pages.

Thirty. Seven. PAGES.

Do you know I don't even know what year it was the last time I taught myself how to play something new on the piano.

No, wait, I do.

It was 2008.

I was living in Rhode Island and it was because they paid me to play the piano so I had to learn the music for the show.

Since then I've only ever played piano music I'd already learned.

And now I was going to learn something new that was insanely difficult.

We already knew I was crazy. 

Ambitious maybe?

No, probably just fucking nuts.

The thing is, I was so excited I went home on my lunch break and spent the whole time playing through the first few pages. 

And when I got off work I sat down and started playing right away again.

And even just the few hours I played today my painfully slow tempo has increased. 

Minutely. But it's the teensiest bit faster.

That's the hardest part about trying to learn this. 

I already know what it should sound like and how fucking fast it needs to be.

Hell, I can sing it.

But I can't play it. 

Yet. 

I know it's gonna take me forever to learn this. 

Like weeks upon months upon I can't even imagine how long. 

And even once I finally do learn it it's not like I'm going to have the orchestra playing with me that makes the piece really great. 

But I don't even care. 

It feels incredible to have something to pour my energy into.

To have a goal for myself. 

To already see a minutia of growth on just the first day. 

And it even feels poetic.

Because just days after he took away his music, music that was bringing my mind peace, I found my own. 

I'm making my own music. 

And it's the calmest I've felt in a long time. 

I spent hours today working out just four pages, at a fraction of the tempo it needs to be, still not trusting the notes I was playing or the placement of my hands or even the fingering I was using. 

But I started. 

I started and I can play the opening chords of one of my favorite works of music.

And it took me thirty four years to realize I can love something desperately and revel in it entirely by myself. 

I guess sometimes losing the people you love really does make room for something else great.

And this time, the greatness would be in me.

Rachmaninoff's masterpiece brought him out of his depression. 

Maybe mastering it will bring me out of mine. 

fantasie impromptu

One of my girlfriends talks about herself as two very distinctive people: who she was before the trauma, and who she has become after.

For her, the differences are so great it's as though she really is a completely different person.

And I realize, on a smaller scale, that's how I'm feeling.

I have no desire to date.

I restarted my Tinder app but not because I really want to go on any dates but because I felt like it was what I should do.

Those fucking shoulds.

Amelie was on a date one night this week and I was at home listening to Chopin with my cat reading about amusia.

I had no desire to switch places with her.

I haven't had sex in two months.

If you'd have asked me what I'd be like going two months without sex earlier this year I'd have said I'd be one cranky bitch.

But I honestly haven't even noticed. 

It was only stumbling upon a particular conversation and realizing it's already half way through October that I even became aware of how long it's been.

The last time was him, which makes me feel like he has some power over me but I suppose it's my choice not to share my body with anyone else for awhile.

It's just a very un Reese thing to do.

She's apparently in hibernation.

Maybe she'll awaken in the winter? 

Or perhaps the spring?

The spring was such a sweet time of year this year. 

Two years in a row, actually....

What used to make me feel better isn't what I crave anymore. 

The introvert in me seems to be taking over. 

I've been listening to Beethoven and Chopin and Rachmanninoff and it's making me want to play the piano more.

So much of my identity has always been the people I surround myself with. 

And lately I've been wanting to surround myself with music and books and maybe one or two girlfriends and that's it. 

I feel strange. 

But fascinated. 

It changes you to lose someone that you love.

Especially when that someone is still very much alive.

Just no longer a part of your story.

Or even a part of the music you listen to.

You don't have that either.

You have nothing of them.

But your memories.

Hazy, confusing, but partially perfect and sometimes so very lovely memories. 

I can be a little fucked up

I'm in love with my therapist. 

She's kind of a ball buster. 

She told me she's being a little hard on me because she thinks it's what I want. 

And it's true. 

She said if she was being incredibly easy on me she'd say much more, I can see how you'd feel that way's.

I told her I don't want that at all. 

So she said, Ok then, stop judging yourself.

Apparently I'm too hard on myself. 

It's peculiar to have a stranger figure out so quickly things you weren't even aware you were doing.

I didn't want to tell you that I talked to him, I admitted.

Of course you talked to him, she replied too quickly. 

Then we just stared at each other.

That was kind of the moment I fell in love.

I don't know why it took a gun for me to finally seek out a therapist but it's really kind of wonderful.

Maybe if I'd started seeing a therapist after my first abusive relationship when I was 19 I wouldn't have begun dating a string of withholding, unavailable, manipulative, narcissists.

Maybe I'd be married with three kids.

HA.

But seriously. 

It's comforting to have someone in my life trained in what the fuck is going on with me. 

I told her about this vivid nightmare I had, and I never remember my dreams, and this one was in such detail.

And I thought it was so strange for it to suddenly all come up so vividly. 

And she said I'm right on schedule. 

Enough time has passed that the shock has dissipated and my mind has a little space, and is now trying to work it out. 

And here I thought I was just bats.

Everything is more complicated now and there are still very real parts of me that want to cling to things that remind me of my hopeful 20's.

Because I think that naive girl is still a part of me.

At least I really want her to be.  

Redemption, Reese, you want everyone to be redeemed.

And maybe they will.

Maybe they all will.

Wouldn't that be grand?

mermaids, i choose mermaids

There are tears stuck behind my eyes but they won't come out.

They remain so my eyes have this constant sadness, even when they're happy.

Sometimes when I take a deep breath it feels like I'm wearing a corset, because my lungs just stop and won't fill with any more air.

I was reading and listening to Chopin and all of a sudden a memory flashed in my mind.

Can I read to you? 

I was curled up beside him as his animated voice poured through the pages.

It was such a simple thing, really, and somehow, we'd never done anything like it before. 

It was the last hour before I had to leave to go to work and I remember being so exhausted because we hadn't slept a moment.

But also feeling so happy.  

So stupidly, profoundly happy that he wanted me there, that he had let me into his world, his books, his thoughts, his dreams.

I'd wanted to cry from such sheer joy.

And after I delighted blissfully in that moment there suddenly flashed a more recent one. 

The last time he'd let me into his world his words were so different, his thoughts, his speech, everything.

I remember very quietly asking, as though it could possess the power to restore us, if he wanted to read to me. 

I held my breath in hope the seconds it took him to answer.

No, was his reply. 

And I wonder how differently the night would have gone had he simply said yes.

Yes, I will read to you.

My darling.

What would you like to hear about?

Mermaids or unicorns. 

You can only choose one.

I choose...

Both!

You can't have both, you can choose one.

I'm a unicorn.

Yes, you are.

I choose unicorns.

This is a really good book. 

Yeah.

The book of symbols.

Read me some more?

sweets for the troll

He reads my blog.

He's reading this right now. 

Or will when curiosity gets a hold of him. 

Or because I told him not to. 

I realize now asking him to not do something is really like saying, oh please please do it, because we subscribe to the same Don't Tell Me What to Fucking Do! Logic.

That wasn't actually my intent, though.

See, I made a mistake.

7 weeks pass and I feel a tinge of kindness overshadow my fear. 

So what do I do?

I communicate it. 

And what does he do?

Rejects it. Violently. 

I don't know why I'd never thought to Google him (I'm a bad stalker) but one night I did and I found all these songs back from when he was a kid. (Which actually wasn't that many years ago)

And it was really wonderful because they were songs he'd played for me, months back, when things were wonderful and magical and I couldn't believe how happy I was just laying in his sheets. 

So hearing the music again felt like some sort of time machine. 

It let my brain exist in a memory that didn't cause my hands to shake, and it felt incredible for my thought life to exist there. 

For the first time in months. 

And I don't know, I guess I knew my friend going into his bar and throwing a drink upset him (even though he deserves worse) and I wanted to provide some minuscule fragment of comfort because that's the sappy woman I am and I just wanted. 

I wanted, whatever communication we were to have. 

If there would be any. 

To be kind. 

Loving truth. 

I'm a naive little fucker.

So I sent him a text. 

And I told him I'd found his music and I just wanted him to know listening to it made me really happy. 

And he responded that he'd made it private now so I could no longer listen to it. 

And I know it shouldn't have, but it surprised me. 

I shared this joyful secret of mine, that it comforted my heart to listen to his voice singing mournfully as I folded laundry in my living room. 

And all he wanted was to take that thing that brought me joy away. 

I guess it was one more thing for him to destroy.

And then.

THEN.

He texted me that he'd just read some of my blog and was upset about what I wrote. 

He quoted something I'd written the next day which meant he'd continued reading my blog. 

So. 

It was unhealthy for me to ask him to not make his music private, music he'd shared publicly for years. 

But it was his perfect right, to go seek out my blog, and read that, and then be upset about what I'd written, even if he admitted my words were, albeit some true.

I find our interaction so disheartening. 

Because one. 

I truly believed I'd never hear from him again. 

But instead of replying to my kindness with kindness, he was responding to be hurtful.

He actually told me to Move along.

When I read that sentence I was so stunned I put my phone down and refused to respond. 

Move along??

W O W.

I am offering a loving interaction after the literal hell he put me through and that is his response. 

N O O O.

I saw Amelie that night and told her what happened.

And when I got to the last part I said, NO. Nooooo.

And she laughed and said, That's the girl I know.

She told me once I didn't realize how much I said that. 

No.

When I'm making an important point or standing up for myself, for what I believe, when I feel I have been wronged by someone I love. 

I always say, NO.

One time when I was walking late at night alone to my car and my PTSD creeped in and tried to frighten me into an anxiety attack I said, No. No. No. No no no no no. NO.

And surprisingly. 

It worked.

So I told her I'd sent him a No text. 

Because while I don't want to have anything to do with any negative interactions with him, I also can't stay silent when something is important. 

And this probably sounds ridiculous but I've gone back and reread the text I sent him so many times. 

Because it comforts me. 

It comforts me knowing that I responded to hate with loving truth. 

It comforts me that I said exactly what I needed to say and I called him out on his shit. 

He told me once he hated that I called him out on his shit and I don't care. 

Men need to be called out. 

We all do. 

But especially men. 

There's this pressure on women to be so fucking agreeable all the time and when someone is lying to my face I am going to tell them I know exactly what they're doing. 

Feigning memory loss is a great tactic when you don't want to deal with something. 

But I am a force to be dealt with. 

And if you don't have the strength to be honest, you will never survive the winds of my loving truth. 

That shit will knock you DOWN.

5 years later and your dick is still small

I am officially gay.

My threshold for withstanding male douchery has been maxed out this year and now I have no desire for another dick.

Literally.

And literally. 

He's married. 

MA-REE-DUH.

And it's not like I haven't been the other woman before. 

I have been several times. 

Lots of times. 

Way too god damn many times why are men who aren't available always wanting to see me naked?

But when he found me on Facebook I was more curious because we'd dated briefly one summer years back and he'd kinda been an ass then. 

And now he was messaging me about how I was looking just as bombshell as the moment he saw me at Nordstrom. 

Geez, Asshole, I fucking forgot you even ran into me at Nordstrom. 

It's nice to know you're still in someone's spank bank, isn't it?

What a fucking romantic.

But like any idiot girl curious by the attention I allowed it. 

I didn't flirt back but I did respond, which I guess makes me an asshole by proxy.

It is great to hear your voice! Thru messages I can hear it almost...It might be dangerous to actually hear your voice.

So I wrote back, Don't worry, I started smoking last year and now I sound like an old man.

Flirting skills on point. 

This is why I get all the men with girlfriends and wives. 

That and my boobs.

I think men assume women with large breasts are whores.

Because really, what else are those for if not, THEIR enjoyment?

But I didn't really take him seriously except that I did notice his behavior started to have the familiarity of 5 years ago. 

He was the type of guy to send you a good morning text every day. 

Which drives me fucking bananas. 

Good morning!

Whaa--yeah, it's morning, fine what do you want?

The only person whose allowed to text me all day is Amelie and that's because we're soul mates. 

I don't know why I was even texting him back except it was so fucking entertaining and it was nice to be amused by something instead of feeling sad all the time.

He has kids, by the bye. 

Did I mention he has kids?

All of his Instagram is photos of his OSU clad family. 

I fucking hate the color orange. 

Oh and hey buddy?

The Beavers fucking suck. 

GO DUCKS!

But you know, it's cool, he just wanted to flirt, and it must be hard having a picture perfect family, he must get real bored. 

There's a post a few months ago where he captioned a photo of him and his wife, As we embark on our evening journey (BARF) I can't help but think of all the ways you've changed my life. You've shown me what family means...

HUOHOP.

I have to stop there because I can feel the actual bile rising in my throat.

Because then, oh look, what happens next?

What's that he just sent, Reese?

It's a photo of his cock. 

Big deal. So original, right?

Oh but wait.

It's a photo of his cock IN BETWEEN HIS WIFES BREASTS AS SHES LICKING IT.

I'd say sucking him off but he's not actually long enough to make it to her mouth so the poor girl is working real hard while he takes a fucking photo to SEND TO OTHER WOMEN.

Now, don't get me wrong. 

If they were swingers or had an open marriage?

Fine. Whatever. 

Non monogamous poly sexy fun times to be had by all.

But they're not. 

He actually wanted to text because the wifey sometimes checks Facebook.

Dear Lord.

And she has no idea. 

She has two kids with this man she probably thinks is this wonderful husband and he has probably been cheating on her this whole time. 

If I recall, that's why his first wife left him. 

Because he'd cheated. 

I don't know why he suddenly reached out.

He'd written It was hard for me to not reach out once I stalked through your Instagram...

Fucking flatterer.

And me, the Diva who eats that shit up.

Ugh. Gross.

And then we suddenly escalate from do you wanna grab lunch sometime and catch up to here's my wife's tits and my in-case-you-forgot-how-average-I-was cock.

I'm home sick in bed so I took a nap then woke up to a penis.

Typical day.

I responded the only way I could. 

I deleted his texts. 

Blocked his number. 

Blocked him on Facebook. 

Blocked him on Instagram.

That's one good thing about living in the digital age. 

It is actually simple to erase someone from your life. 

And curiouser, he'd asked me where I worked and I never told him. 

Something inside me didn't want him knowing where to find me. 

Guess my Douchebag senses went off. 

Maybe there's hope for me after all.

I'm also never letting a guy photograph his dick in my mouth.

Be in the moment, you epic asshole.

Fucking hell.

Popcorn for Three

Whenever Amelie and I want to cheer up we go to The Box Social.

It was the first place we met up at last year when we reconnected.

And because of that, it became our place.

It was each of our favorite spot before we met there. 

Which was just another reason why we were soul mates. 

You wanna get a drink at box social? She asked me last night. 

And of course my answer was and always is, Yes.

We walked in and David, as he always does, says, Good evening, Teresa and asks if we're having our usual and we smile and nod and snuggle up on the same side of the booth and look out at the people and the painted walls and the bottles that line the shelves. 

A girl sat down beside us and ordered a drink.

She was dolled up and adorable and seemed content with the sole company of her cell phone. 

Minutes passed and I wondered if she was meeting somebody.

Maybe she's just having a drink with herself, the way I always used to do, I thought. That would be rad. 

She ordered popcorn and Amelie thought that sounded good so she ordered some too.

You can have some of mine, the girl offered, I'm not gonna eat it all.

And with that, we all began talking.

Hours passed and Amelie and I both loved her, thinking it was magical happenstance to stumble upon a kindred spirit who loved this bar as much as we did. 

We talked of love and sex and the critical need we each had for a therapist. 

She was strong and guarded, which I admired, and our night felt like the kind of first date you always hope Tinder might bring. 

But this was just a conversation that had turned into a connection. 

And it was lovely. 

And so simple. 

And such a needed reminder that not everything is painful and chaotic and uncertain. 

Sometimes people simply delight in you. 

And are so grateful you exist, that this moment between you exists, and no one else, because nothing more is needed, but this. 

All this.

"You're miraculous. Because you live."--Our new friend

move along

I forget how much I love your direct ways.

When I read his text it suddenly made me think of Batman. 

Most of the men in my world tend to be overwhelmed by my inability to hold back what I'm actually thinking. 

But there are a select few who get off on it.

And it has been a long time since I talked to one of those guys.

I really liked it. 

I hate it when people aren't honest with me. 

I pissed you off, I hurt your feelings, you wish I would have come to your concert that you didn't communicate was such a big fucking deal?

Then use your words and say so.

I'm not a mind reader. 

And I'm also so unabashedly candid I forget the rest of the world isn't. 

So hearing from this kid I hadn't talked to in five years that was, frankly, kind of a dick the last time I heard from him, was so fucking random I couldn't help asking him straight up, what's the deal?

You just bored and need some attention or are you looking to fuck?

His response?

I forget how much I love your direct ways.

Fuck.

Thank you.

Thank you for not making me feel like there's something wrong with me for saying what anyone would be thinking but who rarely ever actually communicate anything honest. 

I'm losing respect for people who lie. 

Even silence feels like a lie. 

I haven't heard from my mother for a week because she said something hurtful and I called her out on it and her response was to not respond. 

My own mother. 

It's not just the guys on Tinder who ghost you or your best friend of 15 years who dumps you.

Everyone hates being called on their shit.

Except for a very select few. 

I remember a couple months ago Amelie upsetting me. 

And I told her. 

Because I don't lie to the people I love.

And even though it was kind of hard, for both of us, she said she wanted me to always be honest with her, even if sometimes it was hard to hear. 

And I need people who accept that part of me in my life. 

Sometimes I feel hurt and depressed and scared or really fucking mad. 

And I don't lie and say I'm fine, because society wants me to be a dulcet little lady.

I am not going to lie to avoid conflict and keep the pain that's suffocating me inside. 

I'm going to express it, write it, get it the fuck out, so it exists.

It's acknowledged. 

And then I can release it and move on to feeling balanced again. 

And the few who get me will always understand that.

Understand what a vital act it is for me to let my darkness out.

It's okay

Don't be mad...

But I may have chucked a full glass of water in someone's face tonight.

I'd been in a depressed haze all week and I remember laying in Amelie's bed when I got the text.

Oh my god, I said aloud, which was basically the equivalent of me embodying the open mouthed stunned emoji.

I knew exactly who she was talking about.

Mostly because of all my friends she was the most angry about what happened. 

And she also was the only one who traveled two weeks with me and saw how changed I was.

Sleepless nights.

Crying outbursts.

Anxiety. Paranoia. Confusion.

I remember feeling very loved that she felt the need to stand up for me like that.

Especially because I can't be angry right now.

It felt kind of nice having someone be angry for me. 

All I seemed to feel was depressed.

I felt like I was vicariously living through her. 

Even though I felt none of what she was feeling. 

I gotta be honest, I couldn't walk by and do nothing. Nobody hurts my friends. I am your warrior and will protect you until I cannot stand.

I don't know why I date men. 

The women in my life are the loves of my life.

I don't think I've ever known a man whose loved me as much as they do.

Which is probably why a few weeks ago I opened up my Tinder to women as well.

I seem to have better relationships with them, so who the fuck knows.

It did bother me that he thought I sent her to do that, though.

I know I have a lot of flaws but I don't lie or misrepresent myself.

I'm honest to the point of absurdity. 

So now to have this person I both love and fear thinking I set this whole thing up was unsettling.

But I realized there wasn't anything I could really do. 

Because people will believe what they want even after they've heard the truth.

And I knew in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter. 

Because if we were ever going to talk again that wouldn't change because of a little water. 

And if we were never going to talk then nothing I did or did not participate in would change that.

I know I'm still depressed but it's calmer now.

I guess that's my anxiety depleting?

I don't know, I don't understand any of what's going on. 

But it's strange. 

It's strange to process something that involves another person without having them as part of the process.

I don't get to have a conversation or look into their eyes or cry in the same room together or understand each other's pain. 

I'm alone.

I have my support, my friends are why I'm alive.

But no one. 

No one but him and I understand what exists between him and I. 

And I don't think either one of us even fully understands. 

Which means no one does. 

And what I do think I understand, in any one particular moment of understanding, is never the same. 

Sometimes I think I have a glimmer of what might actually be real.

But most of the time I'm uncertain.

And I guess that's okay. 

That's all I have now. 

Being okay.

Okay with uncertainty. 

Okay with processing alone.

Okay with no one understanding what all this is.

Including me. 

all you need is one great bag

Last week was really rough.

I'm not even sure why. 

It just was.

And then on Sunday as I kept trying hour to hour to distract myself, I went to goodwill.

And it's so ridiculous but it made me really happy.

I can't remember the last year I went into one. 

But being there it suddenly reminded me of what it was to be 20 again. 

Back when I shopped there because it was cool to wear old clothes I got for $6.99.

Back when I was such a naive, hopeless romantic.

Back when I still had faith in love. 

It was like some sort of time machine, rifling through those dirty hangers and ridiculous types of clothes. 

I found a beyond silly Christmas vest for $3.99.

I bought it. 

I'm going to win tacky Christmas sweater day at my work again this year. 

And I bought a wig that's long auburn colored hair so when I want to feel like that red headed girl I used to be I can feel that too. 

The other thing I remembered about who I was when I was 20 was that I loved fashion. 

Dressing was such an intrinsic part of my self expression, it was constantly changing, vibrant colors, experimenting, layering.

It was such a part of who I was. 

And lately I've been living in the same 5 euro pair of leggings I got in Ireland and it's been boring as fuck.

So every day this week. 

Every day. 

I've worn something expressive. 

The white dress with blue flowers, and blue stockings and my blue sweater and the tan belt that matches my tan bag I got in Galway.

And then I wore the red 60s dress that makes me look like Joan Holloway and little black heels. 

I can't remember the last time I wore heels. 

And today I woke up and I was tired. 

Really tired. 

I can't wear a dress and stockings today, I thought. I just can't. 

So I decided it was okay to wear my leggings.

But then I remembered the striped boat neck sweater I have and put on the wedges that were the only pair of shoes Kai ever liked (god, he was opinionated) and I'd turned my lazy legging outfit into a 50s Rizzo inspired look and I smiled at my reflection. 

I know I'm never going to be the same girl I was when I was 20. 

And I know I'm not the same woman who once had long red hair. 

But it's comforting to see I'm still the creative, expressive woman I once loved to be. 

Some things are worth not giving up on. 

Acclimatized

I told my therapist I've been having trouble writing. 

And she said when I accepted everything I was feeling the writing would come. 

Normally when I sit down to write it's to express an emotion. 

'An' being the key. 

Not 27 different emotions, especially ones that all contradict and confuse each other. 

And I don't understand what I'm feeling. 

I don't even believe all I am feeling. 

You know I've had three sessions with her and I still haven't mentioned anything about my best friend of 15 years ending our friendship. 

I feel like that means something. 

I'm incredibly sensitive right now. 

Fragile.  

She said I was strong, that it was strong for me to be there and I laughed. 

I didn't mean to be rude I just don't feel strong at all. 

She described in detail, to help me understand what I'm going through, what trauma is.

I was uncomfortable just hearing the description.

She said she saw me shaking as she was talking. 

I can't even fucking hear a technical definition without nearly squirming out of my own skin. 

But it's ok, she keeps telling me. 

It's ok to be feeling what I'm feeling, it's natural, even. 

Natural. 

My flip flop back and forth up and down wildly inconsistent state of mind and emotional life is natural. 

And I feel like I'm in the room in Wonderland where I'm walking upside down on the ceiling. 

Seems almost comical. 

To be told my chaos is natural.

He called. 

33 days and then he called. 

I thought it was what I wanted. 

Another voicemail. 

Intense emotions. 

But I didn't want to talk anymore. 

Not after I heard what he had to say. 

As I just assume that we don't really speak to each other again, so-

It was like he called just to say the one thing he knows my heart never wants to be true.

Clever, really. 

I brushed it off at first that he was just drunk and feeling sorry for himself. 

And he's certainly bid me adieu, as though it were til the end of time, multiple times.

But it's rather funny, isn't it. 

I thought his silence was more hurtful but hearing his voice say we'll never talk again was actually worse.

We don't really know how awful something can be until we hear the disdain in their voice. 

My task is to be okay with not being okay.

Which I'm not. 

I hate it.  

I hate how out of control I'm feeling. 

How fucking needy and sensitive and confused. 

I feel like a small child who needs to be told which way to walk. 

You know when kids start to wander off and their parent calls, No, Reese, this way, come on, with the same affectionate command they'd use with their pet dog, so they don't get lost.

But no one is here to call my name and tell me which way we're walking. 

So I kind of slowly wander around, trying to give the impression that I meant to walk into this building or talk with these people or eat certain foods. 

When what I really want is someone to just tell me.

Guide me. 

Point me in a direction and gently push. 

My body isn't broken but I wish someone would help hold up my body like I was in physical therapy 24 hours a day. 

When she talked to me about healing trauma she used the word acclimated. 

That I would learn to acclimate to what happened.

And I thought about how my friend said humans are like cockroaches. 

Because they are the only organism that can survive in any climate. 

They can live for 6 days without their head. 

So that's what I am to become now. 

I won't forget what happened. 

I will never be without it, that night forever will exist in the recesses of my brain. 

But eventually, slowly, I will have learned to cope.

I'll learn to live with my head cut off. 

Or rather my heart. 

Cut out. 

don't tell

Writing is one of my greatest loves but right now it feels dangerous. 

I've been feeling better this past week. 

Stronger. 

Less afraid. 

But last night I wrote about what happened and the terror came. 

I was paranoid walking from my car to my apartment. 

I nearly ran. 

Like the bushes are going to turn into a man with a gun and I won't be able to get out. 

It took me awhile to calm down and then I realized I haven't felt that scared since being home. 

But I haven't been thinking about that night either. 

When I started writing I thought, this is good. 

It's good to get it out.

Writing helps me process more than anything. 

And I haven't been doing much writing the past month. 

And I hate it. 

But I write what I know. 

I write what I'm feeling and what's happening, what's now, and what's now has been, in large part, this night. 

But writing about it is doing something different to me. 

Instead of feeling better I feel worse. 

Instead of a cathartic release I am suffocated. 

I don't understand because I love to write. 

But I can't seem to write about this without completely fucking up my mind. 

So I guess I can't, I guess right now I shouldn't write about what happened. 

But that feels like a lie. 

Because it's what's in my heart and I always write my heart. 

But for now I suppose I need to write what I wish was there, what I hope remains.

Because I got out and it's over. 

It's never over, because it's a part of who I am now. 

But that moment is over. 

And I guess I need to find something new to write about. 

Because I can't go back there, I can't survive my mind being in that room. 

One night was too much. 

A Bandaid

His fan was always on.

The overhead fan that hung against those burgundy walls. 

He left it on even when it stopped being warm. 

When the night air chilled the room and he should have turned the fan off but he never did. 

The fan was always on. 

It was always on and I hated it I hated how cold I got.  

He had one blanket, one thin, brown blanket. 

And it was enough to keep a child warm but not me. 

Most nights even underneath that thin blanket I was so cold. 

His body heat was always so far away. 

The last time I ever saw him he called me a salve. 

You're like aloe vera to a sunburn. 

It wasn't meant as a compliment. 

He previously had told me, the day he left a voicemail screaming Fuck You.

He told me that same day You know you're just a bandaid right?

Except then I was still strong. 

Then I calmly replied, No I'm not.

But the last time I ever saw him I wasn't strong anymore. 

I was cold and sad and frightened. 

You know I'm doing everything I can to destroy this, right?

Everything I can.

Fuck, I should have ran.

But I was just a salve. 

And he hadn't written the song for me. 

And he'd choose her again.

And he wanted me to leave but I stayed. 

I stayed. 

And I was still cold. 

And I don't remember why. 

I don't understand any of it. 

He walked over to his closet and grabbed the quilt, the one other blanket, the one that was actually warm. 

The one that hadn't been on his bed in months. 

Do you want a blanket, he asked me. 

And I shivered and nodded. 

And I suppose I wanted to believe the man who wanted to hand me a blanket when he saw I was cold was real.

But everything from that night feels unreal.

Like every moment with him.

Because none of it was real.

The quilt was real. 

And the fan. 

And the glowing elephant. 

And the green book in the window. 

But not him.

I was a bandaid. 

And he was a parasite I couldn't destroy.

Musicophilia

I wasn't sure if I was still going to read it. 

This book that was one of the greatest books on music therapy.

According to him.

I'd literally done a search on Amazon for 'music therapy books' and ordered one on a whim. 

Apparently my instincts were spot on.

I remember feeling excited to learn about something that was so important to him. 

That's what it is to love someone. 

To want to understand every detail about them, to bathe in their passions believing that in some way, understanding what they love will bring you closer to them.

You shouldn't start with that one, though, he had told me, You should read 'This is your brain on music' so you have a better understanding.

And of course I went out and got that book because if he thought I should read it first, then I wanted to read it first. 

Except the thing of it was, it was kind of boring. 

It seemed to be written in layman's terms for people who had no foundation in music.

It wasn't until the last quarter of the book when it got more technical that it started to grip my attention. 

He had thought I needed this book to understand the book I actually wanted to read. 

He didn't think I was very intelligent. 

I should have been insulted.

I'm educated. 

I'm a smart cookie. 

There's more to me than my Double D's and killer smile. 

But I was just disappointed. 

My Bachelor of Arts I'd received eleven years ago was in Music, for fucks sake.

When he was still in high school.

But it shouldn't have been surprising because he wouldn't have known that, wouldn't have cared to know that because our interactions together were never about me. 

They were always about his needs, his thoughts, his constantly unpredictable will. 

A month ago, after the incident, I glanced at the book atop a stack of other new to be delighted in unseen novels, and thought, Now I am never going to read you.

Because it was associated with something so awful. 

And I figured that would be it. 

Like the Dostoevsky novel I never finished or the science fiction novel I couldn't seem to get into, it would be one of those books that was just not meant to be. 

And then today, today I glanced once again at the book and thought, No.

I wanted to read this book because it interested me. 

And it was at a time when I thought I would never see him again. 

My commitment to reading this authors words had nothing to do with any conversation I hoped to one day have with him about my reaction to it. 

The book I'd simply ordered, one night, on a whim, because my little love sick spirit wanted to feel closer to him. 

And he wasn't going to take that away from me. 

I picked up the book today and curled on the couch with the pages lovingly clasped between my fingers and my cat lovingly asleep at my lap.

And two chapters in I realized this book interested me far more than the book he'd insisted I "should read."

Because my instincts were right and I should have just done what I wanted to in the first place. 

And I realized something else. 

I realized I want a partner whose passionate, who inspires me.

But who wants to share his passions with me. 

Matthew had the same elitist dismissal that Kai did: Nobody else is as smart as I am, nobody else understands things with the precision I do, nobody else is worthy of sharing in this interest/hobby/passion of mine, so I'll belittle anyone who even tries to.

It's sad. 

It's disappointing and it's incorrect.  

I still remember the unlikely friendship I developed with the guy who lived in Rhode Island and he wanted me to read the books he liked. 

I'd read them and we'd talk about them and he told Charles he liked me because I was smart. 

You know I think he's the only man whose ever said anything like that about me. 

Matthew finds a porn star who looks like me, Kai thinks I'm weird and some odd social outcast from the east coast thought I was a smart cookie. 

We never fucked though so maybe that's why he saw me as more than just a pair of tits.

I like the book. 

It's fascinating and thought provoking and I'm disappointed that he thought so little of me he assumed I needed an introduction to understand its concepts. 

You know, you take away the other woman and the gun he pulled out of his desk, and he's still just another wrong guy. 

A kid who never understood a damn thing about me. 

What a terribly boring story.

reflected lies

When I forget to think about you I'm happy. 

And it's so strange because it always surprises me. 

Realizing today I felt better. 

And that the reason is forgetting you.

I used to delight so intensely in fantasizing about you, imagining us intertwined, imagining you finally confessing your secret love. 

It felt like this precious secret I carried, not even between me and you, but entirely for myself. 

I'd look at sunsets and gaze at stars and wonder what you were doing and if you were thinking of me. 

It was so simple then. 

Missing you. 

My feelings were merely longing and hope. 

But now. 

Now when I think of you it's not intentional, it's involuntary. 

My face doesn't light up the way it used to and I don't wonder what you're doing or who you're doing it with. 

When thoughts of you slip in front of my eyes I cringe. 

I physically cringe.

I feel hollow and dark, sorrow, remorse.

Disappointment and disbelief. 

And then I will my mind to stop, to think on something else, anything else. 

Because the only source of pain in my life is you.

It's strange because in one sense I'm cured. 

I'm cured of my eternal hope, my belief in our romance, our story.

The ellipsis that's haunted me for a year has been erased. 

It's not replaced with a period, no, that would be far too grand, such a clean ending. 

No rather the sentence itself smears and fades so that you can't discern the last part. 

It's not a thought that's unfinished, it's a thought you can't understand, can't comprehend because you can't see it. 

The only person who knows what it actually says is you. 

But you aren't willing to share what's there, to admit the entirety of truth on the page. 

What I have are fragments, disjointed delightfully horrifying fragments that dizzy the mind when my mind tries to fathom them.

I can't so I've given up.

And you knew I would.  

You planned for my disintegration.

Most terrifying brilliance, dear one. 

No. 

You're not my dear. 

You're not my anything, aren't you?

Darling. 

You called me darling, that word will now never have the same sweetness to it. 

So many things are tainted now...

But it's over now. 

I got out. 

Thank my blessed stars I got away.

You can't. 

You can't escape the company that terrifies. 

And while I wonder whatever will become of you that penance is my justice. 

Because every day you will look in the mirror and you will see him, haunting, plaguing you. 

The monster who destroyed us.

a little love, a little truth

I wrote a letter that I wanted to send. 

Because it's the truth. 

And the truth should be heard. 

But then I realized just because something is my truth doesn't mean it will be understood by anyone else. 

Least of all the person the truth is about.  

I'm changed. 

I'm changed because of what happened. 

And I don't think he is. 

And that makes me want some kind of justice because it seems so unfair. 

It's unfair that I have trouble sleeping and he probably just passes out the way he did the last time I saw him. 

I wanted to write so that he'd know how much I was hurting. 

So maybe knowing would make him hurt too. 

And in some way, we'd be connected by our pain. 

Lonely and hurting but connected. 

Just like every good toxic love story.

But my healing doesn't involve him. 

How could it?

He fucking caused it.

Some of my sisters are like, it's not him, don't give him that power. 

But it's not power. 

It's the truth.

I was one woman before. 

And now I'm someone else. 

Because of him. 

Because of what he did. 

And he showed me some painting, some painting I was supposed to know was centuries upon centuries old, and There, you see that man there? That's me.

His limbs and organs strung out as the strings on a harp.

I guess I was supposed to pity him.

Am I safe to be around? He'd asked me, weeks before it happened. 

Art really does imitate life. 

Foreshadowing. 

He knew. 

He knew then what he was capable of. 

I didn't.

Love makes blind fools of us.

I don't even know if I can regret any of it. 

Because now I know. 

And knowing is the truth, isn't it?

The painful, numbing truth, the truth that changes you.

Scares you.

But this fear, this change in the way I see the world has given me eyes to understand some of the women I love better. 

So I have that. 

There's that. 

I never want to see him again so there's also that.

Which is strange and sad but necessary. 

Needed. 

Comedy, really, a dark, tragic comedy. 

I spent so much time, so many ridiculous nights, aching to see him again, longing like some hopeful girl in some Jane Austen novel.

And he always did call.

True to the script of our love story, he'd reach out and surprise everyone hearing the story, but I knew, I believed in him, and that belief, that love consuming my heart always reached out and called to him.

And he heard. 

He'd hear and want to respond, because his heart was calling too.

Or so I thought. 

So I wanted to believe. 

Because sometimes we need to believe in something, don't we?

Because accepting that I was merely his fourth attempt to get someone on the phone that night, that he hadn't remembered even calling when he turned in the morning and realized it was my body in his bed instead of hers, that the blonde hair I'd found on his robe and his blanket was the woman he'd had the night before me, the woman who was busy that night, that her absence was the reason he needed me to distract, help him forget the pain, the darkness draining him.

And my mind, my hopeful, foolish little mind saw none of that.

She, that darling little fool, believed every loving gesture, touch, and glance, was intentional.

Because everything I am I mean.

I mean the things I say and the men I fuck and when I say I love you it's not to make you feel better. 

It's to sing the truth in my heart. 

The truth he took advantage of. 

And used. 

And devoured. 

She's still there.

That darling little fool I'm so in love with, the girl who believes in happy endings and cries at Disney movies, but she's quiet right now. 

She needs time. 

She's gone to sleep and shut the door and I don't know when she'll rise. 

I don't know when I'll feel like myself again. 

But I at least know she lives. 

She's missing pieces but she lives. 

And when so much was never real, she was.

She is.

And I will be.

One day.

painting over

The sky is a stupidly bright shade of blue and the clouds are scattered about it like someone spilled a bag of cotton balls.

It's my last day here and it suddenly hit me. 

I did it. I went to Ireland.

Two years ago, visiting my father in the hospital, I told him the man I'd admired moved to Ireland and that I wanted to go there, I wanted to visit. 

And in Spain last year, sprawled on a bed in a tiny apartment, I wrote my girlfriend and said I thought we should go to Ireland this year. 

And we did it.

I didn't see the man who moved here and I didn't fuck a stranger but none of that mattered because this journey wasn't about any man. 

I like laying on beds with my feet on the pillows and I like drinking mochas in cafes that are served with tiny teaspoons. 

I like crying when I see fog rolling atop cliffs and I like that my girlfriends know to hug me a little bit longer than they hug anyone else. 

I like my black hair even though he wishes it were red and I like that my new best friend understands my depression more than my old one ever allowed herself to. 

I like that when I make eye contact with street musicians and smile into their eyes they step out of their musical reverie for a moment and smile back. 

I like that I wanted to go somewhere and I went.

And that when I'll want to go somewhere else I'll go.

Because I believe in the things I believe in despite the men who try to destroy me.

And I'll love again.

I always love.

And I'll stop wishing he would call or want me or love me or mean any of the things I'll never believe were real.

And when he calls, because he always calls, it won't stop my heart, in terror or in joy. 

It will be like the man in Ireland.

The man I once so desperately longed to see and quickly dismissed his dismissal of me. 

And he'll be just like the rest. 

The scores and scores of suitors.

You don't have to compare me to him, he'd said angrily. 

Oh, but you are like him. 

You're like all of them.

You're just a man, a selfish, broken addict of a man, and I was the light and love and joy you set aflame.

But your darkness can't consume my light. 

And your hate will not defeat my love. 

I got out, I got out of your hell. 

And travelled thousands of miles to see the bluest ocean and the greenest hills. 

And nothing, not even the demon devouring you can change that. 

Your darkness is no longer part of my painting.

It's only blue. 

And white. 

And full of hope. 

Awe inspiring, consuming hope. 

a bad dream

I know it was real.

It was all real.

The caresses and the sighs, the tears and desperation.

The dancing in the living room and your kisses on the end of my nose.

It was real.

Those moments were mine.

But you want me to believe none of it was. 

So you can be one dimensional.

And I can realize you're just a piece of shit. 

That would be easier for you.

If I could just disappear into the abyss believing you to be the monster you see yourself as. 

So I decided last night. 

I decided to believe your lies. 

And believe none of it was real.

Your need for me, my soul in your bed.

I decided to believe I was one of the eight women you tried to call that night. 

That I could have been any body. 

Any willing maid, willing to let you use her for your distraction. 

Your consumption. 

You devoured me whole. 

And I'm not going to believe any more. 

I'm not going to fight, for hope, for the good within you. 

I'm going to give in, give in to the destruction you wanted to happen. 

So I can have an answer, so I can stop wondering and questioning and trying to solve the puzzle that has nothing to do with me. 

So I decided last night. 

None of it was real. 

Those kisses weren't meant for my lips.

And those songs we listened to while you held my hand were someone else's songs. 

And when you closed your eyes while I was sitting upon you it was someone else's thighs you were squeezing. 

But one night was real. 

One moment was mine. 

The night you drew the gun from your desk, the night you showed the disdain you feel for me.

That is our truth. 

Everything else was fantasy. 

And I believed the lies, so convincingly, didn't I, love?

You were so proud. 

Proud of my blind obedience. 

But now, I'm believing in the absence of you.

I'm believing your silence. 

Shame filled silence. 

The moments I felt your love were my own illusions. 

We all live by so many. 

But I won't anymore. 

Believe in anything.

Anything that involves your shadow. 

Because none of it was real. 

What's real is our demise. 

What's real is how quickly you've already forgotten me. 

day 2.6

It's 3:30 in the morning and I'm sitting on the couch in the living room eating a Crunchie bar, which is the candy bar my dad would always get us in Canada when we were kids, 

The window looks out over a street where people are constantly driving and walking and riding their bikes that advertise Coke Zero. 

Dublin feels like New York, if New York were full of really friendly people who talked more than even you do. 

The buildings are old in a way that makes you want to put on a dress and stockings and the front doors are painted bright colors and so many of them are made of brick, which I love. 

Men wear suits and everyone who passes you is talking in a different language than the person who walked by minutes before and the city is bustling and has an energy that makes you want to move instead of watching Netflix and chill.

We went to a bar that's been around since 1198, 1198, holy shit.

There's so much history here its intoxicating. 

We've been here two days, just two days, one of which we spent delirious after being up for 28 hours, and it already feels like we've seen so much and we have 11 more days, 11 days, to see even more of Ireland and I feel so very spoiled it's like my heart may burst. 

I still think of him and it doesn't stop being strange to miss somebody but not want to see him and I haven't heard from him in over a week which I know is probably what's best for me but that doesn't stop me from often looking at my phone and wondering if there's going to be a green alert with his name on it displaying a voicemail like it did 10 days ago.

It already feels so long ago and that's how much time I have yet to explore Ireland and time is such an inconsistent being, isn't it?

So fast and then so very slow all the while surprising you with its speed, never knowing when it will increase its tempo without notice. 

Like so many things. 

No notice. 

And I wonder why it's so hard for me to let people go, let my belief in them diminish, I don't seem to know how or am able, and I know even after I fall in love with someone else a part of me will always be looking at my phone secretly wondering when he'll reach out again, because the last thing he said, his tired words echoing in my ear, was you're still there, in his mind, in his thoughts, his dreams, fantasy, I exist. 

And my heart takes comfort in that. 

Where all else is confusing and unknown and ever changing at varying tempos. 

I am

still

there.

So there's that. 

the women of my tribe

I realized something today.

That the women I'm closest to, the women who will cancel their shift at work just to spend the day comforting me, the women who always make time for me, who embrace and accept all of me, have all had something painfully tragic happen to them. 

I don't mean simply heartache, everyone has some pain they carry with them, some wound from hurt feelings past. 

No, I mean tragic, epic, lifetime original movie fucked up shit kind of pain. 

The shit most people just read about let alone have to survive. 

The sisters I rely on are survivors. 

Warriors.  

They empathize and understand and carry such extensive compassion because they know, they fucking get it, the fear, the anxiety, the ptsd, the wanting nothing more than to just lie in bed for hours. 

Days. 

The numbness and the indifference, the confusion, and the disbelief. 

And none of them. 

Not one soul has made me feel wretched for the awful night I survived. 

You got out, she kept telling me. You're out.

And I am so grateful. 

Overwhelmingly thankful to have so many kindred souls in my life who understand this kind of pain and fear. 

Who've survived and know I have a strength, a reserve I don't even understand because they got through and I will too and one day you'll be able to help someone, Reese. Because of this. Because of what you went through.

Just as they have done for me. 

And as I was laying in bed, laying and feeling nothing, feeling empty as the details of that night played repeatedly in my mind I thought of her. 

For the first time in a long time I thought of the girl who just had to focus on herself right now.

I thought about how this was probably one of the most fucked up things that's ever happened to me and she doesn't even know. 

She has no fucking clue what I'm going through because she doesn't want to know. 

And there really is, sadly, a division amongst girlfriends.

"Friends."

The acquaintances we may still make time every few months to see, the girls who rarely text you back and only ever like your Instagram posts of your cat and of trees. 

The girls who don't understand your pain because they would never make such poor decisions, or get mixed up in such atrocities, so they blink a lot when you talk, and they stop responding when you tell them the sad things that happen. 

And I resent them.

The frenemies who were there for me when I was Susie fucking Sunshine but who don't seem to have the time when I'm hurting and shit is painful. 

But in some ways, in some humbling and accepting ways, it only makes me that much more appreciative, choking on gratitude for the gracious few who will stand in the fire with me.

I truly don't know what I would do without them. 

And if I've learned anything through all of this, it's that there really is a dividing line between the people who know you.

Those who respond. 

And those who never pick up their phone. 

Hello Ireland

Do you feel better?

Hmm? I had sheepishly replied.

Do you feel better now that you've talked?

I remember being surprised, even after all those years we spent together, that Kai understood my need for communication.

I'd had a misunderstanding with some guy, (Ireland, was it?) and had been upset until he'd called.

I don't know how people just let things go or forget about them without ever being able to talk them out.

I did feel better after hearing from him. 

But up to that point I was a miserable little monkey. 

I wasn't going to communicate. 

Or rather, I was going to communicate silence. 

Silence is an incredibly powerful form of communication and I can respect it. 

The problem is it's not my style. 

It's not me. 

I. Have. To communicate. 

For my own balance and well being. 

And I realized at the end of this week that all silence was doing for me was allowing me to hold onto the hope that he would one day reach out and somehow right the wrong that would forever haunt me. 

So I halted my silence. 

But because I know me, I know which actions are necessary, I felt relief after I'd sent the text. 

It wasn't long. 

It was important to me it be brief. 

Succinct yet clear. 

I have this propensity for using an excessive amount of words and I knew he knew that and it would be much more powerful if it was as few words as possible. 

And I knew he wouldn't respond. 

There was nothing really appropriate to say.

And I fell asleep that night accepting the gruesome end, the drawn out rejection I continuously allowed myself to endure. 

And then. 

Then because I don't always know, I so often know nothing at all, because the few syllables I composed must have struck a chord in the depths of his heartstrings, or maybe simply because he woke up and I was on his mind.

My phone rang. 

My eyes opened and I knew it was him and I just let the phone ring and I listened to the ringtone play like it was some lovely bird outside my window wiling me to rise out of bed. 

And then, there it was. 

A voicemail. 

The voicemail I'd hoped for, longed for, some tactile proof that I did, in fact, hold some value to him, some meaning beyond the disdain I'd left the last time he looked at me. 

And it made me feel calm. 

Somehow more accepting. 

It changed nothing.

But it lessened the sharp sting of his wound. 

I left the house to run errands and suddenly gasped when I saw what time it was. 

Nearly one in the afternoon and I'd completely forgotten to take my medication. 

Panicked, I reached in my bag for it and then realized. 

I didn't feel out of balance. 

I was taking it hours later than normal but it didn't feel like my system was thrown out of wack.

I was finally stabilized with the dosage. 

Perhaps even a little with myself. 

I spent the day planning and preparing for Ireland. 

One week to the day and I will set out for a city I so desperately longed to see two years ago. 

To visit a man I once felt uneasy about until he called and woke me one morning. 

And I didn't know if I'd even see him there, if we'd sip an old fashioned the way we had those summer nights so very long ago. 

But it could happen. 

And even the thought of another man, when my heart was still in such disarray over one, felt good.

The idea of the future felt divine. 

Because these past months have been some of the hardest, darkest storms I've endured. 

And I was very much ready for a rainbow. 

And perhaps, even a very tiny pot of gold as well.

some fairytale

I'm not mad.

At you.

I'm not angry at your cruelty. 

I am heartbroken. 

And disappointed. 

And still overwhelmingly in shock and disbelief. 

I thought some night this week your voice would fill my phone with the soft timbre that once resonated when you talked to me.

I thought you'd express remorse and regret and overtures of wanting to right the wrongs so violently forced upon me. 

But my inbox was never full.

Just one sentence. 

One brief, disjointed fragment. 

I've listened to over and over as though the truth existed between those syllables. 

But it doesn't. 

Because nothing exists between us anymore. 

I suppose perhaps it never did. 

But oh my heart, my love, my consuming, determined love was pure. 

It is

Most sincere. 

My heart alone sustained this wretched ongoing horror story I believed to be a fairytale. 

And I can't decide which part is the worst. 

It's all such a jumbled blur in my mind now, like one painfully long run on sentence 

Something out of that book you think I'm too unintelligent to ever read. 

I never realized how little you actually think of me until that night. 

You know I'm trying to destroy this from the inside out, right?

And I let you. 

I sat there and I let you I took it like some frightened little girl who just wanted to be held 

And you did, sweet bliss, you finally reached out and wrapped your arms around me for one brief moment I again believed 

Trusted

Until you pulled away and said no, I can't make you happy so we shouldn't be physical 

And I said please

Jesus fucking Christ I said please

Like some pathetic wretched desperate creature that I was 

And you coldly replied no

And I recoiled in still greater horror

Because that was all I had

All I'd ever been to you

Some body some lusty fantasy dirtying your sheets when the women you loved didn't answer your call

And I laid there, tormented, unable to move

And then you reached into your desk

You knew I would see, would fear it would all disappear before my frightened eyes

You wanted my fear

My consuming, immobilizing horror, the force of the pain leaping out of my chest in a motion to stop you

And then that look

Oh god, that disgusted disdain for my face that darted from your eyes to my flesh will never ever leave my mind

I want you to leave

And I didn't go

I wish I had

I wish I'd run

As fast and as far as my frightened legs would take me

But that would mean everything that was happening was real 

And it couldn't be real

It was so awful it couldn't be actually happening

And I knew if I just stood in the fire long enough you'd come back and reach for my hand again and make that delighted sigh after we kissed 

But you just reached for your phone and told me to push this button

That button at the bottom there

And I did like you knew I would because I listen to you

And when I'd obeyed you said

There now you're deleted

And I didn't know how much more I could take I wondered when we'd wake up from this bad dream

And I asked why you'd done that

I didn't 

You did

I wouldn't have been able to do it

And I couldn't breathe

And you told me to just go to sleep

But to be gone in the morning 

And you whispered she was trash, she was pure garbage, a terrible person

And I'd choose her over you again

And I was nothing

I was hollowed out 

Void of everything

And I layed there

Wishing I had the key to escape 

To get out of this house of horrors

But I just sat up

I looked out the window

The curtain blowing in the wind

The green book propping the window open

And I held my breath

And hoped

I hoped when you opened your eyes you'd remember

Remember all I am 

All I thought existed between us

And when you'd ended your violent sleep, your limbs flinging you out of the hell that was your dreams, you looked at me, vacant, lifeless

Why are you still here?

And my skin crawled

It slipped off my body and creeped out of the room sliding out the crack in the window, the crack I'd imagined opening to escape into the night

And the door was finally unlocked and I walked into the sun, shaking

And I called her

And she came 

And when I saw her the tears choked me

The fear vomited out of me

You look like someone who was tortured all night 

And that was the night 

The moment the story collapsed 

And she lived 

She lived ever after 

Never again looking into the eyes of the monster she still loved