I haven't written a long-form entry/essay/post in a while. Some of the following has been edited so much that it doesn't read like a coherent story, and that's fitting considering the circumstances. I don't think this quite done yet. I have no desire to name people, or timestamp any events. If it's confusing and vague then that's because it's meant to be/is.
~~~
"I would tell you to run away from the fire, but I don't think you'd listen."
We were laying on a strip of sand near the water. Difficult to find, he was patiently waiting, while I was lost and disoriented, hiking in the opposite direction of the Mississippi. Finally, I had found him. Families had congregated there, on the river, to board onto canoes and learn the history and geography of the area. Their voices carried across the water. The beach was cool and soft. Almost like dust. I dragged my fingers, like a rake, from my ankles to my hips.
I recoiled and laughed simultaneously. "Whatever it is, it's not finished"
I had just finished telling him about the previous weekend. How you had magically reappeared, after almost 18 months. You had invited me over, but I was out of state at a wedding. He gasped at certain parts, unable to contain his shock. Although you had never met, he knew the backstory, had known you were there that night, and asked me if I was OK when I told him I had seen you in the club.
I may have sounded confident, there on the beach, but internally I was unsure. Maybe that was the last conversation we would have, a late-night confession, a little dirty talk. A few reassuring, flattering words. An unfulfilled promise. You had fled, after all. I had no way of communicating. I was in the dark, again. I asked him what I should do. Do I wait it out, or be patient?
"Mercury is in retrograde, boo. You do whatever you need to do."
We joked that the world is on fire and nothing matters. Let's throw caution to the wind. We switched the topic to a celebrity who recently overdosed, how his mother was doing, where we should eat for dinner, how to get back, and find the trail that led the way to our cars.
~~~
"How's your dating life?" My therapist asked me last week. I shrugged. I looked at the tree outside the window like I always do when I can't think of what to say. In the summer, the leaves drown out the airplanes that fly over the nearby lake, but not by much. Those loud engines. It gives me an extra second to think of a reply.
"It's fine." I said. Nothing new to report. I drummed my fingers on the leather chair and shifted my eyes to the fidgets on the side table. I picked one up. A long clear tube with glittery blue goo that slowly moves from end to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Kerry has always been interested in this line of questioning. We have talked extensively about my divorce. How angry, jealous, and hurt I am/was with her. My vengeful fantasies. How I replay the same memories, scenarios, conversations in my head, wishing I could go back and change them. How I have to rebuild my life and relationships in order to heal.
I've been seeing her almost two years and she's the first therapist I haven't lied to. Well, not majorly lied to anyway. Though an obvious admission, there are things she knows about me that nobody else does. She's good at her job. Amazingly, so. I love her in a strange, maternal-like way. She raised her eyebrow, slightly, and didn't speak. A long silence.
Where do I even start with a story like this?
"Remember that love triangle I was in last winter?" Except it wasn't really equitable love and it wasn't really a triangle.
"How could I forget?" She says, half-serious, half-joking. It's like I couldn't avoid messy entangled relationships, especially ones where I ended up feeling discarded.
When this whole mess started, I had just started my sessions with her. When I began secretly, sneakily seeing you, she would have to continually ask me names and dates, and I would need to repeat the same details so she could understand. Because she was still getting to know me, and I was only seeing her twice a month, it was impossible to squeeze all the details in per session. There was so much to go over, and not enough time to sort it out. She wanted to backpedal, to discuss deeper trauma.
Sometimes, in order to process this trauma, I wear headphones and hold vibrating pieces of plastic in my hands. With my eyes closed, my brain begins, slowly, to re-process. EMDR sounds silly, but it works pretty well. There are some memories now that barely hurt. I don't feel it in my body. I'm not filled with tension anymore.
~~
Where do I start?
There was the first meeting, before I knew you, when I met her. At a summer wedding of a couple who are now divorced. They seemed so in love, didn't they? We sat side by side at the same table. I flirted as much as I could, knowing I had an obvious, glaring gold band on a finger, and my primary partner sitting on the other side of me. I think a proposition was made later that night, but I didn't witness it. I was too shy then. Nothing happened. But our bodies, weeks later, eventually fumbled in the dark, limbs and mouths and laughter, for a brief moment.
There was sporadic dates. Delayed communication. internet sleuthing that made me feel gross. I remember seeing your face, reading your name, and being jealous she got your time and attention. Even though I should have prioritized my spouse. Then, suddenly, she left, both figuratively and literally.
~~~
"Had you been drinking?" Kerry asks. Always wanting to rate my substance-use scale, I am quick to defend how little I had drank that night. Not much, I said. Yes, I had been drinking. I wasn't drunk. I didn't say anything I regretted. I was in control that night. Your first message sobered me up, fast.
After I told her what happened, she offered advice. She normalized my responses and reactions, and validated that whatever I chose to do next, she would support. Like I said, she's good.
"I've always thought you'd be a good partner. Not to say that you can't be single, because you've functioned so well without someone. But you're perceptive, nurturing, and kind. Some people can be intimidated by that level of compassion".
I'm not so sure. I'm too inward, too aloof, still too broken to care about anyone else.
"Thanks" I said. Monotone and slightly sarcastic. Still playing with the fidget and avoiding eye contact.
~~~
I remember the first time. A dinner party ten days after she had left the country. I was feeling numb in the most boring of ways. I was still living in the house we had shared, half-empty, half-packed into boxes. The memories, pictures, Christ, even the animals, were gone. I cried most nights, not knowing what to even focus my energy on. Everything hurt.
I showed up to your apartment with a bottle of wine. I don't remember if it was ever even opened. I met people but don't recall their names. I was still acutely aware of how broken I looked. After dinner, we all went out for drinks and dancing. I didn't stay long, and I didn't say goodbye to the group I came with. How very typical. I was on my way home, still sad but at least drunk, when you called me.
"Where did you go?"
It's funny, a line I would use on you, months from then, and now, to this day. I asked the driver to turn be back towards the city.
~~~
I remember how you withdrew from me after I told you that you were beautiful.
~~~
Last winter was sneaky and thrilling and it made me feel lovable for the first time in a long time and it ended abruptly. I felt guilt for being the Other Woman when I had been simultaneously cursing the girl, the child, the adolescent, who took my ex-wife away. Who seemingly showed no remorse. Who to this day has not apologized for any of it. How was I any better? How could I live with myself? I tried and tried and tried to rationalize it for months- that I didn't know the whole story, or even half the truth, that I was trying to help two broken people, that my intentions were only honorable, that the optics played a significant role, and it wasn't as bad as it looked. But it was bad no matter how you shake it.
~~~
Now I trace your silhouette in the dark. I only remember a few things. The slow creak of your apartment door, your big eyes, so sad and avoidant. Your voice, mumbled and distorted. Trying to translate what you meant over the sound of my thumping, confused and hallowed heart. Finding your fingers, clutched in mine.
I'm still reaching out, clumsily in the dark. What if I can't let you go?
I think you like me here, always asking, wondering, and unsure. By keeping me disoriented, I will crave any communication. You kept the lights off because if you had seen my face you wouldn't have wanted me to leave. You wouldn't have kicked me out of your bed. You told me my presence helped. I was concerned for your safety. Frankly, I still am.
~~~
I want to thank the neighbors who plant the milkweed. I keep seeing monarchs fly around the park, dozens of them landing and launching off the grass. On my worst days, I like to pretend I'm still in a cocoon, half-hibernating, half-growing. Always in a state of growth, not able to see what the future hold.
Someone once told me I was capable of weathering storms. I can't promise perfect skies, or ideal conditions, but the boat will make the journey. You won't drown with me on deck.
I'd like to write about anything other than this flimsy heart. This bruised organ. Losing it's shine, but still functional. My friend once said we each have our own justice system in our heads, and half the time we acquit ourselves, the other half we are our own self-executioners.
I have forgiven myself. I have forgiven the situation. I hope you can forgive yourself.
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