The Hardest Part is The Night

Thanks Bon Jovi.

It’s true though.

Our relationship happened mostly at night.

When we would pick up the phone and call each other, finally done with our busy days.

When you speak to someone every night before you go to bed it makes it awfully hard to fall asleep without the nightly phone call.

It’s even worse for someone who is already prone to insomnia.

I could always call him and he’d tell me a silly story, or talk my ear off until I finally drifted off to sleep…

“Close your eyes pretty girl” he used to whisper into the receiver.

Where did that thoughtful guy go? The one who used to call me in the morning, to make sure I woke up for important meetings or tests. Who made me construction paper cards and sent them in the mail, merely to alert me to the fact that we would soon be together again.

And now instead I lay awake and think the forbidden thoughts that EVERYONE tells me not to entertain

“What could I have done differently?”

“Why doesn’t he love me anymore?”

“Why me?”

Why me why me why me why me why me.

Indulge Me

Because:

So I will:

I know I know.

But whatever it makes me feel better.

Time Machine

If I allow my mind to be quiet.

For even just one minute.

I think about how I slipped out of the apartment at 6 am.

How he never even said goodbye.

Not a hug.

Not a kiss.

I have to believe he didn’t love me.

Because that’s not how to treat someone you love.

And if he did indeed love me.

I’m spectacularly fucked.

I am surrounded by friends and family, giving me support.

But it isn’t the same and I feel very lonely.

And its hard not to say “what if” it never happens again.

Our relationship wasn’t the best one.

But he was the best I’ve ever been treated. Believe it or not.

So maybe I shouldn’t have complained?

Ugh.

I hate this.

 

Flashbulb Memory

I am either or eleven or twelve.

I cannot remember.

It was summer camp and my group was doing arts and crafts.

The project du jour was to make plaster masks of each others faces.

Robert lets me do his mask.

This is huge.

Because Robert is tall. And cute. And a singer. And a straight boy at theater camp.

There was a procedure to the mask making.

You were to line your subject’s face with either saran wrap (with nose holes for oxygen of course) or rub their face with Vaseline. Then and only then you may proceed to wet the plaster strips and make the mask.

Guess which of these steps I forget?

I’ll never forget the sound he made when I tried to pry that damn mask off his face.

It was a combo of a woodland creature getting caught in a trap and a very angry sounding man.

The row of eyelashes and eyebrows that were embedded in the mask were pretty astonishing to look at.

His face was red as a cherry.

I was laughing.

Except it was soooooooooooooo not funny.

I just laugh when I’m nervous (did you know that about me?)

I kept trying to reassure him he still looked fine, and really he did. Luckily one of the reasons Robert was so cute were his lush, long, eyelashes. He had plenty to lose.

I don’t think he talked to me for DAYS.

Would you believe he stayed friends with me after that episode?

He remains a nearest and dearest.

We were lucky enough to survive some hormonal romantic experimentation and come out of the whole thing still close friends.

I am also lucky enough to realize how incredibly rare this is.

He is special to me. I am special to him.

And besides, he got me back every damn day of summer camp until the end of our years of attendance.

When I arrived early to the theater every morning (I like to be extra early..did you know that about me?) he would already be there.

He would wait in the pitch darkness of the Balch Arena.

Barely breathing in the cool, sweet, air conditioned air.

Then he would jump out of his hiding place and never fail to make me scream.

Every morning.

It was our game.

And in a way, I suspect it was my payback for raping his beautiful eyelashes.

The Future Freaks Me Out

“So…what are you going to do now?”

That is the question of the moment.

I’ve been on what I’ve not so affectionately called “the break up tour” wherein I visit my favorite people from home and explain the whole thing to them.

The problem is that our relationship imploded like a bomb (or maybe that’s just how it feels to me?), it isn’t as if this were ” a long time coming” or anything. So I’ve been having to deal with a lot of completely shocked faces. They are just as unprepared to deal with this as I am.

And once the whole is explained that’s the question I encounter…

What now?

I had been setting my watch to his, and now I’m sort of weirdly free to do whatever I want.

I have seemingly endlessly possibilities and for once I don’t have a set plan to follow.

Will I….

A. Throw caution to the wind and move to NYC maybe work as a nanny and live with my fabulous roommates?

B. Go to grad school for….something?

C. Get my Real Estate license??

D. Run away and join the circus?

 

 

A laugh

http://theoatmeal.com/comics/customer_service

One night at Victory

The last breakup I had to endure was when I was 15.

My boyfriend at the time was older than me (surprise surprise) and it was complete and utter high school lust. I don’t believe we even said “I love you”

On the night of our illustrious 3 month anniversary we went on a walk to the park near my house, Victory Park.

For the duration of our short relationship we had called it “our park.”

I had already bought my prom dress, it was pale blue and fitted with a row of pearls along the top of the bust.

It was pitch black when we arrived, after a half-hearted attempt to “play basketball” we ended up laying on the court, making out.

Classy, I know.

On the walk home he uttered the dreaded words, “We need to talk.”

Yada yada long story short, he was going to college and didn’t want a high school girlfriend.

I refused to cry. Pretended as though I was fine the 10 minute walk back to my house.

Then I proceeded to lay in my bed and weep.

It hurt for about a week.

This is not like that time.

Breakable

2 years of a relationship ended in a 20 minute conversation.

I use the word conversation loosely because it was really just us alternately losing our shit.

I don’t know what, or how to feel.

I threw up three times.

I don’t think I can sleep.

I am every cliche imaginable right now.

And whats worse is that something just happened. And my first impulse was to call and tell him. And I can’t.

And I just wish things had not ended up this way.

And I am not eager to learn how to live without him.

Fire Drill

I am constantly doing fire drills in my head for the things I fear most.

I have this lame idea that if I prepare for bad things enough it’ll be somehow… I dunno.. “less bad” when they actually happen.

The past week has been a seemingly never ending shit storm of crappy news and hard discussions and things I did not have practice drills for in my head.

They simply came out of left field and crushed me flat.

And for once I’m not being overly hyperbolic or dramatic.

So I’m probably going to cheat the next few days and post youtube videos.

Or who knows.

Maybe emotional limbo land will suit me and I’ll write beautiful thoughtful irreverent posts and all the people in internet land will love me.

It’s all up in the air right now.

Everything.

Nyquil induced coma.

The end.

There is no Justice

I schlepped to my 8 am class in the snow, rushing because I was 2 minutes late because of the buses creeping like spooked horses through this mornings slippery snow.

Of course I arrive and my Professor isn’t there yet.

The clock-watch began. We were a mere 6 minutes away from getting to leave as waiting 15 minutes for a Professor is university policy.

When he walked in there was an audible collective groan. Poor guy.

And though part of me is glad he showed up, thus giving my 7 am wake up call some meaning, I had already created an elaborate fantasy involving me going to get breakfast and a hot beverage and not having to runwalk in the snow to my second class,  which is so far away its practically not on campus anymore.

But instead I shall sit here and attempt to get some adolescent psychology under my belt.

Ohhhhh my lord now he’s blasting the Pussy Cat Dolls hit “When I Grow Up”

He is also not capable of comprehending that when he is wearing the body microphone he can not go stand near the big black box containing all the equipment. And now my ears bleed from the veritable rapage that is that high pitched “eeeeeeeeeeeee” sound that microphones make and the disgusting musical stylings of the Pussy Cat Dolls.