MAY2016

The sinewy strings of muscles giving way to the well trained canines.

Pull. Pull deeper still.

The snap of the one small bit of tissue and the hapless forfeiture of a once perfect symbiotic connection. 

Pull more. There is more to take.

The outer layer jagged, ripped. Crimson fluid bubbling over the shorn flaps. 

A guttural burble erupts as the liquid gives way to the air, the exposure.

Fur matted, deep red sticky with anger clinging. 

The battle evident… flesh giving way. 

More muscle pulled. Torn. Ripping easier now. 

Surrender.

4MAY2016

You asked me to meet you for lunch. I thought it was odd that you were so insistent on meeting, it seemed like you were having a really busy morning. You asked that I meet you at Tuco. Also strange, usually you say meet wherever - you pick.

You came in a few minutes after I had prepped in the restroom - my hair was a disaster from the wind and I desperately needed lipstick. You touched my back, and gave me a quick hug when you arrived. I had seated myself with my back to the door, knowing it would be polite and, in truth, a nod to the old country, to give the Italian the advantage of being able to see who was coming through the door. Besides, what would I have to fear? You would be there. I almost favored the vulnerable position of having my back to the door. I relish in the sense of your protection - the way it hovers like a shroud: silent, strong, insistent and unwavering. 

You wore a cerulean sweater and the triangle of a white tee peaking at your neck. A bit of comely stubble on your face, and the look of worry I’d found impenetrable despite my countless and consistent offers of unburdening yourself. 

You spoke faster than you were ready to. Your words hit my ears and my face grew hot. 

"We need to have an honest conversation about us… There’s never a good time… When I look at everything, I cannot see a future. You’ll be up north and I’m out west… I haven’t felt that connection… I wonder if the fact that I haven’t said to myself 'I wonder where she is or what she’s doing' if that’s a good thing or a bad thing and I don’t know if I want to know the answer… And come September I’ll be in LA again for all those months… With everything going on with my brother - and god knows, you've had your fair share of concerns with your brother, and I don’t even know the latest… I just don’t think I have the emotional space… All these secrets. It’s not healthy for me… You can live your life out in the open and there are people you know who you can talk to… And my Dad… And now your Dad too… I don’t want to be the guy that is sneaking over to your house for an afternoon tryst. I don’t want to be that guy… I mean, I still love you… This is not just some thing… I mean, I still want to talk… I feel nauseous. No, really, I feel nauseous… This has been building… For about 6 weeks now..."

I listened. I tried to breathe. 

"WHEN DID YOU FIND OUT ABOUT YOUR DAD?"

"Friday."

"BEFORE OR AFTER YOU CAME OVER?"

"Oh… before."

Breaths. Pauses. Glances. You, waiting for a cue from me. Tears, perhaps. The waiter came by and asked if we wanted anything to drink. I motioned for him to order. 

"Water."

"I’LL HAVE A BITTERS AND SODA PLEASE." 

I searched for a kleenex in my pocket and wiped the tears that had brimmed, soaked into the rims of my eyes then resurfaced, stubborn. 

"I mean, have you had any thoughts… About, the… just the fut… the distan…?"

"NO."

"Oh."

"BUT I HAVE NOTICED. I’M NOT STUPID."

My bitters and soda arrives

"Stupid is the wrong word. That’s not… No." 

"I’M VERY PERCEPTIVE. "

My jaw was tight and the words were sharp. They cut past my lips and were sent to your eyes. This is happening. This is happening. I see you realizing you've said the words that had spun in your head endlessly, as you earlier confessed, for the last 6 weeks. You now sees the devastation registered on my face with every blink, every hand motion, every time I deny you eye contact. I sip, hoping to douse the heat in my throat, my face, my neck. 

"I’m sure at this moment you want to just leave after you throw that bitters and soda right in my face." Your words are followed by a small smile… Permission.

"TEMPTING, NO."

"ARE YOU GOING TO EAT?"

"No! I am nauseous. I’m nauseous. You don’t have to stay if you don…

"WELL, YOU HAVE HAD SIX WEEKS TO THINK ABOUT THIS AND…"

"You’re right. I know… I’m sorr…"

"I’M GOING TO GO. I THINK THAT WOULD BE BEST."

I stood up but my legs wouldn’t carry me so I forced my knees to lock and I barely caught my fall. I pulled my coat from the chair and wrapped it around my shoulders. Your eyes never left me. My hand shook towards the strap of my purse, and I tucked my computer down, a feeble attempt to hide it in all its shiny silver new glory. I brought it today to show you what I had begun to write in iBooks Author. Shame rises at the thought of my plans, blithely unaware of yours. 

I walked away and felt you watch me. I pushed the door open and the cold hit my face. Welcome respite from the burn I'm sure was evident on my cheeks, pink with pain. I turned right, away from the bay window where you sat. My car was only a block away, the closest path would require me to pass you. I would not give you that. 

I was not protected today. My back was to the door.

JUNE2018

I have been filled with peace and a growing fire in my belly.

Although, every night I’ve dreamt about him. For the last 4 nights to be completely honest. So damn vivid I can see the wallpaper on the walls of the hotel and feel the ticket for my valeted car in my back pocket… even though I’m wearing a draping sequined midnight blue gown. 

The preceding nights were more foggy as to what played out, oh WAIT.

There was one. I truly cannot tell if it was a preamble to the full adventure my brain took last night, or if it was another night entirely. 

You were above me, the room was dim and we lay on a crisp white duvet tossed about the bed. I had the remnants of a cherry blow pop in my mouth, and we were kissing. I could see your right shoulder, the curve of your neck, and the smell of your skin was everywhere with me. I broke off one last chunk of the sucker and pulled out an ellipsis of wet cherry stickiness, that I then moved down to my wetness. You whispered “that is sooooo hot…” and I could feel you getting harder against me, parting me. But you went no further. My fingers grazed your head as they wound slowly in circles, and you whispered to me, and looked at me, soft eyed, as I came… slowly, and hard.

I awoke, mid orgasm, to feel just enough to know that my body finally gave me what I hadn’t felt in nearly a year, of my own accord, or with the assistance of a lover.

I fell back into a deep and content sleep.

I was in France. Cannes, to be exact. The ceilings of the hotel restaurant are impossibly high, and lit romantically with bowing, opaque amber lanterns. The floor beneath my heels an intricate tile that repeated my every step back to me, reminding me of their illustrious history, and just how many heels have walked upon them, offering me this bit of humility… ‘remember thyself, oh young one.’

The servers were gleeful in their conceit. I tried to order some bubbly to absolutely no avail. Next to me stood a French gentleman togged to the bricks. Tailored suit, hair devilishly coiffed to perfection, his scent subtle and confident. The silk of his pocket square placed with the utmost care brushed my shoulder as he motioned to the bartender to please bring the magnum of Collett Brut, kindly denying my request for Prosecco… schooling me with grace.

“Rose. Magnifique.” He smiled.

Beside him stood his wife, Marie Antoinette glass in her kid gloved hand, her slim fingers curving the stem. She nodded to me as the bottle was pulled lovingly from the ice behind the bar and placed into a chilled sterling silver pedestaled server. 10 glasses were fitted between a waiter's nimble fingers which braced the bucket, ice, and magnum. He dashed off to present the bottle to a table where I had not yet arrived, and was still unbeknownst to me. I signaled the bartender to pay, remembering my room as 729. My French friend pulled a shining gold card from absolutely nowhere, snapped briskly, and insisted it be his treat. The long lashes of his wife slowly lowered, then lifted, her lips pursed into a benevolent smile, and she held my gaze as she sipped from her glass.

“You are too good to me. Please allow me to pay you in kind. You and your lovely bride.” He nodded a yes, which of course meant no. He wasn’t shooing away my presence, nor my desire to repay their favor. There was not an ounce of condescension to any gesture neither had offered. They were acknowledging this as my time, a precious time. Their utter beauty gave me a sense that indeed allowed me to remember who I was.

I belonged there… stilettos arranged with care on the tile, hip leaning gently against the curve of the carved ornate oak bar. Steady with grace. Farewell kisses exchanged with nary a smidge of red smeared on a cheek, I turned and made my way to a table I had yet to locate, and friends I had yet to determine were mine.

10JUNE2018

I’ll turn a corner, and see a man with his back to me on a park bench, in a black tee shirt, the back of his salty hair trimmed down to a neat fade, the olive skin of his neck visible, and I am unable to move. When I do finally begin to place one foot in front of the other, it is a deliberate gait. My eyes are trained, narrowed. My shoulders are tight and all of me crawls. As I approach, I wait for anything, a movement, a head turn or a sound just to confirm or eliminate this possibility. That it might just be him.

And then it will happen: the man adjusts himself in such a way belying a shape or a feature that allows me to confirm a negative on the identity… the identity of someone, who, had it been him, I still cannot anticipate what exactly I will do. All I am driven by is identification in that moment. If it is ever indeed him, I will know what to do in that moment. I have faith in that. And I know it will be terribly unpleasant. I’ve imagined so many scenarios, but the notion of catching him somewhere off the beaten path, unguarded and in an unsuspecting state is intoxicating.

There is always the one place, neighborhood really, where the chances of seeing him are higher. Within that relatively small radius, a particular decorum is necessary to maintain the fragility of this tenuous and incestuous ecosystem. I employ some unfailing rituals as a form of protection when I travel in that circle. Abiding by them keeps me safe. Where I park. Where I walk. What corners to avoid and what windows to dodge. 

Outside that small realm, there are none of those things in place. No manners that require adherence. No attempt at safe distance need be kept, nor my acknowledgement of his sullen look in my direction offering contrived penance. And silence as a compulsory conduct is abundantly unnecessary. Away from his comfort zone, those nets have been cut. In such a scenario, the only eyes that would take in what is to come will be strangers, and none of them deserving of an explanation. No one he or I are obliged to would witness the scene, or be able to spread the tale of what they saw with malice far and wide... not that those unfamiliar, shocked faces wouldn't relay in great and excited detail what unfolded on a random afternoon at the movie theater... the grocery store... the parking lot near Erie and Orleans.

To that end, I do hope for a run-in outside his usual and familiar grounds. Perhaps it is there he will see and feel just what is imminent. 

He's felt it breathing down his neck. I can tell by the look on his face when I've seen him twice since May. He is unnerved, and contrite. 

When and if a day comes when he and I happen to meet on neutral ground, he will know. What exactly? He won’t be able to put a finger on it. But it will fill him with the kind of insidious dread that perhaps this is something that's been a long time coming. In those moments before a word passes my lips, and he is scanning desperately the landscape of his past actions, it is then he will understand for the first time his fears are not without unconditional merit.

MAY2016

29MAY2016

As every day goes by and I hear nothing, I become more and more convinced that there is more to this than I was told. Not that the things you told me weren’t enough, but I feel like there have been other times in your life when there were insurmountable stresses, yet, we stayed close. That connection remained. I am so shocked at your lack of effort. But I don’t know if you're simply relieved. I don’t know how much you have shared with anyone near to you, I don’t know if you're just so happy to see me fade away. 

I’ve gone over and over the things you said - that I was supposed to be an oasis to you, a refuge. And for a long time, because of schedule conflicts and the emotional requirements, it seemed our connection waned. That was true, but only for you. I could breathe you in just by thinking of you. I felt you with me whenever I saw something I knew we could both laugh about. Sometimes, I could hold onto that moment long enough to remember to share it with you when I saw you next. Other times, just being in that moment, albeit alone, and knowing I would hear you laugh had we witnessed it together, I was carried through the ache I had in wanting to just sit beside you. And that was more than enough. I loved our connection. I loved that we thought of each other so frequently and consistently we tapped into one another in one way or another in an almost ridiculously predictable manner. I remember we would always marvel at our timing. It was something worthy of awe. In this way, I suppose my questions have taken a dark turn. I feel like I don’t know the whole story. Again, not as though what you offered wasn’t enough. I just feel that if I don’t pursue this nagging gut feeling, I will regret it.

10JUNE2016

By telling me you could no longer withstand the emotional aspect of US, you essentially removed yourself from any emotional responsibility and made me forfeit any chance I had at mourning this loss properly. It’s a gag order of the worst kind - one I have to suffer alone. Wouldn’t it only be fair to give me the floor, even for a few moments, to allow me to say whatever I may need in order to heal? I wonder if this person who texts you, who speaks to you with such cheer and ease is even me - if I’ve split into two people: the perfect representation of what I imagine you currently require in order for me to have any part in your life: funny, charming, witty, unshakably positive and sound to the core; and the broken, lost, crushed and utterly bereft wisp of a woman I loathe. And then I remember - you’ve told me all I need to know, with all that information I should be spending my time soothing myself, mourning the love I knew that coursed through every fiber of my being that although beautiful, was unsustainable. 

You’ve opted out of being a part of this relationship, accepting absolutely no responsibility for the handling of me or my love for you. I’ve let you get away with murder. Murder of what was once an essential part of me. I am no longer allowed to be her, to live in her skin, to feel her strength, vitality or brave vulnerability. She has been silenced and put out, crushed and abandoned. There are times when I hear her screaming to come forward but I cannot share her with anybody - you were the only one who knew her. You were the only one she shared her complete self with. I wonder in vain if this has affected you. If you’re even slightly sad, or merely wistful, fondly perusing the back log of memories that we have amassed over our last 16 years. I wonder if you worry for me, for what this has done to me, my sense of trust, my sense of self. As for me, I take no comfort in your misery, I wish only to know where you are - not physically, but everywhere else you go in your head and in your heart that so obviously excludes me. Sometimes, very cruelly. Perhaps in that answer I could have some bit of hope for something that would land me back in the realm of near happiness, or my misery would be put out of its misery… the answer of finality finally ringing true, the realization that there is no room for me in any way shape or form, and my grace all for nought this last month. I am not pretending to be someone perfected for you, I am navigating ill defined territory with no map, no guide, no assistance and no support. So close to me are the days when I felt myself beneath you, where I lay trusting, and in love. Us two, one. And today I see and feel your absence so loud it shakes my bones. I have no place to ask for answers - you have made that resoundingly clear. Your unleashed fury at my insecurities, blaming me for having them although you are their creator. My questions far too many, my fears far too deep. More than you can be troubled with. There is the one that circles overhead more than any of the others: constant, lurking, predatory… How could you?

Time passes, the chasm grows wider, the pain deeper, the anger more fierce, and my heart… ashamed of the love it gave so unabashedly.

JUNE2018

10JUNE2018

I thought of why this time is different. I’m reading The Thoughts, and I realized that in the section where I say that I scanned my contacts but cannot think of who to call… I know why. I know why now. I was once told by a teacher in high school that I thought in quantum leaps... So here's how it would go:

I could call him. Maybe he'd pick up. If he did, he would calm me. He would maybe offer some kind words. I’d feel better. I’d make myself laugh to make him laugh. We’d hang up. And then I’d begin to wonder…

I could call him. Maybe he wouldn’t pick up. And then I’d begin to wonder…

Your capacity to lie is unparalleled. Deft. Skilled. Adept. 

NATURAL.

THAT’S WHY. 

GO FUCK YOURSELF.

The Thoughts

Insidious. Ubiquitous. Merciless.

Unforgiving. Brutal. Unyielding. Inescapable. 

Imagine telling your dearest and closest friend, that the last thing you ever want to do was watch The Exorcist. That it just might be the very thing that pushed you over the edge, ruined your belief in all things sane, and forever shattered your notion of stability. Now imagine that same friend agreeing, then strapping you to a chair by legs, arms, even head, and Clockwork Orange-style pinning your eyelids open, while in a darkened room, alone, you view the very feature that has been your deepest fear. You are bombarded with assaults on every sense, at once, with unrelenting insistence of taking over your very being. And you do not know when, or if, it will end.

That comes close to a description of The Thoughts. 

Close. 

Since I was a child, I have been a raw, open, thread bare soul left in the wild. 

In one of my earliest memories, I am sitting on the counter in my kitchen while my Mom made brownies. We were chatting. Oven mitts secured to her hands, she checked the progress in the upper oven, leaning in nose first, her sense of smell the litmus test alerting her to the doneness of her famous recipe. She then quickly tried to close the swinging door to bend down and check the dinner casserole bubbling beneath. Time slowed. My eyes traced the upper door as it slowly, menacingly, crept back to open. 

She stowed the casserole and stood upright, nearly, stunted only by the CRACK of her head as it met the upper oven door. 

I burst into tears. She blinked widely, placed a mitted hand to her throbbing head, and came to comfort me. 

The Thoughts immediately rushed through me… Why didn’t you TELL her! It was probably hot! You saw it opening! You knew she would be standing up any second! You just sat there! That SOUND! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! She ducked down and winced from the hurt! You didn’t say a word! You didn’t warn her at all! She hit the back of her head! On a hot oven door! You can see the tears from the pain! CRACK! Wince. CRACK! Wince. CRACK. WINCE. YOU DIDN’T SAY A WORD. 

Her hands were on my arms trying to soothe away the panic. Her words barely reached my ears over the self berating I was deeply engaged in. “Honey I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m oohhhhhh-kay sweetie.” My breath, deep gulps, face wet with hot tears. Trembling with regret. It played over and over and over in my mind. Her assurances falling on deaf ears. 

That scene would stay with me as vividly as it had unfolded before me to this very day, as I sit here, a grown 45 year old woman. I can easily pick it from my memory line up, conjure the exact instant, the unfortunate timing, the smell of the brownies mixing competitively with crisping cheese and browning meat in the lower oven, my dangling knee-high socked feet bumping the dark wood cabinets beneath me…I am there. I am THERE. 

Whenever I am in need of a thought, that one serves itself up and bores into me with fierce speed and precision. Every single moment, from the CRACK! to her hands on my shoulders, balled up into a solitary violent shot to my gut. The heat of the embarrassment and the shame in my inaction bathing me from finger tips to toes. 

This is a wiring malfunction. Some would argue strictly a physiological reaction to stress;  protection from current stressors by presenting past situations which have been overcome. Supposedly. And in a near hilarious twist of irony, they can serve as a go-to under two diametrically opposed situations: First scenario, I am bound by nothing, buoyed by the freedom my life allows and reveling in my aptitude for whatever the current task is before me. Then without warning, a Thought will arrive. A guttural shock, a visible wince. I breathe, I pummel it away, and slowly it retreats. In the second, I am in the depths. Indiscernible edges and unfathomable reaches. The depths are relentless in their oppressiveness. In that instance, I bring them to myself; a sort of self-serving flagellation. I’ll pull one, then another, then another… until I find the one that equally fits the anguish. There… stay there. This is what you deserve. This is where you belong. The leathery tendrils are now flexing and fixing me into that place of stifled rigidity. I am frozen, and feeling absolutely everything. 

I’ve hoarded The Thoughts since I was very small. The curse of an expansive and vivid memory is its lack of discrimination. In that same bank of horrid visuals are kept side by side with a glorious cache: My dog's nose bopping mine, sniffing gently, a tear licked away… My daughters endless eyes blinking slowly as she falls asleep in my arms… My Mom, kneeling beside me, pins gripped gingerly between her lips as she hems my taffeta Homecoming dress. And there is no rhyme or reason to when The Thoughts arrive, or which one will show itself. 

It is a battle that wages within my mind moment by moment. One that I live and breathe the second I awake and even in my sleep. I have to be careful with what I take in, but sometimes what I see is unavoidable. The maddening post of an animal being abused or slaughtered can send me into a full on panic - it starts with a hot punch to my sternum, my breath leaves me, I begin to gulp in air and am choked with sobs. And then, that visual it will stay with me… always. At first it will haunt me for an entire day and I have to concoct a narrative that it ended well, a good samaritan rescued the animal from mortal danger and the sweet creature is living happily somewhere surrounded by love. If I don’t, all I see is the wretchedness of humans at their worst on repeat, and the panic insinuates itself into my head as I drive, while I read, as I cook, as I chat with my neighbor… Unpredictable when my mind is at ease, even more so when I am in the depths. 

In full view, The Thoughts can be debilitating. They’ll keep me from leaving the house. A step taken away from a familiar pattern can be terrifying. One moment I crave the solitude and comfort of my home, alone, my dogs, a book. The next I need to surround myself with those I love… but sometimes I am so paralyzed with fear I cannot think of who would fit that bill, or necessarily be willing to do so. 

A week ago my heart was broken with news of a terrible loss. I was alone. I scanned my contacts in an effort to think of who to call. No one came to mind. I was going to be alone most of the day and couldn’t think of one person to call to bring me solace. I ultimately settled on my sister in law. I couldn’t even tell her everything. There’s just too much. And I don’t think very many people understand. Certainly not my brothers or sister. That realization crushed me. I’ve not done anything with this yet. So now, all these pains are piling up. I can only sift through so many, so for now, avoidance is the best tack. With them, anyway. I am steeped in where I stand and don't deny myself grief, sorrow or a crying jag if it's what I need. But I cannot look to them for comfort - they don't get it. It sucks immeasurably, but there is freedom in that knowledge.

I suppose I have grown deliriously weary of those who wish to correct my feelings, and try to tell me how instead I should be reacting to something - anything for that matter. A death, a betrayal, or most recently, a dark and long kept secret bombastically coming to light that ripped my family apart...

For fuck sake. Do me the favor of letting me take a breath. Let me stand back if I need to. Let me settle some past devastations and pains before I can take in what has unfolded before me… more accurately, what has been shoved under my nose and now engulfed my past and present life. 

The Thoughts suit any thorny predicament so very well. They play into inadequacies that always tugged at my conscience. They fulfill the lack of stability I grew to know as a constant so perfectly. And worse, their unmoving grip, wound through my heart, my throat, my words that begged to be uttered have instead grown into a thicket so vast, that clearing the brush resembles standing at a Redwood with a Walgreens nail file. 

But I don’t take to defeat well. I want more and know I am deserving. And if this is a method I have ingrained into my behavior willingly, I can certainly stop practicing. 

So to that end… To the thoughts: I hereby resign as host to your exhaustive efforts. I will keep all that brings me peace and breaths of life. The rest is surrendered to the ether. You will no longer feed off of my energy. You will no longer paralyze me. You will no longer hold any sway over my life. You are an apparition, and you are powerless to me.

Goodbye.

14JUNE2018

STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME. 

He is no longer able to hide his shame. And the parts of my life that are intwined with his are I’m sure a minuscule bit of the weight he feels. 

I would say over and over that he no longer has to worry, that he is free of me.

This time I am not graciously exiting his life, I am unequivocally erasing him from mine. He is dangerous. He is manipulative. He is selfish. 

I saw it that day the last time he and I were together. He said he was trying to fight off his propensity to want to seduce, and to manipulate his way back into my life. 

What a horrifying statement. He doesn’t trust himself… he allows himself to woo and to charm, and for that to feed his ego. Fulfill his manhood and relish in the attention of a woman who had loved him for nearly 20 years.

SIMPLY BECAUSE HE CAN.

“You’re so sexy.” “You’ll always be hot.” “You look amazing.” “I’m trying to be good.”

And therein lies the underbelly - why would he need to try to be good if he wasn’t already doing something he knew would be devastating to me?

Only a few short weeks ago he and I found ourselves exchanging our deep affection for one another… confessing that we were having feelings once again. 

He made me think I was safe.

Then, he started to pull away. Then my Uncle died and I knew. He was such a prick on the phone. Bristly. Impatient. Annoyed. Bothered to have to offer any words of compassion. And I could hear it in his head: 'I’ve got other shit that’s way deeper and heavier than this.'

Then literally an entire week went by with no communication. Until my birthday. Oh, the obligatory nature of that day. 

He called late that morning and invited me to lunch. He gave me a hug, and a very awkward kiss on the neutral space between my lips and cheek. When I sat next to him to read what I had written, about “the thoughts,” he pulled so far against the wall I knew he wished to climb through it. And we went to Kerryman - his suggestion. BIG red flag - just like Tuco, I should have known. And on my fucking birthday. He was already there, sitting up top, in a booth, far away from any prying eyes.

It is not possible for me to make it any clearer to him… I AM DONE. 

And I will never let him forget that he did push me off that cliff. 

He made one giant mistake though. He didn’t stick around long enough to know that I’d been holding on all that time. I have now finally climbed my way back up. I am walking the furthest away from him as I am able. Long, deliberate strides. I know he's looking. I know he's wondering what will happen next... if anything.

SURPRISE...

2016

AN ULTIMATUM IS HORRID THING.

BUT LIMBO IS FAR WORSE.

...CLOSER...

I can feel it. I can feel you. It’s in your words and in the softness in your voice. I can feel you moving closer to me. I don’t know if you’re allowing yourself back in because the alternative solved nothing, or if, like me, you see that you cannot simply stop. I came to that conclusion nearly a week ago now. And I didn’t feel helpless or beaten by it - exactly the opposite. It was so sudden, this admission of being at the mercy of something so profound that actually gave me peace, a sense of calm and even strength. I love you. And that does not change because in a moment of panic and utter distress you needed to clear your head and step away. Even if you were still in that place, I would love you. I know that now. I know that I will love you until my very last breath. And even after, when I dissolve into the ether I will delight in the ‘I told you so’ moment in the afterlife. I cannot change this, nor do I want to. I will love you, always. I can be at peace with that on my own, and not look back nostalgically, but instead know that I carry this love with me every minute that passes day in and day out, year after year. This energy, this bond and this connection has a power beyond me and is staggering in its force. We have an energy, and energy does not just evaporate - it may change shape, but it is still there. 

I can hope that I can be yours again. But that is all I can do. I don’t feel anger in that, I don’t feel desperate or helpless. I don’t feel meek or needy. How could I? I have this love. I know you love me, but maybe you just don’t know what to do with it. I know I had become too much, and I’m almost ashamed of how I took advantage of your generosity - on so many levels and I hate that I did that to you. I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. 

I don’t find myself in a position of weakness. Not at all. I feel totally at peace. 

I love you, and that will never change.

Describe your event here. Integer vitae massa auctor, convallis massa porta, ornare est. Sed ac maximus ex. In turpis felis, suscipit sit amet dui non, ultrices ultrices nulla. Maecenas efficitur purus quis velit faucibus, sit amet convallis augue ullamcorper. Aenean ut ante mattis, tempor lacus at. Sed eu sapien non erat scelerisque tincidunt vel vel nisl. Duis et mauris velit. Cras eget dictum purus. Vestibulum nunc mi, elementum ac sodales nec, scelerisque sed nulla. Vivamus eleifend maximus nibh quis placerat. Interdum et malesuada fames ac ante ipsum primis in faucibus. Suspendisse sed dolor consectetur, tincidunt neque at, imperdiet ante.