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They handed me a salad without chicken and an iced coffee with real sugar in it. Of course I wouldn't know until I started eating. Ate it anyway. I called him and he didn't ask how I was doing. I called anyway. All things I'm supposed to avoid. Sugar. Caffeine. Men. Then he asks why cry so often. He'll say: it's not normal that you cry so often. My argument: I'm not crying because there is anything wrong with me. I'm crying because you've made me sad. That's normal by anyone's standard.
I didn't tell him that last little bit.
It's every month. They're not supposed to be scattered. But once, writing had a therapeutic effect, now I I just end up bawling and having this non-descript emotional pain the rest of the day. So I stayed away from it the last week. That bites, since I was pretty proud about my entries. The one about the recurring duck dreams, the one about the Swiss. Whatever, I'm losing the discipline and my ability to write through it. I've always known I wasn't stable, but I manage when I don't set perfect expectations for me best. I always give my best.
Running fingers through my once abundant hair has become a persistent fear. That and brushing, washing or drying my hair with a towel or appliance. The doctor has always said "oh, it's normal" or "it's all in your head". But it's not on my head. The strands are just abandoning their follicles without any loyalty to their place on the scalp. They're marking territory on my pillow. They're coiled on the bathroom floor. I constantly see the essence of what makes me a woman curled up everywhere but exactly where they belong. I might as well chop my breasts off.
God, I just need to tell him my side. No matter what word and tone selection I've opted, it never comes out right. Should be enough to sting him, but not enough to burn him down. I'm letting him walk all over me. Well, everywhere except near me. I am not to be put on hold. Yet here I lie, taking it, taking it. Doing the hurting on my time and hiding it from him. All to keep the peace. But where is my peace? The only thing brewing here is dormant resentment that will explode in our faces later.
I considered writing Koyen, begging him to let me write up the end of June and post after our already extended deadline. I would've given him my sob story, i.e., I just can't miss out on a summer month, things gotÖ complicated, I'm not usually negligent about due dates. But mercy isn't on my side. Rules are rules. I'm no exception to the rules. So like everyone else, I abide or pay the consequence. Another in gap in time. Another summer month shamelessly wasted. It all happened on the day of solstice. Damn that day. July doesn't look promising either.
Big Girls Don't Cry was blaring at the gym. The melody reminds me of a point in life I already endured. And its back. The song seemed to get louder, like it was beating inside me. So I upped the speed, ran harder. Her voice came across as tears, I ran until I thought my lungs would burst and my legs would give out. I slammed the Stop button, bolting for the locker room and let it out. Today I watched the video intently, hoping that somewhere toward the end she'd crumbled down to the floor and cry.
What I need is to undoubtedly adopt an obstinate approach when I say I will not call, I will stop posting, I will not dwell. For a few hours or so I can be entirely determined to stand by my own made rules. When time begins to seem that its stretching, I start developing clauses and amendments that allow for 'one last conversation', 'last indulgence', 'last kiss'. That, henceforth, becomes another or two to ease the pain. Suddenly my decision has become null. Thankfully, this weakness is not unique to my character. After one week, he came back for more.
Ginormous. Can you please use that is a sentence? I give one ginormous flying crap if that ridiculous word made it into the dictionary or not. I've got a ginormous dilemma about to give me a fucking ginormous hemorrhoid and the world is concerned about linguistic technicalities and what Paris' intentions are now that she's free. In the big scheme of things, every individual person and their corresponding situations are tiny insignificant specks in this ginormous spinning universe. I pray to a ginormous entity that he shake the foundation a bit, and flick me off this place. If only temporarily.
Enough boo-hoo. Poor Pitiful Me. I get tired of it. It's a mechanism I resort to when I can't cope otherwise, but I admit it's not my best. While I work on devising a more adult, elegant form or dealing, I try to keep my verbal kicks and screams to a minimum, leaving the bulk of it to anonymity and paper. I'm not proud of it by any means, but judging by what they see when I set out the door, they'd never imagine so much gloom and despair is left behind. In the end, I always turn out okay.
So, I'll rank on him. - . See that blank? That was everything I purged from the insides of my gut, from exact to exaggeration, then everything I'll immediately regret subjecting to one of the eleven known dimensions. The evilest of souls has a scratch in time that altered their path at some point. Most likely childhood, like the case I was about to spill. But he's not evil by any means. As much as it hurts me, I love him more than I wish to be the reason to judge his beautiful soul. Even if he decides to leave.
The path that I'm walking
I must go alone
I must take the baby steps until I'm full grown
Fairytales don't always have a happy ending, do they
And I foresee the dark ahead if I stay
I hope you know
I hope you know
That this has nothing to do with you
Myself and I
We've got some straightenin' out to do
And I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket
But I've got to get a move on with my life
Its time to be a big girl now
And big girls don't cry
You've got your ball
you've got your chain
tied to me tight tie me up again
who's got their claws
in you my friend
Into your heart I'll beat again
Sweet like candy to my soul
Sweet you rock
and sweet you roll
Lost for you I'm so lost for you
You come crash into me
And I come into you
I come into you
In a boys dream
Touch your lips just so I know
In your eyes, love, it glows so
I'm bare boned and crazy for you
When you come crash Into me
And I come into you
Since he told me he loved me, I havenít cried. A wave of peace has come over me. And itís only a matter or days before the truth crashes down on me and I part the seas with my tears. But it wonít be because Iím breaking down. Itíll be because Iíll notice my hands are missing the fingers I used to trace, that his limbs donít intertwine with mine. I will miss him.
Until that becomes a reality, Iíll enjoy the calm before the storm. Iíll think of a time we believed we were as eternal as the ocean.
Had I known Independence Day would be our last kiss and that I would have to lose dependency of him, I would've kissed him very differently. I have no doubt he would've have held me a little more delicately. There's not much I can do to change our "lasts", but at least the last fight led us somewhere. The last conversation was beautiful. The last time he told me he loves me was real. Just like our relationship. We didn't always get things right. Wait for the right time, and all the wrong is washed away by a perfect moment.
To forget me he will have to: take down the lamp I gave him. Throw away the lace thong. Burn his sheets. Delete my number, texts, and messages. Return my DVD's. Send me my CD's. Trash the mix I made him. Shred my letters. Break his dishes and appliances. Buy a new wardrobe. Listen to a new music genre. Pour the cologne down the drain. Dip his lips in acid. Find a new social circle. Change his daily route. Pretend the beach doesn't exist. Get a lobotomy. Never look at another sunset. As for me: I choose to remember him.
Itís infuriating how toward his way there is sun and clouds about in the sky, but right above my home the skies are dark to mock my moods. The weather over there is one of the things that gravitated me his way to begin with. Not enough light comes this shabby house. The constant rain locks me indoors. No doubt heís able to move on if heís not shut inside, wallowing with the recent memories. In order to move on, I have the mind to run outside, rain or shine. I refuse to die if he gets to continue living.
Not marrying him, I could deal with that. Somewhere along the lines I felt the hesitance shaking our ground. Not having a number to dial at any hour, that's fine too. There's other people to talk to. Having him angry at me, without rightful motive. No. He can't win this one. He cannot walk away thinking I did him wrong. He needs to hear it the way it is. He has emotional issues he won't admit to and projects them onto me. Fuck! So I cry. At least I know why I do. People in denial must revel in ignorance.
My fingers poke at the cushions below my eyes, courtesy of last night's tear fest. I fan them out, pull on the skin, once taut and colorful, stretching the corners of my lashes. A grey, sullen figure stares back at me in the mirror. It seems like a depersonalization of me. I'm here, she's there, and we have nothing to do with each other. Yet it is me, ever evolving in the wrong direction. I start to add paint to my cheeks and put on my face again. I've got to put on my smile. Where did I leave it?
My fingers poke at the cushion below my eyes, courtesy of last night's tear fest. I fan them out, pull on the skin, once taut and colorful, stretching the corners of my lashes. A grey, sullen figure stares back at me in the mirror. It seems like a depersonalization of me. I'm here, she's there, and we have nothing to do with each other. Yet it is me, ever evolving in the wrong direction. I start to add paint to my cheeks and put on my face again. I've got to put on my smile. Where did I leave it?
At the supposedly innocent age of twelve, I'd already noticed that people with obsessions tend to mix them with religious phobias. The mentally ill, i.e. bipolar, schizophrenics, psychotics, we have a way of distorting God and worst fears. I believe it starts with the black and white thinking pattern. It's black or white. It's perfect or sinful. We will live or we will die. And of course, since we get lost in our dark thoughts, we condemn ourselves. Unless we find something else to obsess over. Or some of us can multitask our guilt feelings, tight spaces and live burials.
Who would have thought
That you could hurt me
The way you've done it?
So deliberate, so determined
And since you have been gone
I bite my nails for days and hours
And question my own questions on and on
So tell me now, tell me now
Why you're so far away
When I'm still so close
You don't even know the meaning of the words "I'm sorry"
You said you would love me until you die
And as far as I know you're still alive, baby
I'm starting to believe it should be illegal to deceive a woman's heart
He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. He's gone. Maybe if I say it enough times, it'll become real.
Let's play What Part of the Break Up is Most Devastating!
- I won't be truly touched or kissed in the next few months or years.
- The promises were all broken.
- I could've gone to Europe with that money.
- Weddings ads are still coming in the mail.
- He stopped loving me.
- I can only date/marry of the same faith and the only men over 25 are fat, strange or downright nauseating.
- I'm gonna miss out on 9 inches.
- There was no absolute closure.
- I can't cradle his beautiful face in my hands.
In Sex and the City, the potty-mouthed, morally-skewed jabbering women said it takes time and a half of the total months you dated a man to get over him. It's unrealistic to go through this phase without mourning, i.e. mindlessly shoving your face with ice cream, spontaneously breaking out in sobs, throwing shoes at the radio, wander the mall wearing sweats sneering at couples and their gross PDA while shoveling whole milk ice cream and talking to shoes on display, exasperate your friends with every unturned detail... turn it again, shake it off, and find new angles to the break-up.
Sometimes I wish I had a toggle option for a cold detached heart. There are some people I would blow away without a second's hesitance. Then there are other people that I affix myself to and get permanently stuck, even after they're gone. Right about now, I wish I was those hard ass women that are fueled, liberated and stronger when a man wrongs them. They get busier, laugh more, look better, and fucking start companies. Or are they doing that to distract themselves from the inevitable hurt I find necessary to address before getting the energy to move on?
The only decent friends I've found in this shabby lifeless town are married couples or annoying girls. The other people are okay, but they all speak Spanish. They're humor is off, or they might think mine is. Their wit is elementary. The interesting, but shallow city people are too busy to add me to their circle, but I prefer the outskirts anyway. The Americans exist in neighboring cities but I haven't been able to network myself into their territory. I'm a culture misfit stuck in the middle. The quality friends I can truly express myself to live miles from home.
Bug-eyed Marvin has a crush on me. He left a dozen decaying roses in cheap cellophane on my car with a little secret admirer's (stalker) note. He said if I want to know who it is, I should drive by the McDonalds in town. He's got a bulging disk that makes his torso looked awkwardly stacked on top of his hips. Poor guy. I'd talk to him, but ever since he saw the white guy holding my hand, he can't ramble that scattered talk to me the way he used to, spitting on my face and invading my personal space.
There is no panic in my breath. Donít have a tear to spare. I can't hold on to any memory of ours longer than three seconds. I feel guilty for not tearing off my garments and scattering ashes over it. Other guys tried to hit on me, and I feel like I'm cheating. I fall asleep thinking about anything but him yet I feel like I betrayed him. Why do I torture myself? He is doing fine, so why cry for the both of us? Unless he's suffering insomnia and refusing to shave. That would make me feel pretty good.
Where will I be when October comes around? The leaves don't magically turn colors and whither in whirlpools to the lawns. They change practically without notice. Before the season hits its prime, you can completely miss when the green suddenly flashes into browns and pile up on the ground. My previous pattern of adventure predicts not much will be going on in my life by the fall. Summers have been stagnant. When the seasons begin to stir, I start to sense it's my turn for a drastic opportunity. I think I'll travel then, someplace new, just to mix up my chances.
What do single women write about? From the influence of the current book I'm reading, I've slipped into wistful author writing mode. She's writing about all these women and their struggles with the generic crap. A recent movie I saw was about a lady who wrote children's' stories and drew rabbits she would imagine and befriend. With all kinds of thoughts juggling through my amateur drafting organizer, I was interrupted by a picture text sent to me by error. Could I get into the head of a black woman trying to meet up with lonely stranger she met online? Nah.
As if I am not already pretending enough, she gave me a horrible haircut. Something like a lesbian trying to drop hints before fully stepping out of the closet. Maybe I'm being exaggerated, but it screams 'brusque female empowerment' when I specifically asked her for 'softer than your initial judgement, huh?'. Hair means everything, especially when I'm trying to make a statement that is otherwise exhausting to express through obvious communication. Not only do I have to act like I'm tenacious and naturally happy, now I have to fake extra confidence to appear that bad hair can't affect my stride.
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