Deciding to reclaim your life

As summer comes to an end and events such as Hurricane Irene and random earthquakes mark moments that will forever be distinguished memories, I am left feeling a little untethered. I start the dialogue that summer has escaped me, that I’ve done nothing, but then my memory reminds me . . .

I live a life so many covet. If twitter followers are a mark of anything, in one week, moments, trips, meals and 6am cocktails are spent with “people” who cumulatively have over one million followers, and that’s just four of them. I laugh. I dance. I am proud of my business. My body. Grateful for my friends. But I float . . and I feel as if days pass and mean nothing. Perhaps, it’s that being single, now for an extended period, having a small company, and living away from my family leaves the life I live to be simply lonely. . . . but connection cannot be dependent on finding the one.

So here I am. Making a decision to reengage. With myself. And change my decisions. To start- instead of watching tv (mindless and unrewarding with the exception of the escape provided) I am writing. Thinking. Deciding to figure out how to use every moment to be more alive . . .

 

 

 

Dad’s advice regarding relationships

As I walked to my car, I sat, forehead in my hands, the door ajar. The rearview mirror reflected a glimpse of hollow eyes. Dry. Eyes that longed to be wet. Once again, there were no tears to be found—it seems these days there never are.

As I drove over the bridge I asked for them, pleaded, floodgates open, please. Unanswered. Surrounded only by a desert of emotions.

My father called. The father who has only become a figment of that role in the past year. And I shared, divulged the subconscious torment that was beginning to unveil itself to my conscious. On the surface my emotions remain unscathed, but a teardrop that crawled down my face upon hearing my mother’s name two weeks ago proved that the truth lies elsewhere. My shoulders have also become the physical manifestation of my repressed emotions. The pain so intense I forked over $180 last Wednesday for the only massage I could find at 8pm. The gift of our bodies.

Psychological pain syndromes are actually defense mechanisms designed to cover up sensitive or unresolved emotional issues. The subconscious mind feels that these issues are so threatening to the well being of the individual, that it will do anything to prevent the issues from becoming conscious. This process is called repression. When repression is not enough to guarantee that the painful issues will remain hidden, the subconscious will create psychosomatic symptoms to preoccupy the conscious thoughts of the individual. This conscious focus on the pain is a very effective means of making sure that repressed emotional issues remain well hidden.

This in combination with the sabotaging of my relationship Monday night had me convinced I was a psychological, repressed mess. I must figure out how to fix myself, again. Thoughts of seeing a therapist danced in my mind. I thought of S, his stability and my contrasting instability. The cards dictate that I am destined to be single.

I initially attracted S because I was in a stable period, inspired by a new project of my own making and in love with my life’s ability to grant me to time to enjoy my passions. We matched . . . temporarily. Now, I am complex, messed up, and a saboteur.

But then came my father’s words. Advice, a first. He told me, “It doesn’t matter how messed up you think you are—what matters is that you share who you are with that person. The person then has the ability to meet your needs or not. The right person will want to learn how.” Such a simple truth, one I have known but knowledge and application are not the equivalent. My father’s multiple dictations of the above allowed it to permeate, a calm overcame me. I stopped worrying about whether I fucked up. I emailed S with an explanation. I shared how I work. The outcome was not in my hands or tied to my actions. Relief.

This morning I felt something I never had. As if my father gifted me another leg on which to stand. I noted my solitary life and my limited internal reach of my emotions. I realized how precious speaking is. How vital support can be. It’s not something built in my life and often when I seek, my calls are returned unanswered. But, for now, I am stronger, balanced, and once again, myself. And my shoulders feel a hell of a lot better.

Rollercoaster

I have encountered an unfortunate recurring problem. With each extreme high, I dance. Enjoy. And then sink. Today I drove. Thinking of how grateful I am for my life. In disbelief. And now, I sit. Empty. Shake it. I say. S. Work. Dreams. Stress. Balance. Moments out of movies. And then a lull. Mundane. And disconnected.

Is this just me?

Tears. Are stuck inside. As i paid my bill to a meal that I couldn’t eat, I thought the floodgates would open upon leaving. For once  my face would be kissed with tears. I was wrong. I walked to the ocean. Stared into a darkness that was only interrupted by the saliva of the waves crashing. Fought the torment. The desire to numb. Feel the pain, I plead with myself. I question, what does that mean. 

I write as I fight the path of which offers comfort. A support that I can offer myself. Requires no one. It calls my name. yet, I have been so good. So proud. The consequences swirl insignificantly to the strength of the solace, my drug.

I fight. I try to write. I sit here, in torture. With this pain, this keyboard and words that are not flowing. Words that are not healing. The sadness stuck behind these veils that are eyes. The pain, this void is inexplicable. 

This morning my tear ducts were also activated, yet also not fully employed. But the catalyst was happiness. A fragment of a dream. A passion felt. A plan. It still breathes, but my heart is suffocated, constrained and I wonder how it continues to beat. I hurt.

I am on the brink of something that awakens me, the me that has long been asleep. So close to finding a feeling that I forgot how to feel. Passion. Yet within the same day, now I sit, hollow. Lonely. I think of the players in my life, the cast of which I write. I think of the texts that fill my phone. And the texts that escape it. I breathe, move and live with a void. The highs, the dreams, the excitements I have felt only emphasize that I am not whole. That there is no companion, family or friend with whom to share. That when i need, suddenly no one is there. 

 . . . And the pain that this is me. And it will be, always.

Holes

Why are evenings always my worst enemy? Trying to not succumb

Alone

The fallen flowers are hula hoops. A finger, come hither.  I should be dancing and swirling within. My hands (and  elation) should be in the air.

Yet, I am leaning against the taupe concrete, simply watching. The gray skies creating goosebumps. I had to come outside. I couldn’t breathe. Hollow. However, I met the death in the air.  There is no reprieve here. I pace. I stare at my reflection. I want to sit. Rest my head within my hands. Want to cry, but there are no tears, there never are.

We finally signed. The deal. The reason I stayed. I pressed forward and drafted my excitement. The to field taunted me. With each name I started to type, I pressed delete to each letter. There was no one.

No constant. No recipient for I already started building my cage. A cage to protect. Others.

But I am left ravenous. Craving a him to my her.  

 

 

I hope you don’t stay

I lay in my bed. Perpendicular. Every which way. My body, immobile. Unable to get up. It has returned. Clouds of indifference. A thick fog over motivation. I was asked about this unmentionable the other week. I happily noted, dormant. I suppose I said so too soon.

It has returned. With increasing attendance. The voice in my head to escape, a devil on my shoulder. I forgot how powerful he was. Its habits, seemed long removed. But, now they are here again. Sunday and Today. I dealt with the consequences. I fear that this voice will grow louder if I don’t stop it now. But, how?

Why am I so sad that I must escape? Why can’t I logically recall in those moments that the short escape has far worse consequences.

Addiction. It’s a curious thing. The fuel behind it is often not the chosen escape, be it drugs, alcohol, food, sex, etc. The addiction lies in the decision. The decision provides one with control, when life seems to be offering none. An addict is calmed before they reach their drug. Soothed by the option- the voice speaks and they imagine their acquiescence. The drug is support. Self-provided. You need not be vulnerable to someone else..

An ability to mute thoughts. Stand at the helm. 

Numb. Escape. Control. 

 

I think I would prefer tears.

Birthday Wisdom – We are human and we need.

So, I apologize for my very negative post regarding my birthday. I hate sounding so sad and depressing, yet I also believe in being real, and that post, with its four sentences, was very real.

I had celebrated the day before with a group of some friends. The day was complete with champagne and dancing but as the night came, nothing awaited me. Only the morning welcomed my newly 26 year old body and all I craved was some one on one time with a close friend, lunch a movie, anything . . . but, nothing.

As my lonely birthday progresed, I received a large number of birthday wishes including a record breaking number of posts on Facebook such as “Sweet baby Jesus a lot of people love you. One more raindrop for the overflowing bucket. Happy Birthday my dear.” The disparity between my virtual snapshot of my life and my cold reality was alarmingly ironic. No one would imagine what my actual day entailed.

And this contradiction turned me inward. I am wrong to think I am not loved, because I know, I am.
I am loved, indeed. But I have created a wall to truely loving me. Liking me is allowed.
And yes, no one can dispute that I am liked. But like doesn’t allow for favors or needs or wants. Like is convenient. Like is safe. Cabalitto is like. “Like” to the point he forgot it was my birthday and didn’t call. I allowed him into my life because of a perceived safety, and we found ourselves with unwelcomed emotions. We currently tiptoe around those that are susceptible and as a result, we have nothing.

I created this. I created a bubble around my life. I live in two places. You can’t need me. I cannot need you. Like me. I am here, but I am here without strings. Nothing to pull on should you need me. Nothing for me to grab when I am falling. 

My awareness of favors also sheds light on this. I say yes, I will pick you up at the airport, I will do this and/or that. Yet, I find it impossible to ask for the same. And when I do, the response is no. As such, I am exhuasted by the favors I perform.

As I move forward into this new age, this new year, this new life, I realize I need to allow vulnerability in all relationships, including frienships. Ask, give, love. Love deeply. Step out of the comfort zone of safety. Welcome the inevitable fights that close friendships bring.

We are human and we need.

The loneliness never really leaves.

 

The loneliness never really leaves.

Sometimes it subsides– but when you are a lonely being, its return is inevitable.

It is as if the void is a part of you.

When you have no constant, it is your constant. 

Temporary distractions exist, but this void has a permanent leak.

That of which fills it, always, eventually, seeps out.

I wonder if a plug exists. If I will ever find it. . . 

Or is this void just me?

Parte 1. Los Americanos de “If you want my body and you think I am sexy” . . . Don’t tell me!

A random weekend. One chock full of straightforwardness. It reminds me of the time I smiled at drop-dead handsome man at the gym, amazed at my candor. I had returned from PR and I suppose the sun-kissed me, was also a more confident and secure me. Fast forward to him insisting on getting to know me right then and there. Initially, over coffee, which progressed to us on my roof. I assumed it was to continue chatting . . . yet as he breathed into my neck, he told me he only had interest in getting to know me physically. A perfect arrangement. We would be monogamous sex-buddies. I walked away from Mr. Handsome . .

So, this weekend has left me wondering . . . why am I so incapable and/or uninterested in only physical relationships and where is it written on me that I am the perfect candidate for such? Is this normal? Surely, it is known that for women, the emotional aspects of sex are crucial. But, I also doubt that all women are as cold as I? And is it common for men to be so straightforward?
Shaker, a friend of my ex’s, randomly texted me on Friday night stating he was at the El San Juan Hotel with his buddy, Marriedwithababy. I was giddy with excitement. I felt as if a gift from New York was here to satisfy my longing for the city and friends.

2am He is kissing me. Telling me how he always felt a connection, about the unexplored passion between us. How much he always wanted to get to know me. How he was drawn to me . . . yet, I was the ex. “Timing is everything,” he said.

Quizzically, I look and I said, what happened to your girlfriend. Aware that Shaker finally had a girlfriend from his birthday I attended a few weeks ago. He was happy. He was no longer the single bachelor, the typical guy of New York. Now in front me, he tells me, “She is still around. Perhaps, she is the one. My life is lacking passion.”

Ok. Great Shaker. So come have a passion infused weekend with me and cement the fact you should break up with her? Why is this so common? The comforting stage of relationships. Your heart is already gone, but your unmentionables need to stay?

I have no respect and/or empathy for people who stay in relationships past their expiration.
I leave the El San Juan Hotel. Erasing the ink of the laid-out itinerary for tomorrow. I want to hang out with them. Want to fill my New York void. However, my body is stuck in bed the entire day. In the evening, I go to dinner. Conveniently, an hour late. I ask for a glass of wine. He raises an eyebrow, “no cocktail?” No, I immerse myself in conversation with one of the other gentlemen. I enjoy myself, but I realize perhaps I turned my corner of the table into a private date. My body turned away from Shaker, I wanted to make it clear that I was not his.

Shaker, Marriedwithababy and I go to drinks afterwards. I am enjoying myself. We are laughing-it’s not an awkward affair. The evening continues. Then, Shaker restarts his engines.

Shaker: Attainingme, kiss me.
Me: No. You have a girlfriend.
Shaker: But, you agree there is something between us.
Me: It’s irrelevant.

At this point, I believe there was a rant asking for confirmation that we could go on a proper date and he would have a real shot if he broke up with his girlfriend. At some point during the rant, I turned from the object of pursuit into the evening pimp. Amazed at his admitted transparency–how evident his pure goal of sex was.

I gave a full run down of the girls that would be found in the lobby of La Concha: Attractive. Fashionable. Champagne drinkers. La Placita: Younger. Beer. Return to college days. El San Juan Hotel. We both agree that logistically, with his room upstairs, that this is perhaps, the best bet. However, we took a detour to Divas, a strip club. It was unlike the clubs in New York. Only lightly littered with some overweight men. It was dead. Depressing. Shaker found a girl with a nice bottom. Took her upstairs. Marriedwithababy turns to me. Makes his proposal. What the fuck am I? Why, oh why men? Someone restore my faith.

Continued . . .