Post Break Up Realities

I remember my biggest opposition to being in a relationship was that if at any moment I no longer wanted to BE in that relationship, if you don’t commit, you don’t break up.
You don’t hurt.
You don’t cry,
No one cuts or abandons or cheats.
Everyone wins.
The Collector, the only one able to pop my boyfriend cherry, in his hopeful childlike beliefs, made me change my mind actually, an impossibility being the bull I am, friendly and sweet for a bull, but still a bull.
Not many people can ever shake my core, question my beliefs, pull out the raw power of a simple touch, a touch that altered my very being.

I kind of like the word “Bullshit” thinking of me before him, literally full of shit.

Love will stomp out any thought your mind can possess.
I wonder what he thinks now, for actually I was correct, the million reasons he denied possible are the blinding flags I waved, flags I threw on the ground, so I did commit to him, and here we are, broken up.
And it hurts.
I do cry.
And certainly being right didn’t make me win.

Neither one of us won a damn thing, which leads me to reevaluate my old way of thinking, the beliefs that had shaped me then should justify this heartbreak, renewing my lifetime commitment to single bliss, heart perfectly in tact, my feet in a brisk walk or skip out the door before someone breaks into anything real.

To have walked through the fire of such intense fear, such incredible abandonment issues that have suffocated me, the literal vision of a pillow on my face comes to mind when I changed my status on facebook, the old me so comfortable in “single” land was a stage that dropped with me standing, so I fell, not one graceful thing came of it.

Giving into fear without a clue of how to control or mask my insanities to a man who could walk out the door at any minute terrified me.
I thought I was broke.
My father left, with a long list of anonymous faces, which all compute my father left, which is not even fair. I left the faces first.
No one was going to do that to me again.

I was wrong.
He is gone.
In fact, the very thing I never wanted to feel is at my door, reminding me of the moath, asking me what I have to say for myself now.

I say to this feeling, this deep oozing wound that what I never wanted a real man or my own self to see, well, I guess the only thing I have to say is this.
“Thank you.”
I know broke all to well, the breaking in my soul, in my spirit, it is the ultimate price. To deny myself of love or trust, my own worth out the window but flying through single land, without a person to hurt me, well, is like trying to fix a bullet hole with a band-aid.
What I didn’t know however, is that broken comes in so many forms, so many layers of truths, that in fact, for me it is the only truth I had to face to be set free.
It is a transforming humility, this type of broke.
It is wild and strong, the vigilant energy of an oak deeply embedded into the earth, roots grown by courage and faith have not brought me the man on the white horse.
I have no illusions, deep sadness, an added failure, so perfect in its imperfection.

Imperfections have not given me the romance ending, but this broke has led me back to the only safe place.
It brought me home to me.

It is only when facing the thing we say we must not, that we discover the hidden power of the human spirit, become empowered by the truth of what we so bury deep in our hearts.
We are more lovable and beautiful than we know.
I thought I was unworthy of anything real showing up, failure stamped my forehead like a piece of meat being branded for sell, burnt flesh for the world to see, to smell, my scar I won’t even look in the mirror for fear I might see the horror of something so ugly, it would be a part of me for life.
I thought I must have been terrible at relationships, to have been through a divorce, to lose a father, in the worst way.

I was wrong.

I found I love powerfully, with total commitment and fierce loyalty, that I am sweet and melt like the best butter on a big pile of popcorn, the sweet warm sensation of watching a tearjerker in a crowded theatre on a rainy day.
I thought I would hate relationships.
I found I love coffee in the morning, feet can feel quite lovely rubbing against your own, the deep satisfying patterns of breathing while asleep, the comfort of a backrub, the desire to make him happy, to want to be selfless shocked me.
It was quite my cup of tea.
Or maybe he was the tea I liked so much.
I remembered what I hate about it too, the compromises, the irritations, the making up when you want to fight like a child, not a grown woman.
I found wild lust and even brutal angry fights require you to show up.
To woman up.

Walking away now free of damage leaves a bad taste in my mouth, these fists now have been in the air, fighting, loving, fucking, crying, living.

I fought for a man I love, and still love, but this has been my first experience on the other side of the fence. I have been one brutally pushing change upon men who never asked for it, a control I know too well, but now I can relate to myself.
The Collector wanted control too, just like me, and I remember Divorcee telling him with a hint of laughter to be aware, to be with me requires total release and acceptance, that I am what I am, that no man controls me.
“Trust me,” he said.
He was right. He tried the hardest.

I knew it would not be easy to be with me, a free spirit, a lover of people, all of my relationships are with men, that I forget places and time slips away with a story I had not ever heard, amazing details lost the minute I see anger replacing my boyfriend’s upset face.
I knew he would have to be strong, incredibly strong and secure, and he wanted to be the one in my life, not one of the ones of the ones, a list of people he felt replaced continually with.
I felt stripped and pulled and ashamed for this part of me for most of the time, the other outraged and betrayed that he knew this all along, that he couldn’t just love me for me.
To be asked to give up a dream, just this piece here and there, of course that never is enough. My dream obsesses my very core, my art, my desire to meet and chat and fly, to cut out time with my children, for him, was a deal I never signed. This passion was what made him supposedly fall in love with me was now being asked to be just his, the way he wanted it.
I do not blame him.
I do not ask him to feel sorry or bad for his feelings are his own.
He has a right to them.
He has a right to change his mind.

I on the other hand, have passed the ultimate test for my own peace, a peace that beats hand in hand with loss, the very truth I have been seeking.

I do not need a warning label.
I am packaged perfectly and I came here talking too much, to way too many people, loving business, making art, my little room was splatter painted at six, my closets are full of journals I came here to write, Polaroid photos included for emphasis on little girl handwritten poems, a thought that makes me smile to see a blog is no different.

I will make you jealous, bring up every insecurity, live with my own ex, travel in packs of men, but I am exactly what I have always been.

I see him in my mind. I see the man who is leaned against the back of a crowded room, sipping a beer slowly and with ease as I flirt and dance, laugh and talk.
He is waiting on me.
He knows that no man is like him, that I can be alone on the worst night after a bad fight with an ex and too many shots, but that I’m coming home.
I always do.
My heart can’t lie nor can my body and when I give this completely, he will smile, proud, and he will chat with me about all the characters I met, question little for his own life will be full and beautiful, and he will take me to the bedroom the way he should.
In total raw confidence I love him, that I fought for him, that I fought for me.
That in reaching for me, without losing hope, in my biggest defeats, I made room for him.
He will love my dreams and release me with a kiss not a jealous text, brag on my accomplishments, and be my best friend.
It will probably be me who whips my head around in jealousy.

The Collector is a beautiful man, but he was named this for a reason. He collects beautiful things, ornate lamps, interesting art, but I am not a part of a collection.

I am unique, one of a kind, not for anyone or everyone, but perfect, in the most imperfect disastrous ways.

This song came to me tonight, like it was written for me, just for this exact day, and this isn’t uncommon, but isn’t it surreal every time?

You must know life to see decay…
But I wont run.
Not this mind and not this heart…
I wont run.

I will find my way over the hill, I can see it, can almost touch it.
I will find love that wont break my heart, and I most definitely will wear flowers in my hair..
That’s just my style.


Grief Observed

Yesterday I watched tenderly as a very old lady on a busy intersection, cane in hand, placed a stuffed teddy bear at the foot of a simple white wooden cross.

I was at a busy traffic light, on my way to work, and felt very much like an intruder, a witness to the horrific grief this woman was experiencing, tears flowing down her wrinkled cheeks, teddy bear being patted, picked up, placed down, and up again.

She couldn’t seem to make up her mind which direction of the cross the teddy bear should face and at one point, she just sat on the ground, staring, the teddy bear on her lap.

I wanted to open my door, ignore the honking people trying to get here and there to just sit with her, hold her hand, offer up a tissue or a hug. Instead, the light turned green and I can’t shake the image of her out of my head, as I said goodbye from my rear view mirror, watching as she took her hands off the bear and on to the cross itself, shaking from obvious sobs of grief.

I don’t know what happened or who this woman loved and lost. I want to tell her that she touched me, that she is forever connected to my soul, reminding me that death is part of being human, something we all have or will face. When you strip it all away, I am a breathing, loving, grieving soul, just like her.

So, I thank you, little old lady on Hwy 141 with hair in pink handkerchief, cane in hand.

I promise to pause and say a prayer for you when I pass by your white cross where you lost someone you obviously love so much. I am sure they were better for being loved by you.

Love Tinks

Since my 7 year old Kat had her heart broken when a boy picked Sophie over

her, Kat said, “He twicked me, mommy.”

She said it must be that Sophie has blonde hair and she has brown,

which made me feel like a blonde betrayer.

For my girls and I, music is our way through the grieving process

and this has been her and I, every day,

on my bed watching Tinkerbell on You Tube

play out something so universal and yet still so very tragic,

this messy love business, where the man of our dreams

is chasing everyone but us.

Fleetwood Mac brings it with Gold Dust Woman, in which Lola, the little sis,

comes running in when the drums come on in the end, clapping and cheering, with Kat giving her the evil eye.

And I sigh, knowing Lola will one day have her heart broken too, and at 31, so will I.


I have been asked by several people to write a book about some of my dating experiences. OUCH.

I admit that after my divorce I didn’t give a damn, became somewhat a serial dater, protecting my heart so insanely that it just made sense to date the outrageous and ridiculous, rather than risk finding something real.

In fact, I wasn’t real. Not really. Not yet.

I think I will eventually write about some of these experiences, like Mr. Electric, who picked me up at church, took me to Moe‘s, and bought me a car the next day. I think about all the musicians and I just cringe, especially B. H. Rocker, who screamed into microphones and called it music, believing he was so huge underground that I should have to walk behind him into bars. It was for my safety, you see.

The man wore pigtails and different colorful bandanas for God’s sake.

There was the man prescribed to me by my doctor, Prescription Dan, who after coffee, sent a penis shot captured in the midst of ejaculation, a stream so brilliantly photographed, I can’t figure out how he did it. A tripod? My doctor was profusely apologetic.

I think you get the point.

After being devastated with my last boyfriend leaving to live on a boat in Italy, I decided it was time for me to take some serious time out, to refocus, to think about who I was and what I wanted out of life. I buried myself in self help books and work, and at first, I didn’t like what I saw. I avoided mirrors and had night sweats, breaking addictions to sleeping pills and anxiety meds.

I found that all my coping mechanisms came in the form of blue tablets called Xanex and without them, I had to rediscover ways to function. The first thirty days were terrifying. I put one foot in front of the other, took on one day at a time, let every scary emotion I had been running from come to the surface. I wasn’t used to feeling anything much less everything, all at once, all the time.

I felt like I would never stop crying and that I had been issued one big life sentence, a lifetime of pain for all the mistakes I had made, for all the hurt I had accumulated and had been unwilling to address.

And then something rather shocking happened.

Thirty days turned to Sixty and then to Ninety and by the time six months was approaching, I was beginning to not only become comfortable but actually like my own skin. A spark I forgot existed began to ignite inside of me and I was effortlessly laughing, creating, dreaming.

Until my friend M decided it was time for me to be set up on a first date. ARE YOU KIDDING ME? Hell no. NO WAY.

I wanted to vomit. I listed out every reason why I was one big mess and she laughed me off saying it would be fun, great, and well past due! It began with text messages and he had this irritating way of making me smile constantly, pulling me in to compulsively checking my phone again and again for what he would say next.

We decided to meet the day after Valentine’s Day and quite frankly, I kind of hoped it might be disastrous, so that I could wipe my hands of this risky relationship business, something I was so tired of failing at.

And well, he wasn’t a disaster at all, damn it.

he was smart, and funny, and kind, and yes, sexy.

The entire time he talked I wondered what the hell he would do with a girl like me. He was a gentleman, thoughtful, believed in taking his time in relationships and I respected him immediately.

There was also something so endearing about his open and honest nature, telling me things about his past relationship that made me know he was healing as well. He let me know things right away that were not easy for me to handle at all, but for some reason, I just couldn’t find any of them reason enough to walk away. And believe me, I tried.

And Oh my goodness, is he funny. Silly, actually and very childlike.

And a really good friend.

On our third date, we went to the movies. It was fun, relaxing, and I didn’t really want it to end at all. He drove me back to my car where we talked for at least an hour, until I noticed a man in a hooded jacket cut across the parking lot, his eyes darting back and forth, and my stomach started to turn.

I felt something might be dreadfully wrong. I felt my blood pressure rise and my heart stop and I worried about what Clyde might have to do, knowing he kept his gun close, having been robbed at gunpoint just earlier this year.

The shady dude slowly opened my car door. I almost vomited. In a flash, I saw every scary horrible scenario flash through my mind like a series of bad movies, but happening to me, to Clyde, to the people who might never see me again.

I froze. My jaw clenched tightly, my fists tight.

“Is that your car, K?” Clyde said quickly, pointing to my actual car a few feet ahead of me, where the relief of the moment melted from shock to hysterics.

I couldn’t stop laughing. It reminded me of nervous relief, and I am definitely the kind of girl that laughs at funerals.

I have been living on edge so long, waiting for someone to hurt me, to break into my car, to crush my heart into a million pieces, to lie, hurt, and suddenly disappear.

My mind has taken over and I see that it has been playing tricks on me, and somehow I had turned a man with a sweatshirt getting in his vehicle into a possible murder scene where I lost my car, possibly Clyde, and myself. I

realize now that I have made the same mistake with my heart, giving it away to unusual suspects and jerking it back before some unlivable crime is committed and in doing this, I have become guarded, afraid, and alone.

I don’t know if I give Clyde my heart some day if he will break it into a million pieces. I just met him.

I don’t know if I can handle the hurt of another failed relationship, what and how much the human spirit can take, but I must have the courage to at least try.

I guess this is what it means to trust, to feel the fear and do it anyway, to surrender to now, to live in the joy of today.

I guess this is what it means to be real.

90 Day Diet to Follow Your Bliss

Last weekend I met with two fabulous ladies for martinis and chocolate cake to discuss future plans for following our bliss. I am a lover of all women but these two are just sensational. I shall describe them as soulful, gorgeous, hilarious, and fearless. I believe we initially met for support for M, who had just broken up with her douche bag boyfriend, a man I dare say never deserved her in the first place, a realization that her head knows but her heart does not seem to want to accept.

We discussed her 90 day diet, which she decided should mostly include men, sex, and Jager bombs. To M, following her bliss meant healing her heart and many wounds, taking full responsibility of her financial situation, and most importantly, keeping party girl tamed, away from shots, and off the bar.

JC, the married of us three, with even a phone that organizes, calculated this should end approximately June 7th, which we all three groaned and agreed, seemed a lifetime away. A hard working career mom and wife for 15 years, JC described her bliss to mean being more playful, which we cheered with approval by clinking our martinis. She said she must start taking care of some of her own needs, something very apparent by the amount of times she exclaimed she couldn’t believe she was not chewing on a chicken nugget for dinner.

She thought she needed a little something, possibly dreadlocks, and had some hilarious notion that she should have to fly to Vermont to find them.

As the drinks flowed and the food came and went, so did the topics involving JC’s stressful job, where she had to manage a woman who actually spoke with a puppet who was very distressed over frownie faces and exclamation points.

Somehow the thought of her talking into a puppet as to not stress a woman in her mid forties made my stomach hurt from laughing as well with her worry over toddler biting issues, M’s labor stories, and my dating catastrophes.

As for me, the last six months have been marked by reconstruction. I have been healing my own broken heart and dreams, waking up for six months finally sober after years of struggle with anxiety meds. Six months may not seem like a long time in the scheme of life, but when your heartbroken, sometimes even waking up each day is a miracle in itself.

So, with my martini glass raised and my heart wide open to these beautiful women, I decide that it is time to join the living. I have been living my life for too long with my hand over my face and my eyes squinted, too afraid to see what might happen next.

I am dreaming big.

Pursuing a career in photography inspires me as well as making a commitment to my writing, to becoming financially independent like M, and if I’m really lucky, perhaps a relationship too, sprinkled with love and trust, commitment, fun, and some hot mind blowing sex.

A girl can dream.