Rumor is you’ve got yourself a new girl. Does that track? Sure. I hear she’s only twenty-three (or twenty-four). Does that track? Yes. Who do you think you are? The Leo DiCaprio of Midwestern Lesbians? Did I fuck you up so much that you needed to go so far backwards? You were incapable of having a conversation that ran deeper than your wrinkles, well it sounds like you’ve found yourself the right serum. When you bring her around the family, will she be with you and your sisters? Or go off and play with the nieces and cousins like a girl little girl? Does her mom know? You know, her mom that you work with who’s almost the same age as you? You keep getting older and your girlfriends keep getting younger. No wonder we didn’t work out. Was it too scary for you? To cosplay as a grownup in a grownup relationship? Where we have to face our fears and flaws and use whole words and sentences to communicate? I wonder how long this one will last. No doubt you’ll move her in, like you did with all the others who were too young to have roots of their own, faces of their own, identities of their own. You’ll mold her into you, love her like a puppy that follows you everywhere and asks you no questions. She’ll do your housework and adopt your habits because that’s what true love looks like. No independent thoughts, no challenges. Do you know the rest see you as a predator? Messy and bitter with a taste for rookies? And over here I’ve been thinking we were special. That I saw you for you and we were equals, partners, misfits together. I didn’t realize how much you probably hated that. Do you even know who you are? You’re forty fucking eight, for starters. Dating a twenty-three year old. That’s who you are.

I’m an awful person right now. Stuck in my own shit, sometimes feeling so close to finding my way out only to get sucked back into it somehow. Everyone around me, their own lives are shifting. And their shifting is making me feel more and more left behind. Not by them. But by myself. They’re being offered new jobs while I had to leave my measly part time gig due to … workplace harassment? A retaliatory boss who became overly invested in my personal life and my personal choices and how I spent my time away from work. I’m moving backwards while I see those around me, amazingly and wonderfully warm humans who deserve all of their successes, are moving forward. I feel lost. I feel like dead weight. I miss laughing. I miss liking myself. Where did that person go from eight months ago? The one who felt grief from a breakup but also at peace with the decision (for the most part at least). The person who didn’t hole herself up in her house, avoiding her studio, avoiding connection. Who grieved while still living life. Where the fuck is that person. Because I miss her. Her friends miss her. Her friends deserve her. Tomorrow I will celebrate someone who deserves to be celebrated, and I will feel dead inside.

When the fuck do my new meds arrive?

Today I finally changed your name in my phone. Your contact card no longer reads “Love” as part of its name. Overdue, I suppose. And still I don’t feel ready. It’s the little paper cuts like these that keep making the breakup sting. I wish the paper cuts would heal and go away.

I used to have this silly dream

That you’d call me

Or surprise me

On my birthday

That your reason for ignoring my request

For our portrait

That I left behind

Would become clear

You’d say “hi”

In the small way that you do

And I’d say “hi” back

We’d stare nervously at each other

Not sure what to do next

Slowly we’d start to talk

And it would feel like we’d never stopped

We’d talk about our summers

And our exploits

Smiling nervously at each other

Eventually it would become silent

Until one of us says to the other

“I’ve missed you”

And the other would say

“I’ve missed you, too”

“I still love you”

“What happens next?”

“I don’t know”

And we’d sit

With tears forming in our eyes

Eventually you’ll get up to leave

And I’ll ask if it’s okay that we hug

And we do.

And we do.

And we do.

I wish I could watch the new season of Only Murders with you

And complain about the gnats that arrived way ahead of schedule

I wish I could go on walks with you

And I could show you all the fruit trees I’ve found

I wish we could build something together

I wish I could show you who I am now

I wish I could show you this love

I wish I could know you again

You deserve so many love letters.

I never got to fully appreciate

The way your skin felt under my fingers

How your hand fit inside mine

The feeling of bones, how they moved

How it was to smell your skin

To run the tip of my nose across your shoulders

While I wrapped my arms around your waist

From behind

What it was like to stare at your face

To lock on to your eyes

The sound of your voice and the soft way you said goodbye

Your laughter

“I’ve never worked so hard to fix myself for anyone before.”

“I worry that you love me more than I love you.”

“I don’t know that I ever felt happy in this relationship.”

“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

“I don’t I love you as much as I loved [my ex-wife].”

“I don’t want to keep working on us.”

The thing that spins my mind these days, that keeps me up at night or occupies my thoughts when I go for a walk is … how did it come to this?

How has it gotten to this point where you refuse to speak to me? No contact wasn’t supposed to be permanent. So why have you seemingly made it permanent?

Why have you chosen to conclude everything this way? Did you come to realize I didn’t mean that much to you afterall? Your voice sometimes haunts me, saying you don’t think you were ever that happy with me, that we were never really happy together. Do you remember saying that? Did you really mean it? Because I’ve never believed it.

I look back at old photos, read old letters, remember how it felt to spend time with you, to be next to you, to know you in an honest way.

How those two people can be dwindled down to … a place that doesn’t feel indicative of what they once had.

Our relationship and how we once felt for the other deserves better than the ending it’s been given.

Of just complete silence.

The more time

The more space

The more distance

In my mind

Are my fears

Will create a bigger void

That cannot be fixed

We gravitate towards what’s pleasurable

And have a natural aversion to what’s uncomfortable

We cannot change the past- it only causes suffering

We cannot predict the future- it only causes clinging.

Be of open heart and mind to what is now and present.

When we first met, when we fell in love, we saw each other for who we really were and what we could be together. I think that’s why things got as serious as fast as they did. We saw what was truly there.

But also, from the beginning, a lot of other stuff happened, too. And soon we couldn’t keep up. We didn’t know how to approach it or even communicate with each other about how it was making us feel. We didn’t know each other nearly well enough to do that. And we didn’t have the tools needed to fix it, tools that are acquired over time and experience.

And eventually, bad patterns formed. And they, with other things, began to overshadow the good- the potential. Instead of that, it was defense tactics and arguments; fear and uncertainty. We could’t keep up. We hand’t yet developed a system fast enough to approach conflict together, instead of against each other. We didn’t yet know what the other needed most in those moments.

I still remember the potential. I still remember how good it could feel, how sure I was in us. How perfect the balance could be. How imperfectly perfect we fit together.

I want that back. I want all of it back. I want to do it better and stronger and in the process create an even more amazing bond.

I can’t let myself give up on us.

What if I’m the only one?

What if I’m the only one that still thinks about us?

What if I’m the only one that still has feelings?

What if I’m the only one who still misses us?

What if I’m the only one who still wants to try again?

What if I’m the only one who doesn’t want to let go?

What if I’m the only one who doesn’t want to move on?

What if I’m the only one who keeps looking backwards, wishing she could change it all?

What if you become the one who got away?

I miss talking to you every day.

I miss knowing about your life.

I miss hearing you talk about your frustrations or the latest cause for anxiety about your face.

I miss telling you you’ll be okay, or sharing in your rant about something stupid a coworker did.

I miss hearing you talk about derby, even when I have no idea what you’re talking about.

I never could have imagined that this is what your absence would feel like.

You filled a hole I didn’t know I had until I met you.

And now it’s all I see and feel.

With you, I belonged somewhere. I always felt that next to you was where I was supposed to be, where I was meant to be. I never doubted that. Any doubt I’d have would be whether or not you wanted me there.

You felt like home to me.

Only no home I’ve ever known before.

You felt safe. I just couldn’t let myself believe it.

I hope you never again have to be with someone who doesn’t know how lucky they are to be with you.

I think I’m realizing that for the first time in, maybe ever, I don’t want to be single.

That’s not to say that I want to start dating again, because I don’t.

I’m just in a place right now I don’t want to be.

I don’t want to start over with someone else.

Meet their friends and family.

I have zero curiosity in any of that.

In the past, after a breakup, I always relished in my time alone; gaining my energy back.

And I would want to start dating again. Because I was curious, I wanted to find better, I was excited.

But now, I don’t want anything to change.

I don’t want it to be a difference voice that I hear when I call.

I don’t want it to be different friends that I get to know.

You once said that I never felt comfortable with you or in our relationship. But that isn’t true.

Things happened and were experienced that caused pain and confusion and uncertainty.

But you always felt like home.

I’ve turned away from relationships over a lot less.

But you made me want to stay.

You made me want to push through it.

Only I didn’t always do my best . And I didn’t always pause long enough to remind myself what all was at stake. If it were to disappear.

Until it did.

And now here I am, in a place I don’t want to be.

In a place where you aren’t here with me.

I don’t want to be single.

I don’t want to date.

I don’t want to go backwards.

I just want to curl up in bed, next to you.

I’m sad today.

I miss us.

I worry about us.

Because … what if you don’t see it?

What if you don’t see me

What could be

If we could put our past mistakes behind us?

I just want to hold you

Wrap my arounds around you

Bury my face in your neck

And breathe you in.

When I’m at my worst, I am ugly both inside and out. I’m impatient and sensitive and prickly and sad.

When I’m at my worst, I’m extra hard on myself and can’t understand how anyone would want to be around me. I take up too much space and everything I do and say is wrong. I’m convinced no one likes me very much and am convinced everyone is pulling away.

When I’m at my worst, I can get out of bed but it doesn’t go much further from there. I’m not very good at showering or getting much done throughout the day. I’m distracted and unmotivated and easily frustrated.

When I’m at my worst, I hurt others. My fears and insecurities bleed out onto them. I watch them get hurt by me as if I’m in the audience watching a show that I’m not even a part of.

When I’m at my worst, everyone else is happy. Their lives and relationships seem stable and strong. They seem like better people. People I want to be.

When I’m at my worst, I feel like I should be alone in life. That it’s only a matter of time before everyone realizes I’m a sinking ship and should get off it while they can.

When I’m at my worst, I eat like shit. I don’t cook my own food and I eat too much of it. I drink too much alcohol and not enough water.

When I’m at my worst, everything seems too hard. The obvious solutions are impossible to achieve. I feel like I’ve failed before I’ve even begun to try.

When I’m at my worst, I want to be held and also left alone. I want to be comforted but not pitied. I want to feel loved and not like a burden.

When I’m at my worst, my face doesn’t look familiar. When I look at photos of me at my best, I’m unrecognizable.

When I’m at my worst, I blame my shitty actions on other people. And I’m too fragile and stubborn to say “I’m sorry”. I’m manipulative and I’m an asshole.

When I’m at my worst, I feel dead inside. I’m unable to experience joy or laughter even when I know I should be experiencing it.

When I’m at my worst, I am the very biggest fuck up.

I’m not always at my worst. But lately I have been. It’s alienating and exhausting and lonely down here. It’s like climbing up a dark well only to slip back down every so often. Some spots are more slippery than others while some have strong footholds. But all you can do is climb. You so badly want to feel better again but your brain is so loud that you can’t even think for yourself. You want your relationships to be happy and healthy, for your connections to feel stable and secure. You try so hard to do the right thing only to fall backwards and fuck up somehow by saying something hurtful or doing something neglectful. You know who you are when you’re at your best but that person feels so unachievable right now.

It will get better.

So, I’m not actually sure what my purpose is for having this “blog” or website or whatever we want to call it. Like, I’m fairly certain that, despite its public domain versus choosing one of the MANY private apps out there for journaling, I’m not doing this for attention or notoriety. You might seem skeptical by that. I don’t blame you. For one, I just addressed YOU, the reader, as if I’m writing to you and for you. But I promise you I am not. (but thanks for being here and keeping me company nonetheless)

I think there’s a certain thrill in knowing that anyone could stumble onto this at any given time and maybe even read more than a sentence or two. It provides a certain level of motivation to write and to hopefully be thoughtful about what I write (cancel culture is real). Several years ago I took a long road trip with my two dogs and a mannequin. I was on the road for over a month, maybe close to two. And during that trip I decided to keep a blog. Not because I thought I had anything interesting to say or because I thought anyone back home would care. But because I knew I’d get lonely on the road. And having a blog seemed like an ambiguous way to keep company (I honestly don’t think I’m using that word correctly but we’ll move on). It seemed like an unobtrusive way to feel like I had company without ever really having it (or knowing if anyone was reading). Some people write for the sole purpose of obtaining an audience. They write for notoriety, for the hope of fame and recognition. They want to see their NAME in print. They write because their ego demands it. I know this because I’m related to one of those kinds of people. And to be honest, her ago and narcissism terrifies me.

I write because, if I’m disciplined enough to do it regularly, it calms my brain. It’s an outlet. It also unintentionally makes me internalize stories more. The stories of those around me, the stories of my day. I pay more attention. But circling back to my road trip blog, I was skeptical how often I would write. I was never one to keep a diary. If a college class required us to maintain a journal for the semester, I was likely to fail that class. However, knowing this road trip blog was public, was accessible by whomever was bored enough to read it, fueled something inside of me to keep writing at the end of every day. I slightly hated that my name was attached to it and that people reading it would likely know it was me and I could easily be subjected to judgment and some side-eye for a variety of reasons and in a personal way. But this time I get to be anonymous. This time I get to fart out my thoughts, pop them in a bottle, and hurl them out to sea, for anyone or no one to receive.

As an aside, I love collecting old letters. Letters you might find at estate sales or antique stores. Letters that are usually a one-sided glimpse into the relationship of these two people, the connection that compels them to write, the stories they tell each other, what they made for dinner, how much their rent costs at their new apartment, who they visited last week. It’s mundane shit but it’s fascinating to me and it sends me down rabbit holes. So maybe that’s what this is: a one-sided letter for anyone to happen upon and decide what, if anything, to take from it.