Back to it.

So I'm back in therapy - not intense like before, but a more laid back kind of supplemental therapy. This is an exercise my therapist assigned to me. It's a John Gray technique (the Men are from Mars guy), and she admitted it's a little cheesy, but she said she's seen it work in cases like my current one.


I'm very very angry with myself right now. I'm angry that I've made decisions I feel are not to my benefit. I believe I've been standing in my own way for a very very long time, making decisions based on accommodating others or following what others want to do, and not doing anything to help myself be where I wanted to be by the time I was 36. I'm angry that I came here for Justin. I'm angry that I lied to myself and convinced myself that I didn't do it for him. I'm angry that I spent so much time mourning the loss of my relationship with him, which was basically based on nothing because he gave me nothing. I'm angry that I doubled down on my decision to change my career because of my dissociation and lies to myself and others about my reasons for doing so - I'd justified it a lot, but really it was for him. I'm angry that I think so little of myself that the moment this man claimed he loved me I jumped at the chance to change everything I am for him.

I'm also really really disappointed in how this last year turned out. I'm disappointed that couldn't muscle Salty Running into a profitable business that can pay me a salary. I'm disappointed that I don't like web design as much as I thought I would and think I should. I'm disappointed that I got so little interest when I started applying for design jobs. I'm disappointed that I blew through so much money because I barely made any. I'm disappointed that I didn't make more or better friends here, and that it was so hard to find anyone I could relate to. And the big one: I'm disappointed in how things turned out with Justin. I'm so so so sad that he did not turn out to be the man I thought and hoped he was. I'm hurt because I feel like moving 3 hours away was not trying hard enough, but I know that it doesn't matter how hard I tried if he wasn't the right kind of person. I'm disappointed that we never even had a "real" relationship. I'm hurt that I spent so much time loving him and so much time mourning something I can't even really call a breakup. I'm disappointed that I didn't meet someone else. I'm disappointed that I'm almost 37 years old and I still don't know how to love someone who is good to me, or even how to see who isn't capable of being good to me. I'm disappointed that I have to go back to New York empty-handed and beg for a job. I'm disappointed that I chose a profession where I have to beg for jobs constantly. I'm disappointed that it took me so long to understand that I wasn't very good at my job, and even longer to forgive myself and just learn how to get better. I'm disappointed that I spent more time worrying about not having a boyfriend in New York and not nearly enough time worrying about being good to myself and making choices that would set me up for a better future. I'm disappointed that I didn't buy an apartment when I had the chance.

I'm afraid that I'll be alone forever, and never find a partner who treats me like I deserve good things. I'm afraid I'll always feel poor and that I won't be able to afford myself the opportunity to travel to places I want to go and to try new things. I'm afraid I'm a shitty camera assistant, and that I have no talent, and that my constant money struggles will prevent me from buying gear that could help me become a SteadiCam operator. I'm afraid I'll blow a lot of money on a SteadiCam only to A) find out that I'm a shitty steadicam operator and that I don't even want to do that anyway, or B) figure out that I didn't need to buy a bunch of gear when I could somehow specialize in remote head operating or studio operating. I'm also afraid that people who can/want to/are good at DPing (cinematography) will always be first pick for operating gigs and that someone like me who doesn't want to light and just wants to operate will constantly feel the struggle. The struggle. The struggle. I'm afraid of the struggle. I'm scared to go back to the struggle. I'm so tired of struggling. I'm afraid I'll never get to a place where I feel financially secure or romantically secure or emotionally secure or any kind of security whatsoever.

Also, and mostly, I'm afraid that I will go through this life without creating anything meaningful. I need to create something: write a script, write a book, make a documentary, something. It's always bubbling up inside me. I am terrified it will never surface because I am so consumed by the struggle.

I'm sorry that I always put the struggle first. I'm sorry that I don't trust myself more to take care of myself, and that I wind up paralyzed by that lack of trust instead of taking initiatives to create things. I'm sorry that I didn't move to Cincinnati to really really try with Justin so I could watch it really blow up in my face and really feel that it ended. I'm sorry that I didn't buy a house here, or before that, an apartment in New York. I'm sorry that any time I'm confronted with the need to take care of some kind of business for myself I get scared and play bubble spinner instead. I'm sorry I'm not better about keeping up with my bills.

Love , Forgiveness, Understanding, and Intention:

Confusing garble. Gargle. Garble.

 Copied from my phone. I think I wept these words into the dictation.

When you are great you are SO great. That's the Justin I missed. The one that makes me feel appreciated and respected and beautiful and strong. I love that man. I'm always gonna miss him. But I'm not gonna miss the guy that has treated me with very little respect. It's OK, I understand. I didn't really respect myself. I fucked up. I made decisions for the wrong reasons. Yes, I came here for my sister my family and my business but I also came here on the hope that you and I were going to be something  real. It was a stupid move. It was not something I did for my self. But I'm owning it and moving forward. What more can I do? I hope to hell I see that great guy again someday.

OK so I lied. You're not going to see me I again because I'm moving or whatever. I honestly have no idea where my life will take me next and that's very exciting and I'm happy about it. I wanted something real with you, and I thought you wanted that too, but You have made it more than clear that you don't want or can't do that. In spite of trying to stop I have not stopped wanting something real with you, but you have made it clear that on your end it's not going to happen. So I need to move on. I do not have time for this and I need to do better for myself

And in a moment of drunkenness, yes, I confess, I missed you. I wanted to see you. I wanted the feeling that I used to get before I moved here when you were so wonderful and treated me like I was something really special. But it's not going to happen for whatever reason, I don't know. Maybe you don't want to, maybe you aren't ready, maybe it's just that I get so upset when you treat me disrespectfully. I do not know. What I do know is that I need to move on, I need to do better for myself. I can't wait around and I'm not going to.

OK so maybe you don't care, but you know I can't leave anything unspoken... The real reason you won't see me again is not quite that I'm leaving, it's that I need to let go of you. I left New York on my own, but I came to Ohio for you. I was really sold on this idea that you wanted to be with me and have that house with the garden and the porch and the chickens and I came here, closer to you, hoping for that life. Almost as soon as I arrived it became obvious you don't want to or can't have that with me. I'm okay with that, and I'm also okay admitting I messed up by changing my life for you instead of doing what's best for me. And yes I miss you, but it doesn't mean I'll fuck you in a car after being ignored and pushed away, it means I really miss you. I miss talking to you and feeling like you were on my team and appreciated me. I miss hearing about your day and your little domestic fantasies and being the person you called when you needed someone--that's the man I want to fuck in a car or the woods or an alley next to a bar or in a walk in refrigerator. There's a Justin who stares at me like I'm the last woman on earth and makes fun of of my fretting and seriousness and can melt me with a word. I will always miss that Justin, he is wonderful and amazing and made me feel like I could handle anything. That part of you is like a drug for me...nobody has ever made me feel so wanted. But I've got to stop hoping there's love there. I can't see you. 

May First

There shouldn't have been a problem.

My friends were all going to Cincinnati. I knew there was a slight chance I'd see him, but I told myself I didn't care. And if I saw him I'd just be shouty and awful anyway, so what did it matter? And my friends would be there. And Mark. Thank Goodness for Mark, I can always rely on him to be there for me, except when we're drunk after the most amazing evening ever and he kisses me and confuses me and then turns around and dates someone who is essentially a ten years younger, less dark version of me. But that's Mark. Back to Cincinnati.

I ran a marathon there. My fifth marathon. It was, by all accounts, the most excruciating experience of my running life, and I've had some bad ones. I went into it expecting to bonk but hoping I'd pull it out in spite of food poisoning. I had a handful of spaghetti and a little spinach the night before, and it was so hot I couldn't swallow the Clif Shots or Jelly Bellies I'd brought. I bonked hard. Thank Goodness for Mike and Brad, who had run the relay and paced me from miles 5-18. I nearly quit twice with Mike, about 8 times with Brad. Somehow they talked me through and I finished in 4:04. Not my slowest time, but not great. I was miserable over it when all was said and done, but when I called my sister afterward from Mike's phone I discovered I had lost my phone and had to find it. They all went on to the hash party and I went on a quest.

After half an hour of searching, getting lifted over the fence by a very large-muscled security guard (the leg cramps were excruciating), crossing the finish line again, getting kicked out of the production motorhome, borrowing a phone from the announcer's assistant and calling my phone a dozen times, getting accosted by medical personnel in the chute because I 'looked cold,' I discovered that there was in fact a lost and found. When I told the lady "It's the one with the snail on it," my phone was produced in thirty seconds, my credit card and driver's license still inside. I breathed a sigh of relief and hobbled toward the parking garage to get my rental car.

By the time I got a coffee, got the car, changed my shoes and my shirt and figured out where the party was, I had forgotten all about where I was. I hobbled down a dirt path through some tall grass and emerged in a parking lot. Brad saw me and waved and I hobbled faster, eager to thank him for getting me through the worst part of the race. He is such a good friend, he lifts me up so high. He makes my heart feel bigger and stronger and happier. And as Brad rushed toward me beaming and my heart was growing, I noticed someone else walking toward me too, all in black. And my heart wasn't just growing anymore, it was fluttering. Adrenaline shot through my body, all my hair stood up. I was angry and elated and frightened and sure of myself all at once. I thought this must be what it feels like to be a warrior and see your enemy face to face.

It was him, of course. The Black Squirrel. I wondered if I would punch him when he got close enough. I wanted to. I hoped I looked good. He'd gained weight, but it looked good on him. He looked...older. Grown up, finally. He was still the sexiest man I'd ever seen. That swagger. He smiled and I could barely see Brad anymore. "What are you doing here?" he asked incredulously.

Thank god he did because otherwise I really might have punched him.

I smiled back easily. "Running a marathon. What are you doing here?"

I don't know what he said. His mouth moved. That velvet voice came out. I couldn't think. I wondered how long it would be before I cried. He was probably thinking I was pathetic for coming. He probably didn't want me anymore, or probably had a girlfriend or something. That last thought shook me awake and finally I turned fully to Brad. Thank you, Brad. You helped me so much. Words came out of my mouth and I was looking at Brad, but every cell in my body was pointing at Him. I registered that He was standing there awkwardly watching me. I didn't want it to be awful. I told him to give me a hug. It was the most awkward, uncomfortable hug I'd ever had with anyone, maybe because my body was telling me to melt into him and kiss him, but I was resisting so hard.

Then he disappeared.

I didn't even pretend to not be looking around everywhere for him. I had no idea where he went. I was disappointed. I figured all my fears had been true and just resumed the business of post-marathon partying. I slammed a beer, figuring if I got drunk maybe I'd forget. After two days of food poisoning and a marathon I wasn't hungry. I couldn't feel my stomach, because my body was still on high alert for him. I forced myself to nibble at things.

Some things happened, but the only calories in my body were from beer and I was drunk and giggly so I didn't really notice. I was happy my friends were so wonderful and glad to be with them, but it was bittersweet, tinged by the anger of having bombed another goal race. I felt like I won at failing. We drove somewhere. There was a parking lot. He wasn't there. There were some people. He wasn't there. I leaned on Mike and Stephanie, fighting the urge to climb back into the car and curl up in the backseat and cry for my failed effort and scream away my anger at myself for wishing he hadn't walked away from me. When was I going to learn?

I met some people. They were nice. There was a hot girl I sort of knew from Boston and she and I kept eyeballing each other, pretending not to be flirting in front of her boyfriend. The boys liked me. That's always fun. It started to make me feel better. There was a dark one, maybe a little older than me, with a wolfish smile. I pretended to have met him before, one of my favorite games to play. I decided I would have him. I just wanted someone to kiss me. I wanted someone to stare at me with complete frustration and say, "You're something else," and stop time by holding me tight and kissing my mouth there in front of everyone.

Then, as suddenly as he had disappeared, there he was, drunk and tackling one of the men. I didn't know where he'd come from. Then he was talking to a girl that seemed somehow familiar to me. She touched the thyme tattoo on his arm. I was overwhelmed with jealousy. He seemed to be ignoring me. I leaned on Mark. I wished Mark would kiss me again. I wished anyone would. I wished the ground would open up and I would fall into the hole, a failure at racing. An empty woman with an empty belly who could only feel empty thinking of the long list of men who had treated her like shit. A sorry version of my real self.

---

It was time to go, so I went. I quickly found myself unable to slowly jog, and thankfully Mark and Stephanie were walking too. We saw the familiar girl. She was nice. We talked with her and the man who was with her. We got lost. It was hot. We saw someone else. There was a phone call. We found the end. He wasn't there either, just two guys who said everyone was way behind us. I got a beer and tried not to feel so alone.

Then the bar was full. The dark one with the wolfy smile, the one I saw at the start, he was there and I played the next move in my game, "Oh you know, I was totally mistaken. You just look so familiar. Do you have a brother?" I felt very clever, and it was working; he liked me. The beer was working too, my friends were all there and I was talking to new people and I liked them and it was wonderful. We all went upstairs, and then He appeared in the crowd, ignoring me again. I decided I would be big and ignore him right back. I gravitated to the Boston girl, a little to distance myself from my friends and a little because I just liked her company and thought she was pretty and wanted to look at her close up some more. I leaned against the booth where she was sitting and chatted with her, waiting for things to begin.

Suddenly there He was right in front of me, so close that I thought he might kiss me. He mumbled, shy and cocky at the same time. He said there was an elephant in the room. I smiled. What elephant? I see no elephants here. He said "I know I was a dick to you and I'm sorry," and a bunch of other words. The velvet of his voice was clouding my head again, but I was entertained and impressed that he was taking the time and effort to apologize. He had changed his shirt into a ridiculous neon yellow thing, and he looked so rueful and serious that it was completely comical. I think I might have laughed at him. I think I told him I appreciated the apology. He grinned at me and said we were really good at kissing and asked me if I wanted to go make out. I was dumbstruck then, wondering in a tipsy haze how he was reading my mind and curious if he'd noticed me watching his lips. I couldn't help smiling and blurted, "Kind of...?" Oh boy. I recovered quickly though. "Maybe later, if you get me drunk enough," I told him with a thin pretense that he didn't have a chance. He didn't. Did he? I still wanted to punch him. I was proud of myself for handling it all so well.

More things happened. I heard his voice behind me. I had more beer, maybe in attempt to get myself drunk enough for him, I'm not sure. I was having fun. I liked these people. I felt at home and made myself at home and made jokes and teased them and pretended to be all offended when someone made fun of my hair, which was up in the classic cinnamon buns with little flowers.

He'd appear, he'd disappear. I wandered and chatted and had fun. I talked to Boston girl a lot and then my friend with the wolfish grin just to have another guy to talk to me. "He likes you," he said. "He's not the only one," I challenged with a grin and a flutter of my eyelashes. Moments later I was talking to someone different and out of the corner of my eye I saw the Black Squirrel gesture to him and say something. He looked at me and walked away.

I must have turned red, I was so enraged. What had he said? Did I just get cock blocked by an asshole who kept me on the backburner for 8 months three years ago? I stormed into the next room. I was so livid. I whined to Mike and Stephanie about it, skipping over the cock blocking bit, because I don't like it when my friends know what's going on in that department. "I'm fine though," I said. "Fuck him. He can go to hell." I was drunk and didn't want the beer anymore.

Then he walked by, saying to someone he was going downstairs for more beer and I handed him mine. When I called his name to get his attention, my insides wrenched, I could feel the blood draining from my face and all I wanted was for him to drop the bottle and wrap his arms around me. Our eyes met for just a moment before I looked away, trying so hard to pretend it was no big deal, that the moment of familiarity was a matter of casual recognition and not a matter of intense intimacy.

I do not remember how he wound up on the bench where I was leaning. I do not remember how I wound up a breath away from him but there he was, staring at my chest and biting his lip, teasing me and telling me I smelled terrible. We were talking about something, I don't know what. Catching up, maybe. What's the news? How have you been? I told him about my company. He said the name with recognition, as if he had been watching me. I got lost in his dark eyes. His voice was making me more drunk than the booze. Everything inside me was on high alert. I had to fight not to show how pleased I was at the way he was staring at me.

Somehow--I think he ordered me to sit down--I wound up sitting next to him on the bench. I was being magnanimous, "I'm so glad things are better for you. That's really great." "Oh stop!" he said, cutting through my bullshit. "Don't be like that." "Like what?" We bickered. It was fun. I teased him. He was being honest and I liked the feeling of reality between us, a feeling I'd always desperately wanted with him long ago but could never quite find. I told him, frankly, "I really liked you." "I really liked you," was his instant comeback. I think I smiled doubtfully at him. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my friends disapproving and ignored them. They'd never seen me like this with someone - it was like a bubble had formed around the two of us and we were all alone sitting next to one another on this bench, not touching, but nonetheless intertwined.

Then some older guy came in and, making a show of being funny, squeezed his way between us, interrupting our conversation. I could tell it was some kind of move to split us apart, and from the way he talked, I sensed it was for my benefit. I could have screamed. He obviously didn't know there was history between us, but still, the notion that it was any of his business was offensive to me. Still, thinking about it now, it probably looked pretty intense, and maybe he was just trying to lighten things up.

I excused myself and went downstairs to the ladies room. Maybe Black Squirrel went to get another beer. Somehow though, minutes later there he was next to me again, telling me to kiss him. "Not here," I hissed, glancing around at the crowd around us. He rose and walked four feet away to a corner that was just as public. He leaned against the wall and even though my marathon legs felt like rubber I floated to him like a piece of metal to a magnet and then our lips touched and I braced myself with a hand on his chest because, just like the first time we kissed it felt like a tornado was ripping through the room, through me, throwing everything I knew about the world into a spinning whirlwind that made no sense.

And then half a second later as my mouth opened to him and I tasted him and felt his lips and his tongue on mine time screeched to a halt in the eye of that tornado. My spinning whirlwind of a life fell to the floor and I knew what was real for me. Him. He was real. Him and me. This was a truth I'd been denying for so long: I loved this man. I had loved him since the moment he'd looked at me in a bar three years earlier with his hair still wet from rain and said "You're something else." I knew I'd follow him to the ends of the earth, that my love for him was bigger than any force in my life, that every relationship I had up to that point had been preparation for this. And more, I knew he loved me too. I didn't believe that he wanted to, and I knew that I didn't want to, but that's just the way it was. Even for me, a woman who doesn't believe in fate, it was as clear as an Alpine lake that we were meant to be together. I belonged here, in his arms, kissing and touching and murmuring to one another.

He groped at my hips, my ass, my breasts, and I hissed at him to stop. He said something. I wasn't drunk on beer anymore, but I was nearly dizzy, drunk on him. Maybe it was that I hadn't had more than a handful of solid food in three days. We bickered through the kissing. I don't remember what I said, but something made him suddenly pull back as if lightning had struck and stammered, "Did you ... were you ... in ... love ... with me?"

That was it. I was already fighting tears because of the shit day I was having and the horrible realization that I still loved him, but now I couldn't hold them back. I felt them falling down my cheeks. "Can we go outside?" I didn't want to cry in front of people.

He sprang away from me and down the steps eagerly, leaving me in his wake. Without him there to dull the pain, my legs wobbled as the feeling came back. I pointedly ignored the stares of my friends, but Stephanie asked if we could go soon. They wanted to eat. "Soon, sure." I muttered. I saw Rachel look at Eric, the only one who had seen me with the Black Squirrel before. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

I grabbed on hard to the railing to keep myself upright as I took each stair one by one. I saw him downstairs flitting outside. He was bouncing, excited ... did he think ...? What did he think? Was he feeling like he'd won? I sure was feeling defeated.

---

I hobbled outside the bar and snapped at him for leaving me behind. He was giddy and ignored it. What was up with him? Why was he so happy? "You're the worst!" I shouted. "You're the worst!" he shot back, grinning. "How dare you?" I cried, "You're asking all the wrong questions!"

"Maybe I'm asking all the right questions!"

I had nothing to say. I think I told him to shut up. I think I collapsed into his chest. I might have told him I hated him. Then there was his mouth on mine and there it was ... the time standing still thing. "We were together for what, a couple months?" He asked. "That?" I scoffed, "That was not 'together.' We were never 'together.' We were were the thing that never started and never finished."

He murmured something about how good it was in spite of that and pressed me against the bricks to kiss me again. He put my hand on his cock and I could feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment and rage - we were in public, outside a bar, with people's houses across the wide street - but I wrapped my fingers around it anyway. I'd forgotten how big it was. I glanced around frantically trying to think of where we could go so I could have it inside of me.

We argued more. He wanted to fuck me. This wasn't the right time though, I was sore and stiff and my friends were trying to flag me down and get me to leave. "Take me home then," I said. "There's no room at the house where I'm staying." He growled. "I don't live here." "What? Where do you live now?" "Indianapolis. I'm crashing on someone's couch." I groaned. But then I remembered I had a perfect reason to go to Indianapolis. I told him I'd come see him, just to talk. Yeah, that's it. Just talking. Ha. My only thought was how I could have sex with him, and I knew there was no way my body could handle it on this day. And I had to fly out at six in the morning. He balked and I think I cried. He said something about never seeing me again.

I had been thinking about it for months and exploring my options, but suddenly I knew it was true so I just blurted out: "I'm leaving New York." It wasn't about him, I certainly wasn't leaving for him, and it was already half decided, but there in that moment of clarity I realized that New York was just a place I lived that took too much from me and offered very little in return.

"You are?" he asked quickly. The hint of desperation in his voice left me confused. "Where are you going?" "Cleveland." "When?" "Soon. My lease is up in a month."

 He walked to the other side of the brick wall. The empty feeling overtook my chest again. It was over. He was going to send me away. It was for the best; I could see my friends in the doorway, pretending not to watch, but hovering. They wanted to leave.

"I have to go," I said. I figured I'd beat him to the punch and save some face.

He turned and leveled his dark eyes at me. "Come here."

I stared at him, frowning, fretting, and the fifteen feet between us felt like miles. I wanted to be right. I wanted to win. I wanted to walk away from him, my head held high in victory. But winning would mean walking away from him forever, and I was afraid that meant I would never have the feeling of perfect belonging again from the eye of the tornado. I wished he'd say, 'yes, come see me.' or 'let me take you somewhere now,' or even just 'please.'

"Kyle, I'm not asking," He said firmly. "Come here."

The wind was knocked out of me and every muscle between my legs clenched tight. He said my name! And what's more, he was telling me he wanted me. We'd played this game a little back when, but he hadn't ever given me an order before, not like this. In just those two words, he said he remembered what I like, and that he liked it too, and that he wanted me to belong to him.

I could barely stand, but I walked to him, my skin humming with need. My heartbeats felt like they were shaking my entire body.

"Now kiss me." I obeyed and there it was again, the eye of the storm. Every worry I had wilted away. I was whole here with him. He wanted me, and I wanted to belong to him and that was all that mattered.

His hand fumbled to push my shorts aside, which brought me back to the present; we were on a public street next to a bar. I sensed the oglers behind me. I didn't wholly care, but I laughed and pushed his hand away anyway. "I have to go!" I giggled. "Look," he said, his arms locked around my waist, "if you and I dated it would be a disaster." I wondered where he'd even gotten the idea. I certainly hadn't brought it up, and for me it wasn't even really on the table. I hadn't thought he was capable or interested in anything serious, I just wanted to take a vacation and fuck his brains out. "We'd be together for six months and then I'd do something to fuck it up and it would be over."

I thought about that. It didn't sound so bad if I got to spend the six months having sex with him. "I don't know, it kind of seems worth it..." I mused. I wondered if I was still drunk, or if I just really needed to get laid. This didn't sound like me. No, it sounded like Funny Me. Yeah, it was Funny Me coming out because I was exhausted and had just run a marathon and hadn't eaten all day and I was tired of arguing with him so there was Funny Me cracking a half joke. I laughed at it and explained, "It's not like that. It's not that big a deal for me to take a trip. I fly around all the time to cover races." I could schmooze with the people at USATF, I reasoned. I pawed at him, wanting another kiss, but too exhausted to make a valiant effort.

My friends interrupted us. They wanted to leave. Great, the car was over there, here are the keys. I turned back to him and suddenly everything was falling apart. He seemed angry and frustrated. I was so tired and needed to eat. My friends were asking me to come with them. I asked him to come too. Then what? I didn't know. He was ebbing away. I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. Let's just see each other and we can talk about things then, I begged. Then he was leaving. I didn't want him to go but there he was, walking away. "Come with me," he said. "Now or never."

I wanted to go after him, but my legs wouldn't work. "I can't," I choked through the first sob.

He crossed the street and kept walking. He didn't turn back. I wanted to call after him and explain that literally, my legs would not work, but no. No ultimatums. I do not do ultimatums. I made the choice to let him go.

I gasped for air. I could feel the heat in my cheeks and I was so overwhelmed with hunger and my legs suddenly felt the weight of the 30 miles I'd put on them that day and my skin was suddenly on fire from my sunburn and my heart fell out on the sidewalk, I wasn't sure where, probably somewhere between my running shoes. I sobbed the same heaving, full-bodied sob that I had after he told me he was leaving New York.

I turned around and there was Mark to catch me. "He broke me!" I choked. "I'm so broken and it's all his fault!" I cried so hard and so long, Mark's big hands rubbing my back as he crushed me close and told me it would be alright. Relief. I was crying with relief that the hard part was over. I had made the right choice by letting him go, and I knew it.

I don't even remember what happened after. They put me in the car. Mark held me close. I was so embarrassed. They took me somewhere, to a restaurant. I buried my misery deep under a veneer of positivity. Hungry for the first time in three days, I ordered half the menu and was full after three bites, but I felt better. I felt some clarity.

With Mark's uncharacteristically tender guidance, I decided to make my offer one last time.  I wrote him a note, "I meant what I said. I want to see you and spend some time and talk about things, but I need you to come to me. I need you to make the decision whether you want to make it happen." Off it went through my phone and into the ether, and I sighed with no trace of surprise when no reply had come by the end of dinner. I figured that was it.

An hour later, my phone lit up.

He went away

Just like that, he was gone. I was standing on a road in Red Hook, covered in sweat and my skin burning under a cloudless afternoon sky. I stared at my phone, my heart having dropped somewhere, laying on the sidewalk between my running shoes, maybe. He was leaving. It was over.

It had been all summer, and I had used any and every excuse to keep in touch with him all along the spectrum of passion, and just today I had hated him. I hadn't slept with anyone else, and the fucker gave me a case of HPV that ended up turning into precancer. I was pissed, convinced he'd given it to me from sleeping around with whoever and not giving two shits about me when he was all I'd been able to think about for months. I yelled at him, pretending there was no way I could have gotten the HPV from the Crocodile before he'd gone off his meds and held a knife to my throat.

I intended to yell more. Then he said he was leaving New York for good. Something about his mother. He hated it here. Then my heart fell out and suddenly I was standing there in the sun, the conversation having ended minutes ago without me knowing how or why. I was parched. I wanted to lie down right where I was, on the dusty sidewalk in front of wherever I was. It was over.

Then Josh moved out. He had moved in just six weeks before, after a several month tour of Europe and Africa, the two of us sitting in bars and crying in our beers about how useless it was to meet the person you're meant to love if that person doesn't want you back. Just six weeks and now he was leaving, right when I needed a friend to cry with. I felt like he was cutting our friendship apart with a knife.

Two weeks later, I forgot my best friend's birthday while she spent it taking care of me after the surgery to remove the precancerous cells from my cervix. I was lying on my couch with my head in her lap when my landlord called me and told me he was selling the building. I didn't remember it was her birthday until the next day, when she had gone back to Long Island.

I think I stared at the cats wondering if one of them was going to die.

Then I looked in the mirror and wished I would die.

I wished the Crocodile had cut my throat. I imagined the blood all over the floor in the foyer, seeping under the door. I imagined the police kicking the door open to find it slamming into my lifeless body, my purse still slung over the arm. I imagined them finding him in the bedroom, overdosed on whatever the fuck he was on, and finding the three bottles of untaken antipsychotics and looking for my ID in my purse. I wondered how they would find my mother's phone number.

I spent much of the next few months feeling sorry for myself that I was still alive, but I got a therapist. I knew I needed a therapist. I felt insane. I felt like everything was crumbling around me, and my home was once again going to be taken away. She didn't even know where to begin, my intake took three sessions and my problems, while not dire, all rooted back to this one thing: loss. Coping with loss. Regret of loss. Fear of loss. Worthlessness from loss. Emptiness from loss. Anger from loss.

Thanks, Dad. Thanks a lot.

I keep running back to that road in Red Hook. I go to the track just to turn around and run over that pavement in the sun and bring myself back to the moment my phone rang. I check it. I see that it's him. I don't answer. Even if I hate him, I don't want him to be gone.

First Date, of Sorts.

Later that night I was having a great time with my new friend at her birthday party, who I'd met while pacing a training group for the Brooklyn Half.  We got along smashingly and I was particularly glad to have something going on this evening; an excuse to be out already and dressed up.  I was wearing a simple black American Apparel dress, but it fits me like a glove and shows off my curves just right.

He texted, asking if he could join us.  I honestly had not expected to hear from him in spite of that kiss, still burning on my brain like a fresh brand.

I was leaning over the bar, trying to get the bartender's attention, when I heard his voice in my right ear, so close I could feel his breath in my hair. "Hi."  I must have looked like an idiot when I turned to face him.  He had been good-looking before in half-soaked running gear, but now, showered and combed and dressed in well-fitting black clothes he was gorgeous.  And that voice hummed through my head even after one word.  I must have said something, but don't remember talking. I just remember staring and feeling the knot in my stomach tighten every time I heard his velvety voice.

Birthday Girl's friends decided to leave.  She, however, stayed behind, wasted and having a great time talking with us.  I could tell she thought he was cute, and was testing the waters of whether he was interested in me or not.  I couldn't tell either; he made no show of affection, no move at all.  He entertained her, which seemed to entertain himself, and the three of us had some fun, relaxing conversation.  When finally she decided to go home (maybe he gave some signal behind my back? Maybe she just got bored that he wasn't flirting back with her? I don't know) I offered to walk her, but she kept saying No, no, no.  She only lived half a block away.  Inside I breathed a sigh of relief. All I wanted was him.

The moment she was out of sight he grabbed my hands and pulled me to him for a deep kiss, deeper than the first one.  "I've been wanting to do that all night," he muttered.  I wanted to do nothing else.  I wanted to pack him off to my apartment right then.  I also wanted to have fun.

I knew a great place a couple blocks away and we decided to go, stopping every hundred yards or so to make out.  He kept saying it, "You're something else, do you know that?"  It was like he knew it was the key to getting me undressed. And it was working; all I wanted to do was find out what was under those black jeans.  I loved the way he crushed me to his chest and I wanted to feel him hold me like that in bed and wake up with those dark eyes.  I must have brought up sex, or must have vocally tried to convince myself that I couldn't give it up so soon, because he also kept saying "You're worth waiting for."  "All I want to do is lay in bed with you and hold you."  "You are something really special."  Of course, this was all between kisses and while his hands glided over my dress, tugging at it in what seemed an involuntary action.

We made it to our destination, which was closed.  Across the street, however, two Jamaican guys stood outside what was clearly an underground party.  I stopped to talk to them; I don't remember why.  I think I was mildly curious if we could get into the party for free and if they had anything delicious to eat in there, as those parties often do.  Normally I'd never have bothered, but with him there I wanted to show off a little, and my confidence was through the roof.  He was clearly impressed with my social butterfly capabilities and chatted up the Jamaican dudes alongside me, but ultimately thirty bucks apiece was way too much.  We started back toward Franklin Avenue.

On the way we saw some twenty-somethings hanging out on a stoop; clearly there was a house party.  I was in rare form, and this opportunity to show off my (ahem) adventurous spirit was like mana raining down from above. I had to stifle my excitement. "Ohhh! Let's go crash it!"  He laughed and followed my lead as I nonchalantly greeted the smokers on the porch.  "Hey, how's it going!  Which apartment is it?"  Effortlessly, we were buzzed in and greeted on the third floor by other people who didn't know our hosts.  It was a smaller party, only about twenty-five people, but it was simple to grab a beer out of the fridge and mingle.  I decided to divide and conquer, partly to see if he could float and partly because I was curious if anyone there was worth a second meet.  I had a nice time talking to a couple of different characters, but my mind was racing too fast to pay them much attention.

In the bathroom I checked my makeup and wondered why it had been so long since I'd seen this side of myself.  I couldn't remember the last time I felt so easy and free and excitable.

When I returned to the kitchen I found him finishing up a conversation with some girl.  He turned to me and I teased him about her.  He teased right back, saying she was cute.  "That's too bad," I said, "'Cause I was gonna invite you to hang out with me in the living room.  There's nobody in there…"

He lost his cool with one gulp.  "Really?"  I grinned and sauntered down the long hallway toward the back of the apartment, where the dimly lit living room was empty.  He sat on the couch and I climbed onto his lap, unable to keep myself from kissing him feverishly.  I remember muttering "I want you right now."  I remember his hands on my waist.  I remember the way he looked at me like he had never seen a woman before.  And then there was a noise behind us, and I leapt out of his lap and was sitting next to him in one movement, giggling sheepishly at the girl who had discovered us.  We made some polite conversation with her and the other two people who invaded our empty den and then ditched back to the kitchen, where we met the very drunk hostess.  People were rounding up to leave, and suddenly the mantra became, "We're all going to Franklin Park."

We went to Franklin Park.  I remember we walked there with a group of these people, but I don't think I talked to any of them. I don't even think I talked to him; I think I just held his hand and let him drag me along.

At Franklin park my old friend Big O was manning the door, as he has done for the last three years I've known him. We played catch up for a little moment, more opportunity to show my date how social and likable I am, and then went into the crowded bar.  It was horrible. The music was horrible, the clientele was horrible, and god knows what had happened to the people from the party.  He was at the bar ordering two beers, and I could tell he hated the place as much as I did.  I was drunk and didn't want the beer, but politely sipped anyway, laughing into his ear about the horrible horrible horrible bar we were in.  Once I got him to laugh about it I grabbed his hands and started dancing.

Time slowed for a minute.  The rest of the world seemed to disappear, and it was just him and me and whatever pop music nightmare was playing.  He was looking at me like… It's scary to say, but he was looking at me like he loved me.  I felt so safe with him, and so appreciated, and so happy.  I felt like I never wanted to be apart from him again.  I felt, for a moment, like if I wished hard enough time would stop completely and I could always have him there to ask "God, what are you?" and kiss me and hold me.  I was drunk, but it wasn't totally the alcohol. It was him.  He was something else.  He was special.

It was the haze of that moment that caused my mistake.  He broke the silence by repeating what he'd said earlier: "All I want to do right now is lay in bed with you and hold you and fall asleep with you."  I stretched up to kiss him again, then said into his ear, as quietly as I could manage in the loud crush of people around me, "Take me home."

I had purposefully left my room a total pigsty.  So when he asked where I lived I said, "No, take me to your home."  At least that would keep him off my turf, and he wouldn't get to see all of my life on display.  I had purposefully not shaved my legs.  I had purposefully not brought a toothbrush or a condom.  I had told myself over and over and over that I would do everything possible to not have sex with this man tonight, no matter how much I wanted him.  I haven't done the first date thing in years and I shouldn't start now.  I doubled back in my mind.  Somehow, in my brain, I was still going to hold out, and he would lay in his bed with me and hold me and we would fall asleep. I told him that's all we could do and he said yes, that's what he wanted.

Come on. Really?

We hopped into a cab and I buried my face in his shoulder. "You're really good at that nuzzling thing," he said, kissing my hair.  Once we got out of the car he became visibly nervous, and I realized that he was probably shy about his apartment; we all are.  I hugged his waist from behind while he unlocked the front door and said, "Whatever you're nervous about, don't be.  This is New York. We all have weird living situations."  He breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door to a normal, boring apartment, obviously shared by men due to the size of the TV, the smell of stale pot smoke and the giant hookah on the coffee table.  He took me to a tiny room with no windows and a twin bed.  It was fine.  I didn't care, I was just happy to be there with him.

Somehow my underwear came off and he had his face buried in my thighs.  He made it, but I knew I was too nervous for the payoff, and this was already more than my deluded mind had been prepared for, so I pulled him onto the bed with me, his hands tugging my dress down and mine tugging it back up.  I bit his neck. "Ahh!" He hissed, "Stop."

I stopped with a rueful smile. "Okay…" Then, after a beat I looked at him curiously and added, "I do what I'm told."

He shuddered and groaned and stood up.  He took a deep breath, shook his head, and leaned down, his face close to mine.  "I'm going to step away to the bathroom.  When I come back the rest of your clothes had better be off, or I'm kicking you out."

He shut the door behind him and I panicked.  I had an out.  I could go.  I knew I should, but I wanted him, and I felt safe here in this little cave of a room.  And I know--god do I know--what it feels like to be confronted by a man who is not going to treat me right, and this was something…something else.  I trusted him.  I knew I shouldn't trust him so soon, and I knew that if I stayed he might think I was some kind of slut.  I knew I should go.  I thought about it.  Hard.  And while I thought about it, I realized I had slipped out of my dress and taken off my bra and when he came back I was kneeling on the bed completely naked and terrified.

The sex was four in the morning sex.  It was post-drunk sex.  It was fumbling and awkward and too-well-lit and self-conscious, but somehow it was amazing just the same.  He said all the right words, and put a hand around my throat and taught me how he likes me to touch him there and how he likes when I whimper his name, and it felt right.  But he didn't come.  I didn't come.  He pulled me to his chest and we slept.  In the darkness later that morning he woke me and we tried again.  This time was better, more natural, less forced.  I showed him my favorite tricks and they turned out to be his favorite too.  He was anxious, like me.  He had a hard time relaxing, like me.  He tasted good.  I wanted more.

We slept in the dark cave of a room until 11.  I woke up feeling like I'd done something wrong.  I was already panicking and worried I'd never see him again.  I gathered up my stuff.  "Are you leaving me?" He asked.  It sounded so casual.  "Yeah."  I was all business.  "You have to go to work and I have things to do."  I kissed him and lingered, thinking he'd get up with me, but he didn't make a move.

I got up methodically, grabbed my purse and walked out of his bedroom, out of the apartment and strolled the 1.2 miles home, trying hard to convince myself everything would be fine.

Dark and Lovely

I am opening my diary today.

I've come back to gush. This blog started as a chronicle of my new life in New York City and how I made my way, and somewhere along the way it turned into a chronicle of my search for love in this great and terrible town.

So. In light of that, a story. I want to remember all this.

On May 11, I attended a run with my weird running club. It was our Annual General Meeting and I arrived late, expecting just to meet everyone at the bar at the end, but instead was sent out onto the trail to await the pack in the pouring rain and offer them libations under a Jimmy Choo awning in the West Village. The rain fell so hard the trail washed away, and only five made it.

Back at the bar, I put on my finest, silliest club attire, a cream-colored blazer with multicolored stripes, half covered in patches, and my red plaid kilt. I felt, this being a big event, it was important to represent well. I was, however, about the only one who took this approach. Nonetheless it caught someone's attention.

My friend D.I. caught my attention; he was standing with a tall, slim, attractive, dark-haired and dark-eyed fellow I didn't recognize. Because D is gay, I wondered sort of, if they were together, but my speculation was quickly disproven by a joke the stranger made. We were introduced using our nicknames. I learned he was a transplant, from Ohio. Hey, I'm from Ohio. He was from Cincinnati. I'm familiar a little; I went to Wright State for a while. Hey, he went to Wright State for a while. Hey, we both dropped out and went to other schools. He went a couple years after I left though; he was six years younger than me.

Six years. Hrmph, I thought. There goes that. Oh well, always good to have a new friend in the crowd. I liked this guy; he was funny and smart, and I could tell he's one of the good ones, that he'd make our running club a better place.

The circle came and went. He was made to drink once, with C.O. and I noticed her hand on is ass, feeling my stomach turn in a knot of jealousy. But I let it go. He was too young for me. He attempted to make a great joke, which fell flat on the ears of NYCers; he's used to elsewhere, to chapters of our club that are not quite so buttoned-up. He got all huffy about it after the circle, complaining to me that this was supposed to be a place where people could be themselves, and I agreed. I tried as hard as I could to soothe him, knowing he was one of the good ones because he felt this way, and wanting, as I always do, to keep the good ones coming back.  "God…" He sighed at me, looking frustrated, shaking his head.  "You're something else."

He kissed me.

My heart fell out of my chest. I couldn't breathe. I put my arms around his neck to keep from falling over. It was…I've never been kissed like that before. I've never seen stars the way I saw stars. I think I might have moaned audibly. When he pulled away, I was sure I had dreamed it. I realized he had kissed me in front of all my friends, and that there was not a single person who hadn't noticed. This doesn't happen to me. I am not that girl.

He had to go, but asked what I was doing later. I had a friend's party. He had plans, but wanted to meet me after. Yes.

He put my number in his phone and texted me: "I want to rip your clothes off right now!"

I laughed and texted him back: "My Nerd Name is Kyle."

Kyle? That was his middle name.

Oh jesus.