Giving Up The Ghosts

Last night, I had a dream about the first boy I ever really liked and had a mad, raging, multi-year-long crush on. It was an interesting dream, because in it, he was just as blase and indecisive as he had been in real life. Finally, driven to the end of my proverbial rope by despair and out of my wits with frustration, I wrote him a letter, outlining the fact that as long as he couldn't choose to keep a monogamous relationship either between me and him or him and my friend, I was done-- I wanted nothing to do with him. I upheld my promise pretty well-- until we survived a life-or-death situation together, caved under the pressure, had sex again, and then I got to confront my friend while helping her move from her apartment about the fact he was playing us both.

It was an emotionally-charged, fascinating dream-- possibly made more interesting by the appearance of the ex at the tail-end of it, as well as the fact that I knew that my first crush was actually the symbolical representation of my last relationship. I woke up, utterly fed up, and started thinking about the lengths that women will go through to try to keep a relationship.

I have never been a fan of the ultimatums, unlike much women. I firmly believe that if you're going to make a "if...than" statement, you should be willing to stand by it under pain of death, dismemberment, or break-up, and, as my dream obviously revealed, I've never really been great at doing that. If a woman gives a man an ultimatum-- "It's done forever and ever until the end of time when the Universe is sucked into a black hole if you ever sleep with another woman"-- and then doesn't actually have the balls to stand by what she said in earnest, it teaches both of them that A.) A woman can say things that she absolutely doesn't mean, and B.) That he can get away with it. I consider both outcomes horrible things. And I'm always quick on the draw to call a bluff. So, instead, I stick to the "Do it once, shame on you; do it twice, shame on me, I'm leaving," mentality. It works, for the most part. In real life, not only was I able to walk away from my first crush when he perpetrated events much like the ones in my dream last night, but I also repeated my feat of fortitude and strength again when the ex repeated similar events, later in my life.

And yet, I find myself still dreaming of them both. What does this say about me; about them?

Despite the fact that we grew up together and still are in casual touch, I hadn't thought about my first crush in months before last night, so I happen to think he was just a handy vehicle for my dream-self to craft the morality lesson of last night's sleep around. As for the ex...well, that's a more slippery slope, but I can explain where the specter of him came from, too. Before I went to sleep last night, I was watching a movie when the dishy main actor suddenly smiled, and in a blinding flash of realization, I realized why I was drawn to him-- he very much resembled the ex, especially when he smiled. I started flipping back through my Rolodex of Previous Relationships, trying to put famous faces to my exes who resembled them. I made the same obvious match of Aaron Eckhart to someone as I had when I'd been seeing him, but, other than him, the only other one of my ex-lovers who I could pin similar faces on was the ex, and as I kept coming up with names of people who I thought looked like him-- the guy from the movie; Emile Hirsch; Adem Ljajic-- I started wondering why, to me, he was one of my most recognized faces. It wasn't the fact that he was my longest running on-again, off-again thing; it wasn't the fact that I truly loved him-- I truly love my most recent ex, but I was fucked if I could come up with a doppelganger for him, so there goes that theory. I will admit to the fact that in his heyday, the ex was certainly one of the most striking and handsome men I have ever seen, let alone been with, so maybe that was it. We human beings can be incredibly shallow, after all.

The ex was beautiful, and he and I shared a lot of emotional history-- and hysteria-- together. But does that, and the fact that I can still catch glimpses of him in other people mean that I in any way desire him back? Oh, helllllllll noooooooo.  Let's face it, I'm a little bit of a masochist, and a little pain never really hurt anyone, but I would have to be declared clinically insane to ever go back to him. THAT much pain and turmoil he put me through just isn't worth it; no matter how attractive he was, no matter what we had in common; no matter the fact that we shared friends, professions, and a common life. I remember how miserable I could be when I was with him, and in general, I tend to believe that there is one thing human beings should never actively seek out to be, and that thing is miserable. Learning that lesson through him-- and, in some ways, the baby starter steps to it with my first crush-- was possibly one of the defining moments of my life thus far, and it has always served as a valuable lesson every time another relationship starts to turn the same way. I am more important to myself than a man will ever be, no matter how much I happen to love him. And if he makes me miserable, well-- then someone has to go, and it's sure as hell not going to be me. One of the most important things you can ever learn is how and when to go about giving up the ghost of relationships failed, past, and never to be repeated again.

XOXO

The Anti-Rebound

Last night, I went out for impromptu drinks with a guy. It's not like I went to my night class thinking, "Whelp, it's the last class of the semester and everyone is ridiculously stressed in Hell Week before Finals, so why don't we choose now to find someone to go out with, eh?" But that's what happened. As we chatted instead of working, and added each other on Facebook (the "hey, I'm interested in you" move of the 21st century,) we realized we had some mutual acquaintances in common-- namely, my most recent ex and all of his friends. It's official. I have to move out of Vermont. I have dated EVERYONE.

This got me thinking about one of the most ugly terms in the dating world-- the "rebound." While both my new friend and I were very open with each other about the fact that we had both recently gotten out of serious relationships and were still recovering from them, I knew what word would be on everyone else's lips were they to know that three weeks after the Hindenburg crash-and-burn-in-flames end of my last relationship, I was downtown slinging back beers on someone else's tab. While the most recent ex is undoubtedly taking a new girl out on the town, it makes me wonder-- what's the double-standard for switching dating interests so quickly? Do his friends care? Do they miss me? And do rebounds really matter anymore, or are they just another way to brush the dust of your last relationship off of yourself?

While my friends are glad that I'm back on the horse that so uncharacteristically bucked me off with aplomb, I find myself questioning what my dating and relationship mentality has evolved to. Though I still mourn the loss of my last romance, as it was a great one right up until the point we suddenly weren't together anymore, I've realized something that's become equally evident to others-- after over half a decade of dating, it's become harder to get as attached to someone (or the IDEA of someone,) and easier to deal with and mend from failed attempts at love than it used to be. For the five-plus month duration of my last relationship, I always maintained the mentality that nothing was guaranteed; it could end the next day. I was guarded with my mother and friends; less than hopeful when making reservations for one extra seat for my graduation dinner. So when it suddenly ended, I was somehow more prepared and less affected than I'd ever been previously. And healthy or not, that's how I found myself out last night with someone who potentially knows my ex even better than I do. (Slightly hilarious, I'll admit.) It wasn't because I'm some callous bitch who thinks all men are expendable and I don't know how to be or want to be single-- it's because I want to NOT be a callous bitch and learn how to acknowledge and move on from the end of a previous relationship as best as I can.

We tend to look at rebounds as some meaningless, interim fun. But the best part about last night for me wasn't getting the validation that I still got it, but rather, bonding with a guy over getting past the past, and having us both realize that we could have a good time out with a member of the opposite sex again. (It was a little bit like Heartbreaks Un-anonymous, not gonna lie.) To me, THAT was more valuable than scoring a second date, though, this girl's still got it in her. So, to make it clear, people, it's not a rebound-- it's a growth opportunity.

XOXO

Spring Cleaning

I look down, and still see your
Pubic hair
On my bath mat.
There probably isn’t a less
Romantic line
Anywhere in the rest of the poems in English in the world,
But it’s something about how
The sight of it
Makes me
Feel.

You left
Visible reminders behind you everywhere,
From your long and curlies on the bathroom floor,
To the hole you accidentally punched in my wall when last
You came.

I separate your socks from
My socks you wore,
Tossing
One lone, stretched-out straggler in the wash.
I empty the ashtrays in my room,
Dumping even
The ashes
Of our relationship
Where they will no longer scent my dreams.

Everything of yours you left here fits
In one 12-by-4 inch box.
The hole in the wall will be spackled over, in time,
Just like the cracks in my heart.

XOXO

I know, I normally don't leave poetry here, but as I am hard, hard, HARDER than Ron Jeremy at work to finish my thesis this week, I wanted to give y'all SOMETHING. So "something" became the poem I scribbled out last night, while sitting (majestically) on the toilet. Yup. End-of-college life. It's so beautiful, moving, magical, and FUCKING FRANTIC AND UNCLASSY.

Sex And The College Girl...A Political Columnist?

I don't know how it happened. I really don't know why. I actually really detest politics, or talking about politics, or debating about politics, the product of growing up with a severely politically-rampant father, even though I have strong opinions about a few items-- namely, environmental issues, women's rights, and higher education. Maybe it just affirms my belief that I'm a whore for a by-line. But however it happened, I was asked to be a columnist/blogger for Vermont Commons newspaper, an online and print publication, and I accepted. Stemming from the idea that Vermont could better govern itself as an independent state than as part of the government, it covers everything from politics, to environmental issues, to the localvore movement in Vermont. And I now write for it.

Part one of my installment just hit the web a few days ago. It's called "SEX-CESSION," (of course, what else?) and here's an excerpt from it:

"Everyone has heard horrible break-up stories: The ones where there was lots of screaming and crying and breaking of things. But for everyone who’s thrown their used-to-be-beloved’s clothing out the window and onto the front lawn as the passers-by stopped and stared, there’s been someone who’s been calm and collected and respectful. I personally have not met or been that person yet, but I hear that they’re out there somewhere. Point being, there are good break-ups, and then there are bad break-ups. When you think about it, secession isn’t so much different...

...Sustaining something, be it a relationship between two people or a union of 50 vastly different states, is no easy task. What one person, or one state, needs is different from what another desires. Vermont sleeps next to New Hampshire every night, and while we’re one of the most politically liberal states New Hampshire is as politically conservative as they come. Unlikely bedfellows, yes; and yet the orders coming from the head marriage counselor (the U.S Government) expect that they’ll be treated not just as equals, but as one cohesive unit."

Follow this link to Vermont Common's website to read the entire column.

XOXO

Can I See Some Classification?

Lately, my most over-used phrase has been "He's not my boyfriend." As the boy himself pointed out the other night, he gets why when he kisses me in public, people assume I'm his girlfriend, and sometimes it's easier to just not correct them, and I hear that and am all over with agreeing with it-- I let it slide too, when it's not really important. But still, if I have to tell my mother one more time that he is not my boyfriend, and that she needs to stop telling people that I have a boyfriend in favor of telling them that I'm casually seeing someone, there's gonna be a matricide charge. So, A.) because my mother reads my blog, and B.) because I feel like a primer isn't a bad thing if you're wondering what the hell I'm talking about when I say I'm "seeing someone", here's a written guide on the classifications of relationships:

If you think someone is the bee's knees and they might not even know you exist, you're crushing on someone. Conversely, they might know they exist. They might like you, too. But other than talking and hanging out, if no one's made the first move, you're still just crushing on someone.

If you're being blatantly obvious that you're crushing on someone, and they're talking about other girls or other guys and are asking you for advice or help with landing the opposite (or same,) sex, or call you "bro, man, homie," or any other generic, genderless term of affection, you're just friends. You are in the friend-zone. Even if they were stupifyingly drunk, you're probably not getting any. Also, you could just be friends if they're someone that you've never had a single sexual thought about, and the same is true for them about you. Caveat: If you're NOT being blatantly obvious that you're crushing on them, now might be a time to start, because if they DO also like you and you say nothing, you will still get stuck in the friend-zone. Not, as I hope you want to be, in at least the next classification, where sex is involved.

If you're having sex and he's never hinted at or tried moving things out of the bedroom or car or motel room (other than to change location for sex), you're hooking up. Also classified as fucking, or being fuck buddies.

If he takes you out more than twice and drops cash on you, no matter how much or how little it is, and keeps making noise about wanting to keep taking you out and/or treating you-- you're dating. And he's a keeper.

If you're spending time together, going out, sleeping together (both sexually and physically in the same bed), in each other's top 5 contacts lists, and have met the important people in each other's lives-- roommates, friends, parents, etc.-- you're seeing each other. Now, there are two classifications to seeing each other: casually, and exclusively. "Casually" implies that there's been no exclusivity talk or commitment; that if you don't see him a certain number of times in a week, it's cool, and that both of you respect each other's social lives without needing to be in it 24/7. "Exclusively" just means that you had that chat where you said that you only want to be with the other, and you now have an excuse to castrate him with the closest dull yet pointy object if you catch him with another woman after that conversation.

Another word that you can use in place of "seeing each other" is that you're together. He knows that you're together. You know that you're together. Both your friends know that you're together. The people that see you out and about know that you're together. But just like the difference between "casually" and "exclusively" seeing each other, that girl who he's chatting up at work when you're not there might not know that you and he are together. So get it confirmed in conversation if it's going to bug you. Or if it's been a few months that you've been "together." Then, it's just time to shit or get off the pot. While relationships aren't about sprinting through the classifications or steps, they generally do need to progress, though it takes time to get to know someone, and if you'd like to go to the next level with them. Exclusivity is always the next step in the relationship at this point-- it just takes some people longer to work around to it than others. And if he won't give you his exclusivity, or if you're unwilling to stop trying to get with other people, then it's time to end it...

...AKA: break up. You can use the term "break up" to describe what happened with anyone at any point after hooking up-- it's just easier and clearer what you mean that way, rather than saying "we're no longer communicating," which means you could still be fucking, just not talking. (Hey...it happens.) Even if you were just sleeping together, if you're not anymore, if you had a nasty conversation about why you won't be anymore, you broke up.

NO ONE is anyone's boyfriend or girlfriend until the question is raised and the ok is given to refer to them as such. This would mean that you need to either say, "Hey, would it be ok if I called you my boyfriend?" or he says "I'd like you to be my girlfriend." Even if y'all have been dating and sleeping together for two or more months, if you haven't talked about it outright, he ain't yo boyfran, as my friend Caiti would say. In which case, if he does something above and beyond what he needs to do in your current status, you can tell him he's the best "not-boyfriend" ever. Or if you do something above the call of duty for him or his friends, you're allowed to comment on the fact with your friends that it officially made you the best not-girlfriend ever. The "not" is the most important part of this phrase. It shows that you're aware of the fact you don't have this label, yet are perfectly capable of and willing to do the things that would come with it. Strangely, I prefer the title "not-girlfriend" to that of "girlfriend." I think it's because it means I care about someone enough that I'm willing to do what I don't really have to, just because I want to do it. Caveat: Sometimes it's easier not to fight society's previously conceived conventions and try to explain that someone is not your boyfriend. In these cases, either grin and bear it, as we talked about earlier, or correct them if it really irks you that much, or you feel that you need to our should. If you're stuck for a term to correct them with, "significant other" covers it well as a blanket term. A "significant other" is someone who is the most significant other person in your life that you're in a relationship with-- be it a not-boyfriend or not-girlfriend, or a not-quite-yet-fiancée, or your baby-daddy who isn't thinking about making an honest woman out of you yet, but is in your life and supportive.

If you've moved on to seeing each other exclusively, and have had the labels conversation, you're in a serious, committed relationship. You might now be going on vacations together, be invited to each other's family events, thinking of signing a lease together, or he may have started casually browsing the front window displays of jewelry stores. (Note-- this classification is highly age and maturity regulated.)

If you signed a piece of paper together, exchanged rings, and remember saying "I do," I hate to break it to you, but you're married. That is the only time it is appropriate for anyone to call your girl "the wifey."

And now for the toughest term-- a relationship. A "relationship" can be taken a few different ways. You have a relationship with your parents. You have a relationship with your friends. You have a relationship (and probably, some sort of understanding,) with your landlord. And you certainly have a relationship with the person of the opposite or same sex in your life, regardless of the fact if you're just fuck buddies or if you're in a serious, committed relationship. One of my exes explained it this way, and tricked me into a relationship with him in doing so, which was probably the most clever act a man has ever pulled on me as well as the only way a guy could wrangle me into something: "Technically, we've already had relations (read: sex), so whether you like it or not, we're now in a relationship." It's true-- sex changes things between two people. So does him taking you out, even if you haven't slept with each other yet. And if he's spending nights with you, that's another step up the relationship pyramid right there-- not only are you together, but you also have a different relationship as bed partners. (He steals the sheets, you kick, and you're both learning how to deal with the other one while asleep.) So, if you have a different relationship with him that exceeds your friendship, no matter what it is, from sleeping together to being engaged, you're in a relationship with that person. Again, it can be serious or not serious, but dynamics between the two of you have changed.

So...readers...Mom...next time someone asks you what's going on with you and that dude that they're always seeing you with, or if your nosy neighbor who fancies herself a new-age matchmaker asks you if you're in a relationship, you can tell them, "Yes. I'm casually seeing someone, and I really like him." Case closed.

XOXO

Wild Horses

I've been listening to lots of The Rolling Stones lately; why, I don't know. I guess it was just their time to cycle back into my current playlist. Anyhow, last night after spending about 45 minutes listening to "Wild Horses" over and over again on repeat, it struck me-- undeniably a romantic and heartfelt ballad, and a proclamation of devotion, who was it written for, and what happened to them?

Fast-forward through a bit of research done today, when I could actually think straight enough to formulate a plan of internet trawling attack, and here are some answers: "Wild Horses" was written for the album "Sticky Fingers," which was released in 1971. During this time period, and, we'll assume, the period in which Jagger, Richards, and the band were writing songs for the album from 1966 to 1970, Jagger was in a tumultuous relationship with Marianne Faithfull, who was shrugging the merits of her last name by dallying with Jagger while married to John Dunbar. Nonetheless, she took her son and left her husband to live with Jagger, and the two became nearly permanent fixtures in the hip "Swinging London" scene. Drug use, misuse, overuse, social drama, personal drama, and relationship drama ensued. ("You Can't Always Get What You Want" has also been attributed as being influenced by her, if that's of any sway to your thinking on this matter.) For awhile, Faithfull was his muse, the significant woman in his life, his greatest pride at times, and in others, as when she fell into a drug-induced coma, his biggest mistake. At the end of 4 years, Jagger and Faithfull finally called it quits. Jagger's stated that "Wild Horses" was written while their relationship was "pretty much done," but in the tone and the lyrics, you can still hear the sound of a man who really loved her, even if it was "done."

Jerry Hall, one of Jagger's most well-known ex-wives, has always held that "Wild Horses" is her favorite Stones song, even if it was written about and for another woman.

So, that much time, that much emotion, that much love and devotion, and a song, and it still ended?

We're not exactly living in the time of fairy tales, children. The first time I heard "Wild Horses" was in the movie "Fear" in which a mid-Marky-Mark Wahlberg and a baby Reese Witherspoon play star-crossed lovers...with a murderous twist. In that movie, psychosis was apparently enough to break that devotion. All it leads me to wonder is, where does the love go? After 4 years, lots of living and a life together, when it ends, what really ends? The living arrangements? Seeing them every day? Sharing the coke? But do the emotions themselves end, or is there some part of Jagger that's still the man singing "You know I can't let you slide from my hands/ ...No sweeping exits or off-stage lines/ Could make me feel bitter or treat you unkind,/ Wild horses couldn't drag me away" for Faithfull? After all, you can take away the actions, but they will never lose their meaning.

XOXO

Being Yourself... Apologetically.

In every girl's life, there's that moment in their youth when they look back at their past, and suddenly see the huge, purple elephant standing in the middle of the room, and do a perfectly executed forehead smack/"Oh shit!"

I recently had mine in regards to my last relationship. Enough time and distance had finally passed to allow me to step back, look at it non-judgmentally, and try to sort out who did what to whom and where and when it went nose-dive-spiral wrong. It didn't take that long, because when I looked back, I saw something odd: It wasn't a relationship that had two distinct characters in it. It was a relationship that had three. And sometimes, more.

Maybe it doesn't come as a surprise, knowing that I'm the anti-dating, anti-commitment snarky love harpy that I am, but we started as TV-and-drinks night hook-up, nothing overly interesting. Yes, we clicked, yes, there was intelligent conversation and good humor and great sex, but I was not doodling hearts on my notebook the next day in class. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. What was interesting was when he texted me 5 days later around 1 in the morning, to check in because he "just hadn't heard from me" since that night. I was just trying to play it cool and keep things normal, but when we finally switched over to voice-on-voice action via the phone instead of thumb-on-thumb, it became clear that our objectives were not eye-to-eye. I told him I was leaving for Italy soon, and not looking to start something. He countered back with, "Technically, we've already had relations, so like it or not, we're already in a relationship."

"I'm fine as long as you don't actually say that to me," I told him, fighting down hyperventilation. (I think until this day he still didn't know that my body actually locked up when he said that "R" word and I could only breathe in shallow gasps for the next 5 minutes.)

"I didn't expect that to happen," he told me, and I swear to god I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, please. I knew it was going to happen. You don't think I go everywhere with an overnight bag, do you?" (Actually, that's a very smart idea, and do as I say, not as I do myself.)

"Ok, I had some idea when you came over that we would end up sleeping together, but I didn't expect anything other than that would happen. But what could go wrong in 2 months?"

"Oh, sweetheart, you don't know me."

Honestly, as in, 100% brutal, public honesty right here and now, I didn't expect anything to happen, either. Honestly, brutally, publicly, the only thinking I'd done about it, and about him, and about me previously was "You're hot. You're really, really hot, and I'm going to just keep having sex with you until you won't let me anymore, and then I'm going to point at you and say, 'Do you see that gorgeous man? Yeah, I tapped that,' and brush my shoulders off." That was my game plan. I wasn't initially serious. At all. I was just seriously horny. And was just thinking he was seriously hot. But he was also raising some good points, and I hadn't connected with anyone like that in...ummm...ever. So we decided to take things slow, until I went to Italy, or until we drove each other crazy, whichever came first. (Keep in mind, I'm a One-Month Girl, and Italy was 2 months away. I was hedging bets on it crashing and burning before then.) I was being honestly, brutally, totally myself. I wasn't playing games, and I wasn't going to sign on to something that I didn't see myself wanting to do. A lot of the time, women tweak aspects of themselves or their personalities to appeal more to men, but it was odd-- I hadn't done anything but be exactly myself with him. I had no ulterior motives. I wasn't trying to impress anyone-- in fact, I believe I tried warning him off. And strange thing-- he seemed to like that. He seemed to like me, the me that not even all my friends get to see.

So things progressed. I was spending at least a night a week at his place (he never even saw my place), meeting his friends, doing the not-dating thing. It was casual; it was comfortable; it was perfectly in my comfort-zone. One night, he called to see if I was doing anything more exciting than painting my nail and watching Sex and the City reruns. (Fact.) I wasn't, and he invited me to go with him to a friend's birthday party. I declined, saying that if it was just a party, I'd be up for it, but since it was this girl's birthday, I didn't want to show up as a stranger. It was like that, for awhile-- he'd say he was going to a show or concert, and I'd say I'd meet him after; he'd call and see if I wanted to spend the night and go to our morning class together, and I'd be already in bed and unwilling to get up and drive through the winter's chill just to get into his bed; he'd say he'd ditch bar night with the boys if I wanted to come over, and I'd decline saying that he needed boy time and I needed girl time (fact #2, and also, something very important to keep on your mind when you're under 21 dating someone over 21-- they need their bar time. And you can't go. So don't impede.)

I wasn't one of those girls who wanted to be included in everything, though I'd help break down a performance space and drive his buddies home if they needed a ride. I baked brownies to stay on his roommate's good sides, and tried to keep the late-night noise down. And then something odd happened-- I started to actually fall for him. It wasn't just about the sex anymore-- it was about his bookshelf. His vocabulary. The way if he tipped his head back and said "Oho!", you knew he was getting ready to contradict something you just said. The way he'd call, just to say hey, if he hadn't seen me that day. His eyelashes. The way we both regarded bantering as a form of foreplay. How he would personally say good-bye to my friends and check in to see what my plan was before we'd leave someplace. The fact that we functioned pretty well together and surprisingly had a lot in common. I started to actually say "yes" to those invitations. It wasn't all great-- we went through some shit that was rough and ultimately took its toll on us, but I started to think about not sabotaging it. Maybe, I don't know, but I've heard of this weird thing that normal, committed people do-- nurture it?

And then I went away. For 4 months. That's a long time. At first, we Skyped a few times a week, or, when I lost internet, we'd have trans-Atlantic calls. Some weeks, we talked constantly. Others, not so much. I was fine with it-- I was busy exploring a new place and leading a new life, and he was the first one to bite the bullet and say "I miss you," which went over really well with me, as I had tried to say it at the end of the conversation before, and literally had choked. But he got that. It was difficult, yes, but whatever it was, it was working ok for the situation, and ok for me.

After Spring Break, what had previously been a pretty steady stream of communication started to trickle down. It became harder to get a hold of him, which was hard and frustrating for me because it was also when I was having the most issues being abroad. I got public-ally felt-up and molested by a stranger. I got bronchitis, with no doctor, and no drugs. I was getting broke. I had to find someplace to live for the next year while across the ocean from America. I was planning my senior year and starting to think about grad schools. I was really homesick. And he just didn't feel "present" anymore. About this time was when I realized he was seeing other women, which explained a lot.

Italy proved to be my undoing. Not that I'd ever take the experience back for, literally, the world, but in the last few dozen days before coming back home and moving back to Burlington, I got more and more keyed up. The girl who previously wanted a very achievable, functional, next-to-nothing relationship now wanted everything. And wanted everything to go perfect. I wanted my fairytale ending-- a reward for all my hard work. I wanted to actually be able to say "relationship" without fainting. I found myself daydreaming about things like washing his dishes and grocery shopping. I started looking at music calendars for shows we both liked. I started calling back to the U.S, just to whine about how much I wanted to be gone, and be home. A lot. If I couldn't get through to him (which, by the point, was more un-often than not), I would call my closest guy friend, conveniently his best friend, and bitch. (I am so sorry.) In other words, I jumped the gun. Not just any gun. I jumped the Heckler & Koch G36. (And yes, go to that link and look at the photo so you can see just how far ahead of the horse I put the cart. That thing's a beast.)

I think I temporarily misplaced my identity with that of one of Mad Men's housewives.

I ended up becoming one of Those Girls-- one of the whiny, insecure ones who seeks constant validation from her partner because she's not secure enough in what she wants. And I ended up rendering myself wholly unattractive and pushing him away, before I even realized what I was doing. I effectively took that G36, and shot myself in the foot. Or, maybe the heart. (And this is now the part in which now that I've claimed my share, I also acknowledge that he was a particular dick for a bit, too. So it wasn't all him, but it wasn't all me, either.) I went from being someone who knew exactly what she wanted, and exactly what she was comfortable with, and exactly what was fair to ask or be expected, to someone whose thoughts on commitment and relationships flip-flopped every other day and was getting increasingly demanding while at the same time never being pleased with the results, even if they were exactly what I had asked for. I became (and I'll say it since I know you have,) a total, raging, whining, needy cunt-bitch. No, I wouldn't have wanted to be with me, either. In fact, I hated myself while I was doing that, but it was like a personal train wreck I just couldn't stop-- I'd built up enough momentum, it just had to run its course. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.

And this is what I have to say about this whole affair-- my Cliff Notes, if you will:

- Know what you want out of a relationship, always. It may change, but at no point should you be waffling around about it. If you are, it means you either don't want it enough to still be in it, or you're too confused about something in yourself to be a productive member of it.

- Do not, do not, DO NOT become someone who picks petty fights over text, or calls or texts numerous times a day for unimportant reasons. Here's an example of when it's ok to call and/or text more than a few times in one 24-hour period: Medical emergencies. If pertinent, timely plans have become subject to change. If you've just won tickets to a Philadelphia Eagles game. Here's when it's not ok: When you just want to "hear his voice." Again. 2 hours after the last call. When it's to say that you still haven't found your sunglasses, and can he please check his car again? When you know he's at work, or with his family. When you are drunk.

- When things change, you've gotta put the Big Girls pants on and talk about them. Things like emotions. Goals. Where you see yourself in a month, or 5 months. Where you see him in that. If you don't see him in that. If you'd like to see him in that. Mind-reading (still) is a lost art.

- After the break-up, wait it out. You're gonna be sore, and tender, and touchy, and bitchy for awhile. For maybe, a long while. Wait until you sort yourself out to sort anything else out. Maybe that's why I'm in such a total "no nothing" zone right now. No relationships. Nothing even casual. I just want to be me, and figure out what that means again, and not have to worry about anyone else. (Though, 2 months later, even when you're creatively slurring their name paired with rhyming insults at 3 AM, you're still going to be worrying about them. Worrying if their life's on-track. Worrying if they're remembering to feed the cat. Worrying if they're getting a chance to bitch about their work/parental/friend issues with a caring ear like they need to. Worrying if they're just eating pizza every night and haven't seen anything green or leafy in weeks. Worrying if they're happy. Not fair, and it sucks, but true.)

- In some wise dude words, "It's between you and him." Remember that. Act accordingly. At one time, you liked each other. You still might, half of the time. So be nice to his friends. Be nice to his property. Don't talk shit about him. Have some manners, and bitch about it with your roommate later. (All this personal informational is strictly for educational purposes, from my side of things. Another "do as I say..." moment.)

- Space, like silence, is sometimes golden in a relationship. You need time alone or with your friends. He needs time alone of with his friends. Doing everything together, or expecting to do everything together, is not sexy. It's suffocating. I never appreciated sleeping alone more than the nights after I spent the one before with him.

- Goddamn, it's a phone, not a texting device. That is still your cell phone. Stop with the day-long texting, and actually take 45 minutes to talk. It is so important. Honestly, that's one of the things that won me over and made me go from "just another bro" to "I'm really feeling this Joe."

- If you see yourself becoming that Crazy Bitch, please, for the love of god, try to stop or have someone step in and perform an intervention/exorcism.

That's what I have for you in hindsight. The rest, you'll have to take and make up as it comes along on your own. But believe me-- heed me. If I could go back, fix it, make it right, and take it seriously, I would. Maybe not now, but when I'm ready. Don't fuck yourself over, too. You deserve a whole hell of a lot more than that. You're all smart, pretty, fabulous girls. So start acting like it, and not someone else.

XOXO

The Curious Evolution of John and Jane Doe

When we were young girls, we cared about what the other girls thought. If they liked us; if they liked our new dress; if they were talking about us. Boys had cooties, and we didn't care what the boys thought. Times passes. We keep the girls who are close and true to us, and we stop caring about what the rest think-- if they're talking about us, what they're saying, if they like our new dress. It doesn't matter anymore. Skin's thicker. Gossip holds less sway. You couldn't give a shit about what she thinks about you, but something curious has happened-- now it's about what he thinks about you. Boys don't have cooties anymore-- they have the sickness you desperately want to catch.

We care, desperately, about what they think. We want them to like us. We want them to think we're smart and funny and warm and genuine. We want them to like our friends, and our friends to like them, and their friends to like us. We want things to be smooth, but not too smooth that it gets staid or boring-- just smooth enough to be comfortable, like their old worn-in t-shirts.

We pretend, after it's done, that it doesn't matter, that we didn't care that much, that we're absolutely fine. You can all pretend, and you all can act, all you like, but when it comes down to it, this is usually a performance put on before a clever audience who knows your stage tricks, so about the only thing that you have left to perform with is your dignity and hopefully, a mutual respect for what you had together.

Even if this happens, we still don't want to believe curtains are curtains. We want to believe that we cannot be left. We want to believe that coming back is possible. We want to believe that we are special alone. But the truth is that we are all readily replaceable, like parts-- not the whole machine. True, without some parts, it won't work, won't function at its best. But others will suffice. It'll keep moving.

As Patience and I sat up till 4 AM last night and compared notes about this, we came across a curious phenomenon-- despite all this insight and all the fieldwork from dating for years, we still cannot makes heads or tails out of what the lies we were told were, and what the truths were. Is it that you care about us, or do you just want to bang other chicks? Was it the weed or beer talking, or did you really at one time think we were something special? How much said was a quick charm, and how much said was true? Were you sincere? Or are you just an extremely accomplished player? And will we ever know the truth?

When it comes down to it, it's just one huge game. Like dating chess.

XOXO

Men By The Numbers

I know I just wrote a post on which I professed that people are not just "numbers", but it got me thinking about my numbers-- not just the number of partners I've had, but the more esoteric things about my relationships. How many of them do I still talk to? How many could I still recognize just by their voice? How much do they know about me? How much time did we spend together? What sort of time was it-- just time for sex, or are they people I spent afternoons or nights or meals or awkward moments with?

I got down to it and compiled some numbers. In an over-arching, long-term hope for things, I'd love to know other people's numbers like this, so we could all start compiling a database of what is normal, what's quirky, what's sweet, what's not, and what real relationships sex lives in the 21st century are really like, dispelling urban myths, and talking openly and honestly. How awesome would that be? And so, I give you...

Men By The Numbers:

Only 1 man knows how I brush my teeth.

Only 2 know where I'm ticklish. (If they remember.)

Only 5 men know how I share (or don't share) a bed. Only 3 of those men actually know what I look like when I'm asleep. Of those 3, only 1 has spent hours around me while I haven't been wearing glasses. And a fun fact: the average number of sexual partners for heterosexual men is 7; for heterosexual women, it's 4. I like being above average.

Only 1 ex and my closest guy friends know what my living space looks like. I tend to be overly mysterious and protective about it.

Only 1 man other than my father has ever cooked for me. Only 2 men I'd been seeing have ever paid for my food. Only 4 have offered. None know how I like my eggs. Only 1 knows how I take my coffee.

I've only had to supply the condom once. ...But I've had to make a point of it twice. 2 guys asked if I was on birth control. Good guys!

4 times I've bought men clothing only to have it crash and burn soon thereafter. Lesson? No more buying men clothing.

Number of times I've been in love: 3. Out of those times, 1 ended after a bloody and prolonged death, 1 will be eternal, and 1 fell out-of-love with pragmatism and change. Number of times I have said those three words out-loud: Never.

Number of times I've been proposed to: 2. Number of proposals I accepted: None.

Number of relationships I've had since I started dating at the age of 16: 9. Practice makes perfect.

Number of those 9 relationships that lasted over a month: 2. 1: Abysmal and too apathetic to end it sooner. The other: A hell of a learning experience. Number of relationships that lasted over 6 months: None.

Number of times a man has surprised me: Once.

Number of men who have up and died on me: 1.

Number of times I've been left: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA. TOO MANY TO COUNT. Number of times I've been the dumper: 2. Most commonly heard excuse: "I think we need to take a break." "Breaks" never happen, FYI. "Breaks" never un-break. Breaks are The End.

Most commonly-cited reason for me ending things with a guy: "I know about her." Number of times I've been cheated on: 3. 1 actually admitted it to me-- thank you. Number of times I picked the other woman out of the crowd: All 3 times. It's an odd and sad gift. Number of men I've cheated on: 2.

Number of exes I've stayed in close contact with: 2.

Most common denominator among the men I've been with: Dark hair.

Favorite type of the opposite sex: Dark hair, dark skin, light eyes. Did you know? People with blue or green eyes are more biologically attracted to other blue or green eyed people because the chances of their offspring being born with brown eyes is a great indicator of either A.) A stray recessive gene, or B.) Unfaithfulness. It's natural pre-natal planning.

Most common letter of first name of men I've dated: A tie between Rs and As.

What I notice first in the opposite sex: Height. Hands. Arms. Eyes. Facial structure. Hairline. Smile.

Who made the first move: Always them. It's a girl's job to make sure that her interest is known. It's a man's job to act on it from there.

What I will remember automatically about every man I've been with until I die: The way they smell, and the sound of their voice. Other odd things I'll remember: Body language quirks, laughs, and bad habits.

Pet-peeves about men I've repeatedly ground my teeth about: Snoring. When asked "How are you," having them answer, but not ask how I am in return. Leaving without saying goodbye. Holding utensils like a barbarian. Breaking plans.

What I appreciate most in a guy: Intellect, and the ability to both dish it out and take it. Bickering is sexay.

I have never believed a man other than my father when told I'm beautiful. ...Though I am susceptible to compliments about my character.

Most commonly-dated ethnicity: Italian. Number of men I was with while in Italy: 0. Irony.

The Good: 4 men have inspired me to write. The Bad: 2 yielded pretty weak stuff. The Best: 2 gave me the roots of the best poetry I've ever written, and 1 gave me looooooots of blog fodder. So you have him to thank.

I've been with more men over 5'10" than under. I've been with 4 over 6 feet in height. I like 'em tall.

I also like them older, though I have been with 2 younger.

4 were musicians. 3 were party-happy. 6 were artistic. 1 was another writer. 1 was a lay-about. 3 had criminal records. At one time, my bio line could have read, "If you have blue eyes, a criminal record, and a weed problem, you'll love me!" 3 of them fit that exact description. Surprisingly, only 1 of those 3 makes my list of Top 2 Disappointments. The other member of that list just confounds me.

The longest I've ever been able to stay interested in 1 man: Over 6 months. Once. The shortest I stayed with 1 man: 2 weeks.

Of those men, I still think of 1 every. single. day.

And the person who may know me best: 1 of those men. What he still doesn't know: Volumes more.

XOXO

Datepocalypse Now: A History Of Disaster.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl with big blue eyes and French-braided blonde hair in a church's preschool room. There was also a little boy with a brown bowl-cut and long, long eyelashes. They were In Love. They talked about their wedding; how many kids they wanted. (Him, three boys. Her, none.) He was going to be a mechanic. She was going to be a vet, and was already resigning herself at the tender age of four to being the breadwinner of their two-to-five-person family. (She had always been a little pragmatic about life.) They played together every day, except the weekends, which always went by far slower than they should for someone who has just learned to tie their shoes, and still doesn't know how to swim or ride a bike. Monday would come again, and she would build with blocks and cuddle stuffed animals and he leaned intently over the Fisher-Price orange and yellow car's hood. It was bliss.

Until one day, when talking about their upcoming-upcoming-upcoming nuptials, the little boy uttered the words that froze the very still-warm and un-jaded blood in our little blonde practicing veterinarian's veins: "Well, I'd either marry you, or Sarah."

The cherubic child glanced across the room at the towering red-headed girl with the short and flippy hair, currently engaged in bullying another little girl for the rice table's shovel. "Ick," she said, and with that, slapped the boy right across his long-lashed face, stomped away, and vowed, "Never again! And NO MORE MECHANICS!"

I've never been great at sharing anything I particularly like, be it cardboard building blocks or a living and breathing man. It's one of my tell-tale only-child hang-ups. It was (hilariously, in hindsight,) awkward for the next 10 years of my life, as Alex, our fickle long-lashed wannabe-mechanic, and I shared the same pediatrician. Every grown woman's worst nightmare is to see an ex when they look like shit-- now imagine being aware of this sentiment at the age of 7, and hacking up a lung, stricken with bronchitis, as your spurned crush, covered in a particularly attractive and blistering rash, glares at you from across the waiting room replete with rocking horses, puzzles, and Highlights magazines. My mother would always point him out, and say, "Look, it's Alex! Why don't you go say hi? You used to play together all the time!" She just didn't get it. And I never forgot Alex, or that feeling that came over me as his statement sunk in and I looked across the room at Sarah, Carrot-Top's Miniature Preschool Bully.

---

Fast-forward 9 years later, and I was in a long-term relationship with what was by all accounts a highly unsuitable man. The problem was, I was 16, and bored, and really couldn't give more of a fuck that the only reason I was staying in the relationship was the fact that I honestly couldn't be bothered to work up the energy to dump him. That was, until New Years' Eve day, when I made the most influential discovery of my teen years until the one two years later in which I found same highly unsuitable man on a gay dating website. (THAT was the pinnacle of maniacal glee of my teen years.) Said boyfriend had been at my house the previous night, and had asked to use our home computer to check his Myspace page. (Ah, yes-- it was in THOSE days.) I had dutifully logged him in so he could Myspace away, remarking aloud that I didn't know he had a Myspace page. "Yeah; it helps keeping in touch with people I went to school with and don't see much anymore." (He was already a college graduate, if this clears up the meaning of the previous word "unsuitable.") I filed that piece of information away, and the next day, typed his name into Myspace's search bar to add him as--wait for it, because I was so excited-- not just my Myspace friend, but as my Myspace boyfriend.

Imagine how quickly that bubbly teenage naivety turned into a sickening feeling of betrayal when I found his public Myspace page, in which he chronicled the process of "soon ending all these girl problems", with helpful comments and a cheer-leading section from the woman of his affections. Who was decidedly not me. In fact, I was the problem. The problem he had been inside of the night before. Which didn't seem like too much of a problem to him at the time.

I got raging drunk at my best friend's New Year's party that night, in preparation to do What I Must the next day, because my very sophisticated 24 year old boyfriend was throwing a very grown-up New Year's Day party in his apartment with the missing slats in the Venetian doors and the posters taped to the walls. A party that his older brother was driving in from Rochester to attend. A party at which I was supposed to pretend to be 18 and going off to NYU in the fall, like I always told his friends I was. (He was the one who actually propagated this rumor in the first place. I played along because I was a theater geek in need of practice, and plus, I already liked the beer that his friends brought over.) A party at which I was supposed to be as sophisticated and sexy as possible. Because doesn't every college grad want to show off his six--...eighteen year old girlfriend?

So I woke up the next morning, shook a hangover off, got dressed up in something that showcased what was already some pretty phenomenal cleavage for someone so young, and picked one of my best friends up who was also invited/was my emotional support. We walked up the back stairs and into the apartment, party already in full-swing, and my boyfriend quickly spotted me (I think I was in something teal?) and waved me over to where he and a guy who sported the same red hair and could only be his brother were standing, holding bottles of Honey Brown. His brother and I shook hands as he said, "Hey, it's so nice to meet you." And then, turning his gaze to my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, added, "I've heard so much about you."

"So nice to meet you, too," I told him, and as soon as he relinquished my hand, turned to my unsuspecting boyfriend and dropped the A-bomb with all the aplomb of a particularly trigger-happy ARA member-- "Oh, I saw your Myspace page. I know all about her. It's so over."

I swear time briefly stopped as I spun on my heel, grabbed my smirking friend's hand, and flounced out, leaving my stunned now ex-boyfriend to explain to all of his slack-jawed and still guests exactly why his trophy girlfriend had just dumped him. I will say-- it was deliciously empowering to my 16 year old self's confidence after being steam-rolled both metaphorically as well as physically by the same man for the past 6 months. I wish every woman could have a bad relationship they didn't care so much about with a shitty revelation like that, just so that they could have that One Shining Moment of Self-Redemption. He called every day for a month straight, begging to be taken back. I haven't talked to him since that New Year's morning over 5 years ago.

---

I've spent most of the day cooling off so I don't say anything totally off-base. But this is what I do need to say: It's not my fault, and it's not my problem. If you want to blame anyone, take a good and long look in a mirror and ask yourself why. You knew full-well. So man up and live with it. I'm not thrilled, either. Did you ever think of that? Did you ever think of the situation you were putting me in, the same situation I lived in in the reverse? And that's more than a little perverse.

It's only taken me 21 years to figure this out, but in the end, it's not, in fact, about what I want; in fact, I want remarkably little from you, if you had taken the time to actually ask me instead of jumping to conclusions. It's about what I need that you can't give me. I need someone who will be there when they say they will be. I need someone who would rather eat bull's balls in public than break a promise when they make one, because "I promise" needs to mean something more than a placation. I need someone who values me without having to look elsewhere to find what I'm missing. I need someone who accepts my flaws, quirks, sneezes, moles and all as much as I accept theirs. I need someone who isn't going to think that the red-headed terror of the sandbox is as much of a catch as I am and can't decide between the two of us. And therein lies the fundamental problem-- since I came back, I've been slowly realizing that you either can't or won't give me what I need yet. A "break" would imply that we were less than already broken, and I'll be honest and say that I've been feeling like it's been shattered beyond some major dedicated repair for awhile. So thank you for finally turning me loose. I hope that you find what you want and what you need, too.

XOXO

The Tough-Love Guide To Splitsville: What Do YOU Want?

This is pretty frank. If you're someone who gets upset easily, you may not want to read it. If you really don't want to know how women go through the after-shocks of "it's over", don't read this. If you wear perpetually rose-tinted glasses, and think true love prevails, this ain't for you.

But if you are going through a break-up, or feel lost, alone, scared, or like you need something to shake you out of it and at the same time make you feel less alone and unloved, read on, sister, or I guess to not be gender-biased-- friend. Hi. I'm not going to say "Let's hold each other while we sob," because that is so not my scene or how I do this, but I may be inclined to say, "If you need the occasional hug, I'm down for that, and in the meantime, let's curl up with a good book and chat and smoke."

So. You're now an Uno that used to be part of a Duo. Join the club. Take a seat. I'm gonna need your full attention. So stop thinking about it for a moment. I'm not going to sugar-coat any of this. I think it's about time we didn't take a "one size fits all" approach to what happens after it's over. If you really want to know how women get through this without going through boxes of Kleenex and repeatedly watching "The Notebook", this is where you want to be. I mean, that's all well and good if it's what gets you through, but not all of us operate like that. Some of us need to know what to expect if we want to get on with our lives, straight-up, no chaser.

Yes, You are Going to Lose Weight: You know how there's that very media-contrived popular image of that woman who's just had her heart broken drowning her sorrows in pint after pint of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby? Well. I have never, ever met a woman who actually went on an eating binge and gained weight after a split. Instead, the norm I have found is that women actually lose weight. This is accomplished in one of two ways: "Do-Something" women usually throw themselves into their gym membership with renewed vigor and burn those pounds away to a leaner, more competitive self. "What-The-Fuck-Just-Happened?!" women usually get thrown right off their appetites and start to whittle away.

Let's break it down. Much to my chagrin, I recently found that when you feel comfortable with yourself and someone else, you eat. Why not, right? You know the term "comfort food"? Yeah. You're happy. You're not worried. You're probably feeling pretty secure. So you want to keep feeding that feeling, either physically or emotionally.

Well, after a split, shock sets in. It's going to happen, no matter how amicably it happens. At first, you may just forget to eat. Hey, it happens. Your mind is preoccupied elsewhere. If you're a smoker, like I am, you can easily mistake hunger for the need to smoke. Which further suppresses your appetite. Then, when you do get back around to that food thing, odd feelings may get dredged up that set you right off of eating. For me, it was disgust. Every time I sat down to eat, my mind would start wandering through what should have been closed and padlocked doors, and I would find myself so physically disgusted that I felt like I might vomit even before putting food in my mouth. I lost 6 pounds in 3 days. Not good. I don't really have 6 pounds to lose. Now, you can locate my hipbones for the first time since I hit puberty, and I'm honestly concerned that a pickpocket in Italy could just pick me up and carry me away instead of dealing with pockets.

Because I can't do this for myself, I'm going to do it for you: DO NOT THINK ABOUT IT. I don't mean the whole mess of affairs (ha), I just mean the things that happened that you couldn't have helped, one way or another. Really. Some things shouldn't be dwelt on. Don't give in to those thoughts that will never, or should never, be answered. You will never, and SHOULD never, know what it was like. You really, really don't want to know the details. So making them up isn't doing anyone any favors, least of all you, lady. And you are who matters right now.

I will say, however, that there is one up-side to losing post-disaster weight: compared to your emaciated African-child frame, your mammeries are going to look more massive than ever. It's the little wins.

Vices, Or "Why Is That Pack Empty Already?": You feel a little used and abused, so now you want to use and abuse something else, right? Alcohol. Cigarettes. Controlled substances. Give me the Stoli, and nobody gets hurt, right? Yeah. We've all been there. I'm not going to preach anything, because I am probably going to be sainted as the Patron Saint of Avoidance Through Substances. But just like the whole eating thing, one day, you're going to start to realize you're not drinking/smoking/toking/using as much as you were previously. That's when you know it is safe to start putting down the bottle/cigarette/bowl/rolled-up bill and step a little further away. And a little further away the next day. And sometime shortly, you will be able to enter civilized company again.

If you're finding this is not the case, and in fact, it's getting worse, do what any responsible user would do: have one "safe" person who knows about your problem and who you would feel comfortable having them snap you out of it, and GO TO THEM. Killing yourself is no way to get on with a better life. And plus, though you may feel hurt, there are so many other people who care about you. I bet you anything, that even if you are unlucky in love, you are incredibly blessed with amazing friends who would do nearly anything for you. I know I am. And most of the time, that unconditional love is even better than regular sex.
...Ok, so that may be a total lie, but, you know what I mean. It's more important.
......Or...ok, I just can't win this one.

Crazy-Bitch Behavior, And Why You Shouldn't Be Doing It: You may want to make a grand gesture. Usually, a pretty crazy grand gesture. But here's the problem: if you want to maintain any sense of decorum or civility with your ex S.O, you can't. No showing up on doorsteps. No beating other women up. No really pissed-off tirades or messages or letters or blog posts. Be a Big Girl. It's such a Catch-22, I know-- you really want to do something to let you blow off all that steam inside, but you'd be best off getting it out sometime when you're really not into the guy or outcome or friendship, anyway. This is what your friends are for. Swear them to secrecy, bug the fuck out, and be done with it. (Also, make them swear up, down, and sideways over your dead body or the closest bottle of their favorite beer not to send any angry letters of their own. Because having scary friends is no way to Win Friends And Influence People. Or ever have your friend and the person who recieved said Angry Letter in the same 20 foot radius ever again. Even though your friend's heart may be in exactly the right place. Make your judgement call.)

Re-Assess Your Situation-- Who Are You, and What Do You Want: Speaking of, by this point in your life, you shouldn't be with anyone who you feel like you're settling for or are apathetic about. You should be with someone who you can be totally, one-hundred-percent yourself around. You should be able to talk to them about whatever you want, and even crack horrendous jokes during foreplay without a second thought. You should not be compromising one iota for anyone else. You should not be afraid to say "this is what I like" and "this is what I don't like." You should know yourself pretty well by now, and if you don't, you should be figuring that out.

I know this sounds much easier said than done, but when you find it, you'll just know it, I promise you-- no games, no worries.

Personally, I am taking my semester abroad in Florence as a self-discovery field-trip. I can already tell you it's going to make me more independent, more confident, and more adept at expressing myself. Whatever else I learn while over there is going to be the surprise. But mostly, it's about getting away to find out who, exactly, I am. Not just who I am in the mirror, what music I listen to, what I like to eat, what I'm not a fan of doing, but what makes me come alive. What makes me scared, and how I can get over it. What I refuse to let go of. What I need to learn to admit to. And where I want to be, physically and theoretically.

What You SHOULD Be Doing: Full Disclosure: I am writing this to you in a massive Princeton hoodie, leggings, and slippers. I haven't showered yet. I haven't eaten yet. In fact, I woke up at 11 AM. Coping comes in all different guises. But what I can tell you is that right now, I am starting to get hungry for some toast. I'm planning on getting dressed to go into town and mail out some paperwork this afternoon. And I'm looking forward to a midnight Jacuzzi tonight.

It's little steps. Get out of bed. Get dressed. Go places. Keep yourself occupied. Take the time to be selfish and do what you like. Do what you want. Make no excuses. This time is about YOU. It's not about being nice or even charitable to whoever makes you feel less than stellar at the moment. The first step to surviving is to recognize what you need. Do so. Follow through. Don't rest until you get there.

A Note to Fellow Writers: I actually found this nugget in the most unlikely of places-- in one of my freshmen year textbooks from "Introduction to Professional Writing." Ariel Gore, author of "How To Become A Famous Writer Before You're Dead: Your Words in Print and Your Name in Lights," devotes a section of the first chapter to heartbreak. And no, I'm not shitting you, I found this is a required course book. This is what she says:

"When bad things happen to writers, there's always the silver glimmer of a good story. Damn, we think when we're facedown on the rain-wet pavement, nose broken and bleeding, coughing betrayal. This is gonna make a great story...Every time you expose yourself to annihilation, you come that much closer to grasping all that is indestructible in a soulful human being" (Gore, 31-32).

I bolded that last segment because I think that's the part you should focus on. Yeah, you may get a great story out of it, which, I have to admit, is the crutch that most writers and poets fall back on with biting black humor, or, like I do, get some cathartic writing out of it, but more than anything, the fact is that through the writing process after a big spill, you learn more about yourself, and what you really need. Seriously. Sit down with a notebook and some paper and start some stream-of-consciousness writing about what happened. You'll be amazed at what comes out of you: things you never said, things you did say, things you barely consciously remember, things you're writing down because you never want to forget, things you didn't know you had to say. And maybe, somewhere in that lovely chaotic mess (because I am a big fan of chaos), you may find exactly what it was you were looking for all along. Maybe it's an answer. Maybe it's a cold, hard fact. Maybe it's a new revelation about yourself. Maybe, it's where your soul really lies.

...So I took all day to write all that, and then thought...

That's kinda bullshit.

I mean, what is the most important thing right now? What is really resonating with me? It's not the fact I haven't eaten a square meal in a week. I couldn't care less. It's not the fact that I'm feeling a little like a schlub. I'm home; the cats are the only ones who can judge me, and they do that silently. And yeah, I'd really like to help other people out in the same spot I am right now, but that's not why I'm writing. It's the fact that I was rocked pretty hard. And how?

I find, usually, that the best thing that I can do when I'm stumped is to find someone else's creative content, in a similar vein to that I am working through, and watch, read, or experience it, completely open to interpretation. Sometimes, something jumps out. Sometimes, I get hit with a blinding flash of the obvious. And sometimes, I have to go through it a few times before I really get it. (Hello, "Dazed and Confused". Both the movie, and what it rendered me.) I've been watching the movie "The Women" a lot recently. Adapted from the 1936 play by Clare Boothe Luce, it features an all-star women cast (Meg Ryan, Annette Bening, Candice Bergin, Bette Midler,) directed by Diane English, and focuses around the relationships between friends, mothers, daughters, wives, mistresses, and how they all intermingle in life.

The first night I watched it, I was completely raw. It was not a great experience. It hit a little too close to home and basically reduced me to a lump of nerves and totally withdrawn thoughts on the couch. That was the first night I thought, "Am I allowed to be angry about this? Can I really put aside the idea that I am supposed to be A Big Person and Do The Rational And Accommodating Thing for a moment and just...feel this?" So I did. I opened myself right the fuck up and got righteously angry.

But anger doesn't get you very far. This is not to say that you shouldn't let yourself get angry. There are some things absolutely worth getting angry over. Let me be the first to say-- there is nothing quite like those first initial five minutes after you reach a realization or see something totally upsetting in which you fume and rage and stomp around and shriek like a banshee, but you get spent very, very easily. And sometime, when you're lying there, as low as the floorboards can get, you think, "Is this really worth it? Is it really worth this emotional strain? I mean, past is past. Done is done. Don't you think you should be...I don't know...doing something instead of just lying here and being vaguely pathetic?"

This is when you ask yourself the two things that reverberated with me in "The Women":

"I've spent my entire life trying to be everything to everyone, and somehow, someone is always disappointed."

"Don't give a shit about anybody. Be selfish. Because you have to ask yourself a question: What about ME? ...I mean, after all, who are you? What do you want?"

I can't answer that for myself right now. Maybe that's the problem. On one hand, I know I never want to go through a repeat of what happened, but on the other, it's giving me the questions that I'm grappling with every day to reach on consensus on: "How forgiving am I? How much does it really mean to me? Where will I bend? Where will I break? And what do I now feel? And if you can do that, I should be smart enough to let you walk away."

You have to know the answers to those questions before you throw your lot in with someone else.

You do not have to be Wonder Woman. I give you the permission to be as completely human, and therefore, as completely imperfect and flawed and selfish as you need to be in finding those answers for yourself. That's as imperfect and flawed and selfish as you need to be, not want to be.

I once heard a young woman described as "ferocious" by one of her ex-professors in regard to going after what she wanted. That's what I want to be: ferocious. I want to be someone to be reckoned with. I want to be someone that you would not even think about crossing. And I don't ever want to be in this situation of not knowing, ever again. That's what I want most: a firm stance on what I want.

XOXO

[Fabulous photo credit goes to Edahn at http://www.askedahn.com/. Check that site out for some right-on advice.]