Letting go of love

I can lie to myself as I twist the story in my mind, exploiting the ambiguity of the details. I can’t lie to the pages anymore. It feels wrong, like my fingertips are betraying my heart and my mind, just like my heart betrayed my mind in it’s blatant denial of all logic.

It’s been noted on multiple occasions that I’m not good at everyday things. I have no common sense, I’m impulsive, I’m clumsy, I ramble, tangle sentences, I forget things, I’m lazy, always too early and relentlessly unforgiving towards myself.

Perhaps my greatest downfall is my abstract mind; repeatedly a traitor, leading me astray. I’m always falling into the traps set by my clumsy heart.

I loved you. I can say that in the past tense because in the moment it was love as I knew it. My definition of love is malleable, forever changing in the midst of my experience and introspection but in the moments of knowing you, it was love to the best of my knowledge. It was the truest form of love that I have to offer.

It was love because a weight lifted in your presence. I was lighter than air, my filter evaporated and I was liberated. I couldn’t think straight but I was free and I didn’t care because freedom was infinitely better than the suffocating in the haze of my thoughts.

I let myself believe for a moment too long that you could feel the same. Not that you did, that you could and that was enough to send me over the edge into a void where my sanity was detached and I was an endless stream of thoughts and emotions that came in waves but never saw pauses or endings.

Maybe was my demise. There was no black or white. I was stuck in the grey, the mid tones that formed the overall picture. If I cropped it just so they showed me the picture I wanted to see. A picture where you wanted me as I’d wanted you; caught up in a balancing act of restraint where neither of us could move in fear of toppling the whole structure.

For so long, you were my everything, my inspiration, the force that drove me further in my everyday pursuits. All of the potential energy locked up in an ‘us’ daring to be released. I could write about you for hours on end, I could play music that made my heart shiver, I could make art that made sense of the moment. It was driving me mad but I fell in love with the madness. The curse and I formed a symbiotic relationship as we grew to a formidable size. I was unstoppable.

I wanted to be for you what you were to me. I wanted to inspire you, be your passion because I forgot I was cursed. I thought I owed it to you to in return. The universe does not work in terms of equal exchange though and I am infinitely grateful for that.

I’m not over you yet, because it’s hard and the curse is so intricately tangled into my being that I can’t be rid of it without destroying myself a little in the process. I’m afraid, after being overwhelmed with such passion that I might never love again in the same way. I’m afraid it’ll always be you, and every lover I have will fall short.

How could they possibly live up to what we could’ve been? But that’s all we ever were… a maybe. A possibility, a theory, an alternate universe.

I thought I was never going to be okay again. Thought I’d never think with clarity again because everything reminded me of you, no matter how distantly linked there was always something.

Now it’s a  quiet night, I’m all alone, I’ve got a cozy hoody on and I look up at the sky. I’m mesmerized by it’s beauty and my own insignificance in it’s wake. I stand there, minutes slip. I don’t want to leave because in this moment I’ve realized that I’m not afraid of the dark anymore. The maybes that might lurk in the dark can’t touch me whilst they hide in the shadows. Schrödinger’s cat can’t pounce whilst it’s still in the box. It’s heads and tails until the coin drops. It’s in this moment that I realize that love can’t flourish in the realm of perhaps. The possibilities and mysteries of you and I are endless. But that’s all they are, possibilities. That’s all they’ll ever be. Anything and everything is possible until proven impossible, but I can’t waste my life chasing the limit of possibility.

I won’t waste my life chasing love. Not a love like that. 

To those I've casually dated:

I would ask how it’s going, but I already know. I know because I’m not afraid to look you up, or say hi, or meet you for drinks. I know because keeping up with you doesn’t torment me. I’m glad to know you’re doing well; I’m glad you’re there to retweet my tweets. I’m glad we never made it to the point of no return. I'm glad that even when we did, we managed to circle back to civility and friendship.

What we had wasn’t epic, and it certainly wasn’t eternal – but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t special. We swapped stories and spit; most times, we shared more than that. Beds. Meals. Toothbrushes. Homes. We met each other’s friends, and sometimes even each other’s families. That was good enough, wasn’t it? Great, even. We devoured each other’s details; we ate up the minutiae like every date was Christmas. My mind felt more full when I left you; it was overflowing with wonder. You never gave yourself away and I’d think, “As it should be.”

Of course, it was far from perfect. You’d hurt me once in a while; maybe you’d neglect my birthday or our rendezvous would become infrequent; then nonexistent. We became too indifferent to argue about anything. I wanted to hate you, but I’d have to love you first – and maybe I never quite got there, did I? What a relief.

Don’t get me wrong. I considered it in the most casual way possible. I really Liked You. But saying, “I Love You,” and meaning it, that’s heavy. We were too fun for that. We Liked Each Other Too Much. Seems silly, seems almost childish, but we couldn’t love each other because we liked each other. ‘Like’ is a pompom, it’s a firework. It’s celebratory and exciting. But love? Love is a tattoo. Love is a 16-car pileup. Love is a scar. Permanent; crippling; ugly.

We never made it there, but that’s okay. We made it to other places. We made it to the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Dallas, but never to our final plans in Chicago. We made it to my bedroom, where you made me watch Pawn Stars for the first time. We made it to unmarked bars, to outdoor campfires by the lake, to the beach. We made it to the underside of bridges. We played poker, we played phone tag. We made out in the rain and in the middle of sidewalks for so long that it went from clichéd to avant-garde and then back again. We got kicked out of places together; we got locked out of places together. That certainly counts for something.

You taught me what People I Loved couldn’t – that it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. That I don’t have to regret my choices. Sometimes, I made pretty good ones – like dating you. I learned that dating should feel good. It shouldn’t cause your teeth to gnash; it shouldn’t wrack you with anxiety. It didn't have to be all or nothing. You taught me that the default after the regression of a relationship isn’t complete and utter destruction. It can be a friendly text, a retweet, a thumbs up when one of us accomplishes something we’ve been working at for years.

Thanks for giving me memories, giving me your friendship, giving me hope. I’m always rooting for you.

XO (Drinks soon?)

I refuse to juggle anymore

When I picture my future, I am definitely barefoot but I’m not pregnant or in the kitchen. I’m on a beach in Rio, thanks to all the money I’ve made. And I spend only on myself, because I don’t have any children.

I legitimately thought I’d never encountered sexism until my favorite manager told me my ability to lead, organize, and inspire would make me a great mom one day. Which almost sounds like a compliment until you realize he would have never told John in the cubicle next to me that his persuasive manner would be just perfect for organizing an army of greasy toddlers into a minivan.

I’m sure that manager didn’t mean I can’t have a career too — I can have it all! But I can’t. I can have pieces of everything like samples from a buffet table but I cannot have it — completely, totally, unequivocally — all. I guess what I’m saying is, nobody would ever suggest to John in the cubicle next to me that if he wants a career it means that he’ll have to juggle.

Save it, I know. I’m too young to make all these decisions about marriage and children. But the way I see it, at least my decision is reversible. Nothing against women my age who are raring to go in the procreation game — all I’m saying is that keeping something alive besides myself is a terrifying prospect.

Side note: they are women. Not ‘girls’. Every time someone refers to the 21 year old guy I’m with as a young man, and me as a girl, it makes me want to cry like a… well, to use the trite term, girl.

But what does that even mean? Cry like a girl, throw like a girl, throw a filter on your selfie like a girl. Accept unsolicited comments on your appearance like a girl, be simultaneously alluring, but not a slut, and modest, but not a prude like a girl, be daintily dipping your toe in like a girl even when your body is screaming for you to run and jump and scream and break shit and be in a bad mood without being told by perfect strangers to smile like a girl.

Why do I have to juggle? I’m not a clown, and I’m not a housewife, and I won’t throw my career in the air to catch my Swiffer.

I’m pressured into looking flawless at all times, which includes a gym routine. But then if I wear makeup at the gym, I’m an object of ridicule by other women and men alike.

I’m expected to be flattered when strangers catcall or make unprompted comments on my appearance. But then if I do actually follow up with a guy hitting on me, I’m easy. You’re a bitch if you keep walking, staring straight ahead, and you’re also a bitch if you say something rude back. But you’re a whore if you respond favorably.

Speaking up in the office? Sit down, bossypants. Let the man with leadership abilities say it. Not speaking up in the office? You make the best coffee, sweetie, and your ass looks great in that pencil skirt.

Having a vast knowledge of a team, their stats, and the history going back before they won the Cup? You're obviously trying too hard, maybe just chill and enjoy the game. Smiling and cheering politely at the game? You're only there because you're boyfriend is a hockey fan but damn do you look cute in that jersey (but maybe you should get the women's pink jersey next time).

So guys like a girl who can slam down a burger and milkshake but also has the body of a vegan marathon runner; who knows every player’s stats on each team but not in a way that makes the guy feel like you know more than them; that isn’t expecting them to pay for everything but doesn’t make her career, the only way she can pay for things, the focal point of her life.

I’m a really crappy juggler, so I’m throwing all the pins in the air and going to Rio. 

What is it like to be in love?

I wonder what it’s like being 28 and waking up knowing you’re going to ask them to marry you tonight.

I wonder what it’s like being 30 and waking up to them gone for the week on a work trip. And you have the entire bed to yourself for the first time in ages so you starfish the fuck out of it, but somehow drift over to their side because you already miss them.

I wonder what it’s like being 42 and waking up for work content that the same pair of tired eyes as yesterday, and the day before that, and for the past 13 years, still look at you like you have the ability to reverse time and stop the sun from rising any higher, then you could both stay in bed. You blink, smile, and kiss their forehead softly as a reply, silently acknowledging your shared distaste for mornings, but not apologizing for wanting to wake up to those eyes again tomorrow.

I wonder what it’s like being 49 and waking up beside someone who still makes you nervous when they look at you that close up in the morning, especially now that you’re nearing 50 and fully aware of the wrinkles you have and the ones on the way.

I wonder what it’s like being 61 and waking up at 2pm because you were too sore and sickly to get out of bed that morning, but when you hear the key in the door as they are coming back from the store with some medicine, your favorite soup and a kiss, it still makes your heart beat fast enough to propel you off the bed and into their healing arms.

I wonder what it’s like being 87 and waking up next to an undisturbed pillow and an unwrinkled half of a quilt because they died 2 years ago, peacefully in their sleep. It was just time to go.

I wonder what it’s like to live life in that much love. And when you do, I wonder what it’s like to lose it to something as trivial as your body passing through time. It’s heartbreaking that the body can’t last as long as the love between two people. But it’s also kind of beautiful that love transcends physical nature. All we can do is experience it while it’s here and while it lasts.

Finding a true calling

When I was younger, I wish someone had told me straight-up that not all adults experience “a calling”. That many of them never find particular purpose in a career. That sometimes, their job is just what pays the bills and they have to seek satisfaction and fulfillment elsewhere. That sometimes, a job is simply just a way to make money to enjoy life. That having a job you may not love isn't terrible, employment is not about personal fulfillment.

Because as an adult, this pervasive notion that there exists a perfect path for everyone, that people should love what they do, and that work is meant to function as a vehicle for fulfilling a person’s grand life destiny is not only inaccurate for many of us, it can be toxic.

The ideal is so ingrained that I have to remind myself constantly I’m not a failure because I don’t adore my job, and because I’m not rocking the world with my work. That is okay. I am not a failure because I chose to keep my hobbies just that, hobbies that I can enjoy. There is nothing wrong with taking a path that allows me to enjoy life, while doing something that I may not have always dreamed of doing.

Maybe we all need to collectively unlearn the idea that certain achievements like graduating college, getting a job, and moving out only count if they’re achieved by a certain age or within a “normal” time frame. Maybe it's time we all learned that going through life at your own pace does NOT equate laziness or failure. None of our accomplishments have an expiration date.

Sometimes, work is just work. There isn’t always a perfect career path, magically waiting to be discovered. There may not be a calling waiting to be heard to perfect your life. There might not be this thing you were born to do. Don't sit around waiting to discover what you want to be when you grow up.

Because, sometimes, you discover that what you really want to be when you grow up is “paid”.