Vincent Square Chapter One: You Can't Go Home Again...

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My hand rubbed the cassette cover.  He had made me a mixed tape to bring on my journey.  I barely knew him.  I can’t even remember his name now but I believe to him, I was much more.  To me, he was a moment to occupy space and time before I left. 

Staring out the window as the highway silenced past me I was lost in thought.  Having no idea what I was doing, only knowing that I had to do it.  All that pulled me from my melancholy anticipation was her grabbing my hand.

“Hey.” I smiled looking over at her.  Her eyes welling with tears. My mother, in the front seat slightly turned her head to listen.  “Do you really have to go?” she whispered.  “I don’t know if I can handle things without you.  I’m sick to my stomach.”  She was so gentle, this dear friend of mine whom I had lived with at university and who I was leaving behind to ‘find myself’ somewhere in London.  We were two polar opposites.  She a preppy, virgin, wealthy Jew, me, a wild, non-virgin, Birkenstock wearing, dirt poor, Atheist.  Yet somehow, in each other we found acceptance, intrigue and comfort. “Delilah, you’ll be fine.  We’ll talk on the phone every day, I’ll write you letters constantly, and I’ll be back before you know it.  Promise.  I have to go.  I’m sort of dying here.  I need to see what else is out there.”  I try to sound confident but inside I had no idea what the fuck I was doing or why.  I’m just running.  20 years old and already running. “Promise.” I said again, squeezing her hand extra tight giving her the ‘I so mean this…not…smile’.  “Dad, how much longer til JFK?” “Less than an hour Weezy,” he said with a crack in his throat.  Above all else, I believe he was taking it the worst. I was his baby, and best friend and I was leaving him to muddle through without me. 

JFK was chaotic.  Hundreds of college students registering, waiting in line, lugging enormous suitcases, staring nervously around them, mimicking smiles to appear friendly as they embarked to study abroad and leave their families and friends for a year or more. 

I’ve never done well with goodbyes so my exit was quick.  I pointed around to the chaos and shooed my parents and Delilah away.  “I’ve got it from here – you have a long drive back…just go.”  As I placed my imaginary armor on, I was cracking…slowly.  Things became dizzy and I became overheated.  Hugs, my parents crying, Delilah holding on to me too tightly.  I was swallowing rocks to not break.  As they left the airport, and walked past the window I knew nothing else to do but stick up my middle finger and mouth the words “Fuck You” – mostly to make them laugh, but mainly because I was terrified and suddenly felt incredibly abandoned. 

Once out of site I crumbled uncontrollably.  Running to the bathroom I was hyperventilating with fear.  Caught between trying all that I could to pull myself together and to release the fear, I was a convulsing child.  Splashing my face in the sink and doing all that I could to find my center an arm touched mine.  “It’s ok.  I just did the same thing.  Here…” as I look up there is a pile of paper towels in front of me to which I dove into.  Mortified and grateful for a moment of kindness.  Deep breath.  Deep breath.  I stand up and stare at her in the mirror.  She stares back with an empathtic smile.  “Hey, I’m Maris – goodbye’s suck.  I know,” she says as she extends her hand to greet mine.  “Hi, I’m Willow.” I retort half looking her in the eyes, half staring at my Doc Martens.  “Yes, goodbyes, not my thing - sorry, I feel like an ass…” stopping my apology mid-air knowing it isn’t required.  She waves her hand in the air gesturing all is forgotten.  She’s vey pretty.  Milky skin with freckles, voluptuous figure and hazelnut hair.  Tall and statuesque, emitting a devilish and soulful, kind energy. “You smoke?” she asked.  “Jesus, yes…” I reply.  “Good, come with me.  I met a chic that has some weed.  We’ve got 4 hours to kill before the flight – we might as well make it worth our while.    

And so there Maris became a part of me, in the most vulnerable of my moments, she pulled me up and pushed me into all that I was afraid of but that would be the beginning of all that I was to become.

Silent Whispers

I woke up the morning of my birthday with my phone abuzz.  Greetings and well wishes from the loves around me.  It was supposed to be a rainy day and yet the sun followed me to work and I smiled contently with her warmth on my cheek.  I was determined to face this new year of my life with joy, unlike so many years past.  It was time to allow myself some peace.

The first few hours of my day passed quickly filled with gestures of kindness and laughter.  I even silently thanked the universe for allowing me this.  I thanked myself for allowing comfort.  I had worked so hard to get where I was.  I was about to embark on a new journey and I would see my friends later to celebrate.  There was much to be grateful for.

Ping went my phone.  I neglected it.  I was chatting with a coworker and I assumed it was yet another friend sending along a Happy Birthday greeting.  When I was finally alone, I looked down at it.  It was from him.  The text was simple.  All it said was ‘Happy Birthday’.  In an instant, my chest tightened.  My heart froze.  My hands started shaking, tears began to stream down my face and I could physically feel all of the color drain from my being. 

The immediate reaction I had was to respond.  I knew he was still sitting there; phone in hand, waiting to see if I would reply.  I wanted some connection to him while I still had his attention.  I could see him sitting in his living room, rereading the words he had written.  Questioning if he should’ve sent it.  Questioning if he should’ve said something more.  Wondering if he should’ve placed an X or an O at the end to attribute some affection.  His mind was like mine in that way.  And then I did the only thing I knew how to do.  Nothing. Act Don’t React, Tarah, I whispered quietly to myself.

I went outside and stared into the sky. It was his way of making his presence known.  Letting me know that he still existed.  It was his apology.  Of course he remembered my birthday.  Our birthdays were exactly a week apart and although the week prior I had agonized over reaching out to him to acknowledge his special day, though I had spent an hour with my therapist grappling over whether or not it was the right thing to do, though I had countless conversations with friends, I thought the better of it and again did the only thing I’ve come to do after all of this time.  Nothing.  All I could do was whisper to the Universe and hope that they found his way to his spirit.  I wasn’t a part of his life anymore.  What would it mean to him to hear from me?  Why would he care? So to save myself the torture of regret and insecurity, I refrained.

He hadn’t done the same.  But then again, he wasn’t in the same place that I was.  He was him after all; he could do whatever he wanted.  That luxury was something my soul couldn’t afford.  “I miss you.” I said to myself.  To my phone. To him.  To the air.  Because I did.  And for as wrong as it was, it was the truth.  In that moment, I missed every wrong thing about him. 

Appreciation

Here’s the thing kids.  If someone/something isn’t in your life, they/it aren’t supposed to be.  Holding on to memories of that, which isn’t, does you no good.  If you can’t beam with pride at those around you and you're babbling beauty about someone who isn't…..Release. 

I’m not quite sure where life is taking me, but lately I’ve been kind of ebbing in a place of purity. By which, I mean, what is, is.  The rest, fuck it.  If it’s around me and it’s real, I buy it.  Wondering, thinking, regretting, questioning – meh, not worthy of my thought.  This is all I have.  Now.  And I’m lucky because I have a lot of awesome around me.

Sure, I’m human and I remember moments – I remember laughter.  I remember when.  I remember and miss shit that hurts and makes no sense but then when isn’t then anymore and then isn’t now so why bother?

I’m not an easy person to love.  I’m a selfish pain in the ass but I’m loyal as fuck, which is why I presume the people around me stick around.  And now, they are all I care to think about.  The grass isn’t greener.  Its just grass.  I’d rather play on ground that I’ve tended to, than to leap sideways for the hope of something that might be better – cause I am slowly beginning to realize, there is no better.  I’ll take years of allegiance over moments of ambivalence any day.

And so that is what this is all about.  Don’t think about what you don’t have, cause you aren’t supposed to have it.  And you’re better off for not.  Trust me.   The Universe gives you exactly what you are supposed to have and has placed you exactly where you are supposed to be.  Look for more, try to manipulate it, and you will be without far greater. 

Just be, people.  Appreciate.  Stop.  Listen.  Breathe.  Say thank you to those that put up with all of your ambivalent bullshit because chances are, they would be far better served elsewhere but they happen to love you too much to look.  Say thanks, wave your hands in the air, shake off those that missed out on you and embrace those that haven’t.

Capiche?  

Thanks for listening. And here's a little ditty to enjoy...

The End....For Now...

It’s March 28, 2012.  This story is done.  

I had been sort of vibrating in a state for weeks with memories hovering over me, unwelcome.  Moments that I felt had long since shifted away from me were flooding back.  Drowning me in emotions I didn’t want to remember but that I could no longer contain.  All of this writing.  Resurfacing.  Plaguing.  My release.  I was finding myself pacing.  Edgy.  Wondering.  Thinking far too much.  Like the old days.  I was her again. Reactionary.

I broke down last weekend.  I typed his name into Google and clicked enter.  There he was, right there on Twitter.  Wow.  How modern of him playing in the arena he had always mocked me for.  He would be displeased to be so easily found, to have himself so public.  I quickly scan his Tweets and easily stalk on over to the girl I had heard he was seeing.   I’m not proud of it and it’s not something of my norm but curiosity got the best of me.  I needed to know.  A handful of Tweets down, she had posted a picture of them.  I stop.  I take a deep breath and click. 

I look at the picture.  I know that I know him.  The structure of his face looks familiar but there is nothing about it that resembles him.  I literally hear myself gasp.  It’s him. He must be sick.  Something is wrong with him.  No, Tarah, nothing is wrong with him.  You would’ve heard – you would’ve known.  His hair once chocolate is now all but grey.  His thick, full hair, now thin and closely trimmed to his head.  He has sagging skin on his neck.  My strong, larger than life Iceman now looks gaunt and slight.  He looks tired and although his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses he seems vacant.  His arm rests on her shoulder.  He used to hold me so tight, pulling me into him, often times with his hand holding on to both my arms as if to tell the camera and the world that I was his.  He is present in body, his spirit has shifted and I recognize nothing about him anymore.  That man that used to stop me in my tracks and make every part of my body tingle when he walked into a room was now just a shadow.  Had he been this way for years and I just hadn’t noticed?  Always seeing him as who he had been, not who he had become?  Perhaps.  I don’t know.  

He has a slight pursed grin.  A grey smile.  He used to have such a wild youthful, open mouthed smile when we were together and we were good.  He looks resigned.  As if this is the best it will ever be again and so here he will remain.  I know his energy.  I can read his every thought through one photograph.   She is insignificant and completely unaware of anything about him.  She smiles broadly.  I feel sorry for her, she has no idea.  She is perfect for him.  She is enough.  She will do.  She will keep him company, unchallenged company and he will no longer have to be alone.  I can see that.  I have no envy, only pity and sadness staring at the ghost of my past. I had seen enough.  I had seen all that I needed to see.  His future passes quickly across my intuition and I release it with my breath.  Now I know.

Here I have spent weeks writing, purging.  Remembering so much passion, remembering this man that I had loved so deeply, and how when it was good we were like children; all of our inside jokes, our nicknames, the magnetic energy that for years brought us back and forth to each other, the solace and guidance we found in our words to one another.  Through my writing I was falling in love with him again, that time, the chaos, the insanity.  I had been feeling every memory.  I had been feeling him.  And in one moment, one look at a picture, it vanished. 

For so long I have been tormented believing that he got the best of me, my best years.  My youth.  It was the exact opposite.  I had the best of him. I had his energy, his passion, his soul, now buried so deeply and irretrievable within his guilt it suffocated the air around him.  I had released all of mine.  His, he carried everywhere.  His totem. Whatever I have carried all of this time was gone with that realization.  The questioning, the regretting, the self-loathing.  Gone.  

In truth, it was done in July of 2010 when we sat on the beach and he asked me to marry him and I gave him no reply.  I knew then that I could never go back.  I knew his words were meaningless and that he only wanted to win.  He never really knew what he wanted and I knew it would only be a matter of time before he tried to unravel himself from his proposal. The years of confusion and chaos had done nothing but push me further and further from any semblance of passion for him and although I had wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with him, he had destroyed too much for me to believe in it.    

I knew when I last saw him in New York and he said to me, “You’ll never look at me the way you used again, will you?” that I never would.  In my memory I could, through my writing I could, but in the now, I couldn’t as much as I desperately wanted to.  And he saw that in my eyes.  And in some way that broke him. Just as he had broken me a thousand times before.  I have always believed that I was the broken one.  Unfixable.  It somehow made it easier on me that way.  But I’m not.  And although so many parts of me feel that in the end he left me - that he gave up, I realize now that it’s me who despite my promise, had left him many, many years before.  It just took awhile for my soul to catch up to that realization.  

That picture of him will forever be emblazed in my mind now.  No longer pictures in my mind of what was, but what now is.  His emptiness.  There is no want in me for that, or to try to bring it back to life, to try to save him from himself again.  I prefer to save myself now. It is gone. He is gone.  Whoever I loved is no longer inside of him.  It’s as if his life has leapt forward 20 years and mine had stood still and now I have all of the hope in the world to get back to it again. I am here again. 

To finish the story and to write out the rest of the years had been my intent, but I have no use for it anymore.  It is removed from me and I can no longer remember him in that light.  That picture is all I see and that picture has erased all memory from me. Perhaps in time and perhaps in a way that no longer is my memory but a fictional story based on some of it.  Who knows? Our story has never really had an ending and I find some comfort in just leaving it as an ellipsis....For now, I would like to revel in my freedom for a bit.  I’ve been a prisoner of this story for a long time.  

And so it ends for now like this…It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.  And it is over.  Thank you Google for setting me free. 

The End.

Synopsis

It’s important for me to write a bit about these chapters.  Explain them.  I’ve been receiving lots of questions and I’ve even been questioning myself so here goes some explaining.

First and foremost, why am I doing this?  Well, for two reasons.  1.  Because if you are an outsider (and even an insider), it truly is a good story.  A fucked up story but a good one none the less.  2.  It’s a release for me.  This story was in fact my life.  This story has made me who I am. It is still making me who I am as I continually learn from it. So I consider this a new form of therapy.  I feel that another story can’t welcome itself in until I finally let this one out.  It’s coveted me for far too long.  The difficulty is in that I’ve begun a process that is resurfacing significant emotions for me – none of which I have any pride in – and it’s been as of late, emotionally spiraling to remember it all.  But, it’s a process, not an event and so my current state is part of the process I’ve grown accustomed to accepting.  I’ve been trained well by John. 

People have asked me if it’s all true - (a lot of inquiries re: the elevator scene).  Yes, it’s all true.  However, it’s my version of the story and all that I remember and/or the bits I care to tell.  He has his own.  Timelines etc. and sequences of events may be skewed as I extract the most poignant bits that express it and ‘us’ most effectively.  What you have to understand is that this story transcended the better part of a decade so there’s a lot to tell.  The first 3 years is my current focus now, ‘Book 1’ so to speak. 

There is a lot that I won’t tell.  Some secrets are best left in closets.  And although 50 Shades of Mommy Porn is the current trend, I can’t quite go that route yet.  Descriptive details of my intimate life are sacred to me and likely will remain that way. 

Why have I chosen to change every name except my own?  Because it’s my story and right now it doesn’t feel natural to have my memory speak to me as someone else.  I’ve changed everyone else’s name because it’s been easier for me that way - except John.  His name is real as well.  I couldn't see him as any other way. There are so many more people to this story – will I be able to add them all in?  Perhaps.  ‘He’ will never have a name.  Those in my personal life know it.  Those who aren’t, never will. 

What I’m struggling with, as this is a new form of writing for me is the detail.  These ‘Chapters’ as I’m calling them are just brief synopses.  I’m trying to get the memories down and if I’m so compelled and if it evolves into something worth doing anything with, I will explain things with much greater detail.  For now, I’m keeping things high and tight however it frustrates me to not explain things at length, as I would like.  I’m just sort of writing at mock speed in an unconscious fury to release it from myself so I can’t go deeper.  Yet.

Most importantly, the detail of Quinn and the magnitude of his presence I’ve yet to be able to articulate.  He was, and still remains the hero of this story, of my story, of my life.  I want him to be yours as well.  He deserves that.  You will start to see him appear more and more.  I hope I can do him justice. 

I’ve done a lot of insane things in my life.  This to me, is by far the craziest.  Literally, through my writing I am standing raw and naked in front of my friends, family, and strangers.  It’s not easy.  It’s frightening.  But, if it gets me to the other side of the tunnel I’ve been standing in then it’s all worth it, right? 

I may just suddenly stop one day and if I do, that just means that the story is done for me.  I’ve said enough, something else has made it’s way in and that its time for me to face the sunlight again.  Until then, as always, thanks for listening. 

Much gratitude. 

Chapter Eight

I wake up.  It’s still dark.  My body is pulled into him, his arms and one leg wrapped over me.  He sleeps.  His breathing makes an occasional low whistling sound that makes me smile.  It soothes me.  I turn to look at the clock.  It’s 1:53AM.  I want to sleep, be at peace for a bit but I can’t.  My stomach turns in knots. 

We are codependent.  Emotionally and physically addicted to one another.  He’s my drug.  This is my drug.  I could’ve left.  Gone somewhere, anywhere.  Called Quinn and escaped to the safety of the city but I didn’t.  I stayed.  Watching it all unfold and play out exactly as I knew it would.  Maybe he really will stay this time.  I know the answer before the words escape my mind. 

He feels guilty for loving me.  As I do for loving him.  He’s tortured by having no control.  Everything about his life until he met me had always been so controlled.  I was unexpected.  He wasn't prepared.  

In the beginning it was just pure unadulterated sex.  Tons of it.  Everywhere we could find a minute to be inside of one another we did.  I felt myself changing.  Feeling passion in my life for the first time in perhaps forever.  I became a woman.  Someone that was sexy and empowered. I started wearing lacy bits and dressing differently.  I started believing I was beautiful because that’s how he made me feel when I was with him.  I believe I made him feel the same.  This younger woman lusting after him.  Everything about him was perfect to me.  His body a vehicle for my pleasure that fit me so completely.  We had both fallen into something that needed no words.  It just made sense to us and fulfilled us.  When I wasn’t with him I felt empty, as if the other half of me had been removed. 

And then we began to talk.  Staying up for hours on end, sharing the stories of our lives.  Laughing, giggling.  We began to have secret dinners in far away places where nobody would know us.  We would dance slowly, naked in my apartment.  I always just felt so tiny in his arms, his stature protecting me. Together we were free.  I was falling in love.  Maybe at the time I was in love with the excitement of it all.  With the passion, with feeling alive again but it consumed me.  And when I found out a close friend from college passed away and I called him frantically needing support and after listening to me cry, he whispered, “I just need to see your face and know that you’re ok.” That was it for me.  I told him that I loved him that night.  He was my everything.  My rock.  My lust.  My soul partner.  And that’s why I stayed.  Why I tried to forgive him for his guilt and confusion.  Why I tried to accept his need to go back and regain control.  That was why I was still lying in this bed.

He stirs.  His body heating me.  I unravel myself from him so that I can turn to see his face.  His face looking boyish while he rests.  His hands now tucked under his cheek.  “Peaches…” he whispers.  He had named me this months ago as I was grimacing down at all the small bruises on my shins.  “What’s did you do?” he asks.  “Who knows, I’m anemic, I bruise easily.”  “Like a peach!” he grinned back.  And so it was.  In moments of endearment he would call me Peaches. “Go back to sleep.” He commanded.  “Stop thinking.  You always think too much.  Shhhhh…” he gestures, with his eyes still closed placing his index finger to his lips. 

I slip out of bed to pee.  The lights making my eyes wince.  I stare at my gaunt body in the mirror.  Perhaps this was the only thing that I could control.  My own form of self-mutilation.  It wasn’t a conscious act by any means – simply a reaction of my nervous system but it was in some way the only thing left of me that was mine.  I had given the rest away to him.

I crawl back into bed; he’s now placed a pillow over his head to block the light from the bathroom.  He removes it slowly with his index finger still on his lips, “Shhhhhh….” I elbow him.  He knows I like to talk in the middle of the night.  It calms me.  “Are you still coming to the wedding with me?”  My sister was getting married in two weeks.  It also happened to be my 30^th birthday.  I had planned on ‘debuting’ him as the new guy I was dating.  It all seemed simple enough until I broke down and told Amelia the truth.  “Yes.” He mutters.  I know all of this makes him uncomfortable but he also knows how important it is to me so he’s appeasing me.  He knows he had to appease to make amends. 

I’m relieved.  I want him with me.  I’m always so proud to be with him. 

He pulls me into him and kisses me.  That quiet passionate way we kiss that at times alone through just the shear motions of our lips is enough to make us both erupt.  He kisses every part of me, making amends, asking for forgiveness, pleading for me to stay with him without words.  He climbs inside of me and then stops.  With tears in his eyes he looks down at me, kisses me passionately and says, “Please don’t ever leave me.  No matter how bad I fuck up I need to know you’ll never leave me.”  I’m so shocked to see my Iceman melting on top of me, his tears quietly falling to my cheeks that I begin to cry as well.  He looks so lost.  So terrified.  “I won’t ever leave you.  I promise.  I love you.”   

And in that moment, I meant every word. 

Chapter Seven

“What are you doing here?” I snap icily overlooking the copious amount of sunflowers everywhere.  I am broken and angry and he is not going to control this conversation.  Act, Don’t React, Tarah, I whisper internally.

“I live here.” he responds looking at me with trepidation.  I know this angle.  He’s playing easily on my heart strings.  He’s a salesman after all.  He knows the powers of negotiation, when to concede, when give so that you can get.  All I had wanted was for us to be ‘official’ - to start an actual life, free from hiding and our history.  He’s playing the part, playing his card so that I will break.  I’m not going to break this time.  

“No, you don’t fucking live here.  This is my apartment.  My name is on the lease.  I pay the bills.  You live in the building next door.”  I think of the empty apartment he was renting as a 'stage' in case 'people' came to visit. I am posed, calm, looking at him with laser sharp eyes.  What I want to do is run into his lap sobbing in gratuity that he is back but I won’t.  I can’t.  He needs to know he’s gone too far this time.  He needs to understand my hurt.  “Is that language really necessary Tarah? And yes, I do live here.  Would you like me to give you money for rent to make it official?”  I want to stab him.  “No, I don’t need your FUCKING money.  I want my key back.” “No.” He responds, completely disregarding my request.  

“Where have you been?” He asks.  “Home.” I respond throwing my bag down and walking past him.  He looks relieved, as if for a minute he questioned me leaving him for someone else. “It’s not your home, Tarah.  You don’t live there. This is your home.  You live here – with me.” “This is a holding pattern, this is no fucking home.” I snap back.  “Did you sleep with her?” I ask facing away from him.  He doesn’t respond.  I can hear him breathing.  He shifts.  He doesn’t like this.  He wants to pretend nothing happened.  He wants to get what he wants and make the rest disappear.  My anger is rising.  My stomach twisted and distorted at the thought of him with someone else.  He is mine and I am his.  I don’t give a shit about legal documents.  He is my universe and we are connected through energy and time and there is nothing else for me.  

“Did…you…sleep…with…her…” I say again with a fiery heightened voice.  Act, Don’t React.  “What does it matter?  I love you. I’m here now.  It’s the past, we don’t need to talk about it.”  I bend down and remove the wooden flip flop from my foot.  I walk coolly towards him and in one swift flick of my arm; bash him across his temple with it. So much for not being reactionary.  Note to self to not mention this to John on our call tomorrow.

I’m shocked by what I’ve done but I don’t show it.  I’ve lost all control over my emotions.  I’m frozen.  Waiting.  He doesn’t move.  He sits keeping a steady eye on me.  Did he just like that?  Punishment?  The dramatics.  I can see him thinking.  He’s plotting his next words.  What will he say next?  I’m half a second away from completely breaking down and he knows this.  He’s seen this before.  “Leave.  Please just leave.” My voice cracks.  “I can’t do this anymore.  This is killing me.  This isn’t love.  This is so fucked up.  I can’t pretend this  is ok.  You either love me or you don’t.  You either want this or you don’t.  You’re either sure or you aren’t.  But you can’t keep walking out on me expecting me to welcome you with open arms when you decide yet again that it’s me that you really want because maybe, just maybe I won’t be here anymore.  This is my life.  This is not a game.  Just leave.  Stay gone.  I’m used to it now.  Go back to the big white house and live your life.” Tears are streaming down my face and I don’t mean any words that I am saying but I’m resigned to not live my life like this anymore.  I’m terrified that he will leave but I don’t have the energy for trying.  I’m already so broken that what difference would it make any way?  “Just leave.”  

He stands up, moving slowly towards me.  “I’m sorry.  I’m not going anywhere.  I tried to go back.  I thought it was the right thing to do.  To try.  You were everywhere.  All I saw was you.  I missed you terribly.  I missed my best friend.  I promise, I’m not going anywhere.  I love you.  Come here.” He motions holding out his arms.  I shake my head no.  “T. C’mon.  We can fight all night if you want but I’m not going anywhere.  I’m sorry.  You know you love me so let’s just stop this.”  I shake my head no.  Tears still streaming down my face.  

My head hurts.  So many emotions.  So many thoughts.  Will it always be this way?  Will he always leave me?  Will I always spiral so out of control?  Will he always come back?  It's been over a year of this why aren’t I enough?  How can he love me and hurt me so much.  How can I just always be here waiting?  Everything aches.  I feel unsteady.  The one thing I need is him and the worst thing for me is him.  Standing in front of the person I love, his arms extended I feel wretchedly alone.  

I can’t speak.  There are no words.  I have no defense against him. No arguments.  No sales pitch.  I turn and walk away.  He stands still.  Waiting.  Observing.  I walk into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror.  I don’t recognize anything about myself anymore.  All I see are sunken, lost eyes peering back at me.  My clavicle protrudes from my sundress.  I am so weak.  

I turn on the shower.  I have nowhere else to go but here.  To hide under water.  Water.  My safety.  My church.  I am not sure if I’m even breathing anymore.  I’m sobbing so uncontrollably but so stifled that I might vomit.  I want someone to come take care of me.  Make all of this go away.  I want him to make it all go away.  I want to run away.  I want to crawl inside of him.  Broken.  Broken.  Broken.  And before I know it he’s standing behind me in the shower yet again.  Watching, observing.  “T.” he whispers and he wraps his arms around me.  “I love you.  I’m sorry.  I promise I’ll make it up to you.  I won’t ever leave you again.” Yes you will floods every part of me and I collapse onto him.  

And then we do all that we know how to do to get ourselves back to each other.  Communicate without words.