Single In New York...
A warning and an apology.
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For the three readers that I do have, I am sorry that I have not been here in quite some time.
While down in Tennessee for a long weekend attending Bonnaroo (a festival with camping, drinking, music, and drinking) my father suffered two strokes while I was gone.
I have been attemping to take the best possible care for him that I can right now. So I will not be around until he starts to come around. I’m sorry.
I will be back… soon… hopefully.
Hope all is well with everyone out there.
Little Girl in Solitude.
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Childhood memories are lost in a maze that is the brain. A kaleidoscopic filing system where nothing is in order. Not chronologically, not alphabetically, and not prioritized. Some cabinets don’t even open. Keys have been lost for years. And I would imagine that the number for the locksmith is locked in one of those cabinets. Because that just seems to be the way it is.
Images are stretched and skewed and colors are accentuated. Even the lack of color is sometimes emphasized. Pictures are not filed like everything else, they float aimlessly, and as if without gravity, around and around in the cluttered space that I have been enslaved for too long.
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Not all the visions are real. Some are dreams, some memories, some thoughts, and some nightmares. Stumbling upon such a picture in my mind can often take a moment or two for the filing system to pull up archives on it. “Did that happen?” “Did I see her?” “Where was that?” A series of multiple choice questions frantically surveying database after database on a giant server of jumbled information until I can conclude when, why, how, and where that image came from. If it ever even existed at all.
A giant room filled with computers, files, paperwork, paintings, portraits, and digital images flying fast and slow in circles ‘round the room with no set course over the head of a little girl cowering in the corner. Afraid that the things she sees is all a dream, she prays that her photographic memory will not document the events and be kept with her always. Haunting her. What she does not realize; it’s not a dream. It’s her life. She will forever be trapped in what looks like an abandoned classroom. The door slightly ajar, windows broken, and a damp feeling taking over the air.
She does not dare leave. For fear that what lurks beyond that door is far more devastating that the eternity she has already been sentenced in the messy, chaotic, dark room, eternally lonely.
She curls her knees into her chest and fights with all her might to hold back tears.
The little girl deserted in solitude.
Circle of life.
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I will paint until I die.
I will write until I die.
I will sing until I die.
I will think until I die.
I will feel until I die.
I will breathe until I die.
I will love until I die.
I will mourn until I die.
I will cry until I die.
…Even if only on the inside.
—–
A new series of paintings I just finished.
“Sun.”
“Always.”
“Sets.”
…In A Perfect World.
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But she wasn’t always strong. She had to learn how to be strong. Because she knew no one would or could be strong enough for her. They never even offered. They didn’t even try. Just pushed her aside and left her to fend for herself. The poor little thing.
But don’t call her that. Not now. Don’t feel sorry for her! Don’t pity her or shed tears on her behalf. Because it’s too little, too late. She has been locked away in her own mind all alone. Where she was cornered and abused by monsters and demons. They tried to bring her down, make her into nothing. And keep her from moving on. And yet, she still closed herself up and stayed trapped in that crazy head of hers. And that’s the way she likes it. Because that’s all she’s ever known.
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So when she breaks down and cries, it’s monumental. Because she doesn’t often let herself cry. Because they were not there to comfort her before, so they won’t be there now. Because while she doesn’t think other people are weak for crying, she thinks she is if she does it. Because no good can come from tears. Just dried up eyes, running noses, and wasted energy.
So when she pushes you away (if she hasn’t already, she will) it’s because she’s so scared she doesn’t even know what to do with herself. Because she knows if she doesn’t push you away she will have to open up to you otherwise. And that’s not something she likes to do. Because that means that you see it all, hear it all, know it all. The good and the bad. The logic and the chaos. And she fears that there’s more bad than good.
And pushing you away before you walk away hurts a lot less in the end.
Because walking away is sometimes the worst thing you can do to her. Because it’s all too familiar. Too familiar to that little girl inside who will secretly never get over it. Something she wishes she never experienced. But has experienced it more times than she can count. And she doesn’t know how many more times she can take of it. Before she loses it. Loses it all. And really can’t go on anymore.
Walking away from her and leaving her behind helps her justify the act of pushing people away. An art she has mastered over the years. Something she does not take pride in, will not always admit, but a crime she commits on a regular basis. Like clockwork. Yea, she’s that predictable.
Don’t feel sorry for her! She doesn’t need it. It will get her nowhere. She has made it this far without your pity and sympathy. And she will make it even further. Just to prove to them how strong she is. How much she has done, can do, and will do all on her own.
*******
Sometimes she feels comfortable in her own skin. Enough to admit this major flaw. (And other flaws. Because she has many.) Sometimes she’s sick of running and hiding from people who want to be there for her. She gets tired of pushing people away and feeling alone.
And in a certain world, a perfect one, she feels naked bearing her heart and soul on the table but not too naked where she needs to run away.
Why Mr. Unrealistic IS Mr. Unrealistic.
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-He lived too far away. And then he moved. And now he lives even further away.
-He is older than me. By ten years. Which doesn’t bother either of us, but I know it will bother my sometimes protective brother, father, brother-in-laws, cousins, uncles, and friends.
-He’s smart, funny, spontaneous, adventurous, caring, sensitive, artistic, creative, happy, trusting, trustworthy, honest, and engaging. Basically, going back to point #1. Too good to be true.
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I thought I was going to be able to come up with more than this. And I cannot. Maybe there isn’t anymore? Maybe he’s not as unrealistic as I think he is. Maybe he’s just what I need, what we both need. And maybe I shouldn’t be scared to let people in anymore. Maybe I should let him be mine, and mine his. And maybe I should stop thinking of him as Mr. Unrealistic and starting thinking of him as Mr. Perfect. Because that’s really what he is when all is said and done.
Because he makes me smile.
And he cares about me.
We can talk about anything and everything.
For hours.
He holds me whenever he has the chance.
Calls me to say hello and that he was thinking of me.
Takes pictures of himself making funny faces and sends them to me.
Just to know that I smiled that day.
Tells me jokes just to hear me laugh.
Makes me buy a Christmas tree.
And helps me decorate it.
Loves to sit on my couch and drink hot chocolate with me.
He loves the sound of my fingers typing and the faces I make when working on my book.
Because he says he can really hear me think when I do that.
And to him, it’s beautiful.
Because he will not see his family, just to spend Christmas with me.
And I won’t let him.
(Even though I want to…)
Because family is important.
And because he tells me he’s going to marry me someday.
And that he’s never felt that way about anyone before.
And he’s already told everyone that.
Even though most of them have never met me.
He says they know he means it.
Because he does.
And even if he doesn’t mean it, it still makes me smile.
And that’s enough for me.
For now.
**************************
Mr. Perfect.
Perfect.
Freedom.
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Feeling disconnected from everyone and everything I opted to walk to work last night. It was cold, one of the coldest nights we’ve had. But it was breathtaking nonetheless. 28 blocks later I found myself at the doors of job #2. I wished that I could turn back time and allow myself another hour to walk. I felt refreshed, but craved more. Everything needed it. My soul, my thoughts, and even the lonely streets enjoyed my company and wished that I would stay a little while longer.
I was quiet all night at work, just thinking to myself. I had my headphones on for the entire ten hour shift. They know that means I don’t want to be interrupted. And they agreed. Without saying a word about it. Thoughts were moving slowly at one point, cohesive, clear, and heavy. But then they were rampant, speeding in and out of my head as though on an uncontrollable racetrack, a course with no speed limit and no signs of slowing down. I felt anxious and out of control. Soon my heart started racing, I couldn’t focus my attention on anything and I had the shakes.
I bum a smoke from my lead stock employee who, in a thick Irish accent says to me, “Dean! I thought you gave up fags!” I don’t even answer him, just take the cigarette out of his hand and walk out the emergency exit to the roof.
I have been working here for years, and this is my first time smoking a cigarette on the roof. But it was beautiful and I just wanted to feel free! And I don’t know what made me think of it, but the roof seemed like the only “free” place I could have been just then. And I felt alive. I can’t describe it.
Sounds were muted. Wind was strong. Air was clear. Lights were dimmed. And people seemed small and far away. Which is just what I needed. The cigarette felt heavenly. Every deep breath I took seemed to calm my nervous and make things feel as though they were alright. And I wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything it the world.
…And things are alright.
Life Lessons.
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I wonder how I got here. How things got to be so complicated and how I did nothing to prevent it or stop it. I think back to what life was like when things were simple. When everything made sense. When routines were just routines but a way of life. And I enjoyed it. When the world was brighter, or at least my world was.
Everything is dark and gray. The air seems colder than it’s ever been. It doesn’t feel there is any sunlight in the future, no warmth, nothing to look forward to. Walking with my head down seems like the right thing to do. To raise my chin would imply that I am ready and willing to accept whatever is ahead of me. That couldn’t be any further from the truth. In a perfect world I would retire to my mess of an apartment where I would live in pajamas and slippers day in and day out in complete solitude. But, as I have learned time and time again, this is not a perfect world. Far from it.
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I remember hearing this horror story of a man who was depressed. He thought he had it all. His job was wonderful and paid well. He had a beautiful wife and two adoring children who were smart, beautiful, and well behaved. His home was clean and orderly and dinner was always on the table when he arrived home from work. His wife, his high school sweetheart, ironed his shirt every morning before work and readied his coffee and briefcase just before he left. His kids kissed him goodbye in the morning and kissed him goodnight before bed. They got straight A’s and respected their parents and did their homework. His family was close and loving, they were funny and intelligent. They were envied by most.
Until one day he came home to find his wife in bed with another man. His cousin. His best man at their wedding. The one who had comforted him when he lost his father to Cancer just two winters earlier. In a fit of rage, he screamed at his wife and demanded to know how long this had been going on. Much to his dismay he learned it had been going on for years. In fact, his youngest, a little girl, might not even be his. She was eleven by now. Devastated he ran out of the house, dropping his briefcase and coffee mug on the bedroom floor before leaving.
The wife picks up his briefcase and discovers a card and small box had fallen out of it. The card was addressed “The Greatest Love I Have Ever Known”. She knew she probably should not have opened it, but she did anyway. Inside that tiny box was her mother’s engagement ring. The one she had inherited when she graduated high school. Just weeks after her mother had passed away. It was beautiful, but it didn’t fit any of her fingers. It broke her heart knowing that she couldn’t wear it. She stared at it sadly in her jewelry box from time to time. When had he taken it? And how had she not even known?
He had it resized for her. To wear on her right hand. It was cleaned and sparkled brighter than she had ever seen it. As she put it on her finger, one single tear ran down her cheek. She paused before opening the card for fear of what wonderful things he might say to her in there.
“Nancy, after nearly twenty perfect years of marriage, I couldn’t love you any more than I do now. Because my heart might burst otherwise. You are everything to me, and I don’t know what I would do without you. Will you remarry me?”
He shot himself that night in his office. Alone. In the dark. And much to everyone’s amazement, there was no note. No e-mail left behind. No “sign” that he was hurting and no unusual behavior in the recent weeks. No clues. No nothing.
But Nancy knew. She knew that she had taken her children’s daddy away. That she had broken his heart more than he could bear. She had destroyed their beautiful family and shattered any chance of a normal life for her kids. She knew.
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What stunned me the most was that this man could take his own life. He was so low that he truly felt that he couldn’t go on any longer. Life was no longer important. His children’s lives were no longer a concern. He thought only of himself and what he could and couldn’t handle. He didn’t think about whether or not his kids could handle it. And he never even gave them a choice.
But there are multiple things in this story that are horrifying and things that are not as bad as they seem on the surface.
He left his wife and young children to fend for themselves. He was selfish and didn’t worry about their safety. He left his wife feeling guilty for the rest of her life, thinking about how it was all her fault and her children would not have the wonderful lives they were meant to have had she not slept with his cousin.
But his children, should they learn from this, could go one of two ways. They could be weak; letting the past hold them back and frighten them about so many things in the future. Or they could be strong, learning early that life is not fair and ready to entertain whatever life’s tragedies will be thrown their way.
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I have seen beautiful things. But I have seen horror. I have watched loved ones die slowly over the course of year while in pain. I have buried friends that were just too young to die. I have seen what being selfish can do to people, others, and themselves. I have witnessed deceit and injustice.
But now matter how bad things got for me, I was never selfish enough to take my own life. Giving up was just not an option. And it never will be. I will push on. Always. Getting stronger with each obstacle thrown in my path in hopes of tripping me, or slowing me down, or encouraging me to stop the journey all together.
Life continues.
Not forever.
And not for everyone.
Which is why I value every fucking second that I have.
Because I am lucky to each and every one of them.
Luckier than some.
No matter how hard it gets.
Where to go from here.
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In a discussion with a friend over the difference of “compromise” and “sacrifice” some feelings of mine surfaced. I need to get them out. I have (and know this about myself) a terrible habit of bottling all of my feelings up, pretending to be strong, and pushing forward. I don’t know any other way. I suppose I get this from my dad. He’s been doing it for thirteen years, since my mom passed away. He never let us see him hurting, even though we all know he was, and still is, and will forever.
I can never share these feelings with L for fear of hurting her. But I do need to get them out and learn to get them out regularly so as not to get to the point I am at today. I have had better days, but today I feel as though I might burst into tears if I simply drop my pen on the floor. And it didn’t occur to me that I was even sad, hurting, upset, or anything until my friend and I had a discussion. Which means that I have gotten so good at bottling it all up that I even fooled myself into thinking I was happy. How sad is that?
She makes me nervous. L. And I don’t exactly know why. She makes me anxious and stressed. I often get the shakes when she gets home from work at night. Something about the sound of her walking in the door at night makes me uneasy. I fear so many things at once and I can’t even describe them all. I wouldn’t do it any justice… But I am going to try anyway.
I fear that she is just putting on a good show. Pretending to be the person she was, the friend I knew and trusted before she left. But, theoretically, that could have been a show all along as well. The girl who left for Florida with her best friend’s boyfriend, that could be the real L. Who is who? Has she been the same L all along and just made a bad decision in the heat of the moment? In a rush of what she felt was love? For the first time? And was not was willing to give it up? Not even for a friendship she assured me that she treasured? Was she blind to it all and had he convinced her to do it? Is she as naïve as I always thought she was? Or was that all a show also? I don’t know. And I suppose there’s no real way to tell.
I fear that one day she will walk in that door and the ex will be with her. And how would they act? Would they be back together? Would they parade their love in front of me in hopes of hurting me even more? Would she leave with him again? And take Calvin with them? The baby I have grown to love more than anything. The one that I can’t imagine not being there for when he grows up. The one I have already thought about high school graduation gifts for. And ways to save for college tuition, and the day he might be married? It’s one thing to fall in love with a baby, but to fall in love with a baby that you live with, and take care of more than the biological mother does, and provide for financially, solely, it would feel impossible to give him up. I don’t know that I could give him up. I don’t ever want to give him up.
Will I come home from work one day and find all of my belongings gone with L and Calvin?
This baby means so much to me. Even if I wasn’t ready for him. And even if he is not mine. Every time I see his face, I can’t help but smile. I think of him while I’m at work and I radiate. Even the sound of him crying in the middle of the night will make me glow because I know he’s here, and he’s real, and he loves me. You can see it in his eyes. It’s like watching a miracle. He knows so much already and he’s still taking it all in. He’s always looking, always seeing, always feeling, always learning, and I am so thankful that I get to be a part of it. And I want to be a part of it forever.
I am so very close to asking L to either let me legally adopt Calvin and become sole guardian of him, or obtaining shared guardianship over him, so that if the ex does come back and things go sour with them again, I know that Calvin will legally have a place to go, and a place he can call home and feel comfortable in, and be taken care of always. Regardless of where his “parents” are in their lives and their relationship. I want him to not only be safe, I want him to feel safe.
But before I act on any of this, I must think it out some more.
A glimpse at book #1.
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Chapter Nine
The feeling of being lost was becoming unbearable. She dreaded the day. The morning when she would have to open her eyes and start her life. The uncontrollable act of being, breathing, thinking, seeing, believing that life, her life, had a purpose, a meaning, for forcing her to exist in a world she couldn’t help but hate. A life she wished she had never had, a feeling of abandonment that she could not escape.
Still, she woke on time as usual. She took a shower and got dressed as usual. As always she took the same subway to work, the same dreaded C train uptown. And just as predicted, she stopped at the local coffee shop for her usual.
“Large black tea. Two bags, one sugar please. And I’m going to grab a Times on the way out.” $1.62 for the tea. $1.25 for the Times. $2.87. Perfect change. Just like everyday. Because every night she laid it out on her dresser so that she could easily slip it in her pocket just before walking out the door ensuring that she would spend no more than 1.87 minutes in the coffee shop in the morning.
She found herself preoccupied all morning. Ignored phone calls and procrastinated attending her weekly meeting with her boss. She couldn’t focus, didn’t want to focus, and didn’t even really try that hard. She decided that she couldn’t be there. “They wouldn’t blame me” she assured herself. So before 10:30am she had left her office and found herself sitting on the subway. Not really wanting to go home, she decided to let her heart choose for her head for a change. She figured she would just get off when she felt like it, because something made her feel that way, because there was no reason not to.
Before long she found herself at Central Park. She had been there so many times in her life. It was just a park. Just grass and some trees. People, couples, babies, dogs lying on blankets soaking up the last of the summer sun. There was nothing different about the park today than any other day. Except the fact that she was alone now. Abandoned and deserted.
But still, the air was so sweet, the sun was warm and she felt like if heaven could exist on Earth, even for just a small glimpse in time, she was walking through it right now. The world was at peace and it caused her heartbeat to cease so that she may take it all without being interrupted by the slow beating of her broken heart. With eyes closed, face towards the sky, she took a deep breath and beamed as bright as the sun. She knew she would be alright, now matter how hard it was. She was strong and willful and there would be nothing to hold her back. Because, she wouldn’t let anything hold her back, because she was sick of being held back. Because something always held her back.
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She thinks back to the day they met. While they were together she wished she had a romantic story to tell of the time they were first introduced. It was nothing special in anyone else’s eyes, but it was to her anyway, because that was the day she met her first real love.
She remembered what it was like to go home to someone every night. She remembered what it was like to smile everyday because she wanted to smile. She recalls how it felt to be envied for having what others perceived as the perfect life. She knows what it means to belong completely to someone else. How it felt to give her heart, beating fast then slow, fast then slow, and place it someone else’s hands. To watch as they carried it around and she carried their’s. She understood that her life was not just hers anymore, it was a “theirs’” and she was accepting of that. In fact, she had welcomed it. She willingly gave up many things that she loved. She acknowledged his faults and their differences and paid no mind to them. She was happy. She was happy.
Now is a different time for him and for her, for them. But she agreed, after many hours of trepidation, she decided that now was her time. She would live the life she always wanted to live. The one she gave up for him, for them.
“This is a new beginning, a bright new foundation with promise and potential!” She thought to herself. “Who am I trying to kid? I’m never this god damn optimistic. It’s a new beginning. That’s about it. But I’m going to make it a great one. Because I don’t know how many other beginnings I’m going to get.”
Me? Intimidating?
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She frantically types on her laptop. Her fingers seem cartoon-like they’re moving so fast. Her face is serious, and her eyes never leave the computer screen. Handsome men walk past her, sometimes twice each in hopes of catching her eye. But her eyes never move. They hardly even blink. One man even gets brave enough to interrupt her.
“Excuse me? May I have the sugar?” He motions towards the community sugar pourer. He is hoping for more than just the sugar pourer. He yearns for the eye contact, a half smile/smirk even, and an introduction would be ideal.
“Yea, no problem.” She reaches behind her laptop, picks up the sugar pourer and hands it to the gentleman without once looking away from what she’s working on. In fact, she’s still typing just as fast, but with only one hand now.
He hesitates. “Thanks.” She doesn’t acknowledge his thanks or his presence. He looks crushed. And I wonder, why didn’t he ask for the sugar on my table? It’s not that I wanted him to, but I thought it was strange that she was clearly working hard on something and he had no problem interrupting her, and yet he didn’t even notice that I was in the room, and reading leisurely with an unused sugar pourer on my table as well.
Perhaps it is because I do not have long blonde hair as she did. Or that my eyes are not ice blue. Maybe I don’t appear as important as she does since I am not typing on a laptop on my coffee break as she appears to be doing. Maybe I don’t look single, though I am. Is it because I was not wearing any make-up? My suit was not as expensive as hers? Maybe it’s because my heels were only three and a half inches tall as opposed to her four inch heels.
King walks in and we share less than ten minutes of small talk before I ask him why he thinks that man didn’t ask me for the sugar. I love to know another person’s point of view and why it is that men do the things that they do. And King willingly shares his opinion.
“Dean, you have to understand that you’re not like most women.” He tells me something that I already know, so I just nod and await to hear more. “Men are very simple creatures.” I would love to agree whole-heartedly but something inside me tells me it’s not as simple as that, that there’s more to men than people, even other men, give them credit for. And still, he continues. “You are not what men would consider approachable.” I didn’t know how to take that. Was I being complimented or insulted?
“I don’t understand. I thought I was easier for men to approach because I am not like most women.”
“As much as men don’t want to admit it, they are instantly attracted to the women who appear to be high maintenance. But in the end there’s nothing there other than lust. You’re the kind of woman men can fall in love with. Because if men were given the opportunity to build their perfect woman, you would be it. You’re beautiful, and not the typical kind of beautiful. You’re the girl next door kind of beautiful but with the edge that men love. You have a fantastic sense of humor and a heart made of gold. You’re loyal, adventurous, and open-minded. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, incredibly talented and have so much potential.” He pauses, and I think it’s because he noticed that I blushed. “I just mean that you’re the kind of girl that men would love to bring home to Mom and marry, but someone to have fun with too. You’re the best friend and the lover, that’s rare. You look just as sexy in a short, little cocktail dress as you do in jeans, a hoodie, and a baseball cap.”
“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”
“Well, there is one. Like I said, you don’t appear to be high maintenance. Your nails are nice, but one solid color and they’re your’s. You don’t have highlights in your hair and you have no make-up on. Now, you don’t need it, but it sends a different kind of message to men. She’s over there typing like a madman, and while I don’t know her, I am willing to bet my life on it, that she has nothing more important to say than you do. That she’s probably not even half as smart or funny as you are. That she’s not as interesting or caring as you. And quite honestly, Dean, you’re sitting in a coffee house alone drinking a black tea with nothing in it reading the New York Times in a pant suit. I must say, that is a beautiful set though. Ann Taylor?”
“Yes. On sale!”
“I love it. I always tell you that winter white is your color; you need more of it in your wardrobe. Anyway, see how she’s wearing a pink suit? Much more feminine. Not that anything about your suit is masculine, because there isn’t. And actually, though she’s wearing a skirt and you’re wearing pants, you look better in your suit than she does in hers. I can tell she got hers on sale too, and it’s not the right size or a flattering cut on her. But most men don’t look into the clothes as much as I do. Her make-up is way too heavy and her hair needs to be dyed again if she wants to keep it blonde. Dark roots aren’t ‘in’ anymore. Again, there are only about 2% of straight men who notice those things. Including myself.”
I know that if I let him, he could go on forever. Since I don’t really have anything important to share with him during this lunch, I will just let him continue enjoying my tea and taking it all in.
“I know that you love tea and are not a coffee drinker. You love the Times and hate the Post. You would NEVER dye your hair blonde and wouldn’t dream of ordering a drink that takes 20 minutes to say. And because you’re sitting alone in a pant suit, you scream ‘feminist’.”
I am not a feminist. And if I were, there would be nothing wrong with it except that the average New York male feels threatened by them. And for that, I am come across as unapproachable. Especially when in work clothes. In jeans, a tee shirt, and flip flops, it would be a different story.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover” people will tell you. And I will tell you “Don’t judge a person by their drink of choice, reading material, and hair color.”
