Hush-- Staying Silent.

I don't think there's ever a worse time for a girl to start crying than after having sex while still in bed with her lover, and yet, that's where I found myself the other day.

It wasn't him, not at all, and it wasn't me, either-- it was my past. My past is a bit colorful. As may have been previously stated, I haven't always had the best taste in or luck with men. One of my past relationships manifested this trait physically-- I was manhandled (quite literally) in a way that's left me with some residual emotional scars and idiosyncrasies, which seem to pop up at the most inconvenient times. A classic sign-- I'm loathe to actually call it "abuse," which of course means that I'm in denial about it and it was, in fact, abuse. I just hate to think of myself-- me: loud, dominating, confident, and proud-- as a victim. I don't consider myself a victim-- just someone who was too young, too naive, and too inexperienced to do something about it. And because of these facts, I've almost never admitted to it or talked about it.

I was smothered; I was uncomfortably pinned; I was choked. I was shaken. I was slapped. None of these were things I asked for-- they were things that just happened, for no rhyme, and no reason. And now, a perfectly wonderful man who treats me like a princess and would never think of purposefully hurting me has to be the one picking up my pieces after I spooked at finding myself in a situation completely non-related that my mind interpreted quite differently, and sent me spinning off into a panic attack the likes of which I haven't had in quite awhile.

Maybe it was the weight of someone on top of me, while holding me down. Maybe it was the thought I had that linked this feeling with pain. Maybe it was just because I'd been having nightmares lately, and was particularly susceptible to feeling overwhelmed. But for whatever reason, I suddenly found myself fighting furiously to get out from under and away while breathing like a winded racehorse. He touched my back to ask if I was ok. I nearly screamed at him to give me space. We both took a few minutes to calm down and process, and once I realized what had happened, and what I had done, I scooched across the bed, threw my arms around him, and started crying with my face screwed up against his chest. He was lovely about it, telling me that I didn't need to tell him the full story; that he understood, even if he didn't understand everything, because we all have our own skeletons in our closets. He let me cry, rubbed my back and kissed my head, and let me work it out of my system. And once we had both calmed down again, we had sex again, possibly the most reaffirming and reassuring act that I can think of.

Please, listen to me-- if you have been mistreated in your past, please, please find some way to let your current partner know. I know it's hard, and I know it can seem at times unnecessary or excessive or like a cry for attention, but if you care about the person you're seeing, they deserve to know about your issues and emotional well-being before you find yourself hyperventilating and sobbing onto their chest like I found myself. You can only be a victim as long as you stay silent, and as long as you let yourself be thought of as such. Instead, learn to grow through the experience for the hard lessons it teaches you-- how to be in tune with your emotions, feelings, and relationships with other people. And even if this isn't something that you've been through yourself, remember-- if I can be a victim of abuse, anyone can be a victim of abuse. The best thing you can do for someone with past issues is to be there for them and try to understand what it is that makes them panic or feel a certain way, and to work through it, together.

To all the other people with "colorful pasts" out there, please know-- you're not alone, and there is someone out there who will be patient and willing with you, because that's the way it's supposed to be; I promise.

XOXO

Growing Pains

There are some things in life that are just naturally painful. Root canals. Cute shoes that are unfortunately too tight. When your friend pinches you to shut up after you say too much. Spider bites. And talking to your exes about your current relationships.

I may have been clear in the past that just talking to your exes in the first place is probably painful enough, as you've got some colorful history, and sometimes, it's just easier to pretend it (and that person) doesn't exist. But there are some exes that you can't just wish away or out of your life, because, let's face it, at one point, you loved this person, and even if you've since fallen out of love with them and/or moved on, you still bump into them, or you still have mutual friends with them and still occasionally wander through each other's social lives. Or they still keep showing up on your cell phone's screen.

A few weeks ago, I was riffling through the kitchen cupboards on a raccoon-like rampage at 2 AM for something sweet when I heard my text ringtone go off back in my bedroom. Thinking it was the current boy, as we share insomniac tendencies and are prone to late night conversations, I grabbed a chocolate chip cookie, and ate half of it in the time it took me to take my sweet time getting to my room, grabbing my phone, and sauntering back into the kitchen to prepare a response. When I flicked the screen's lock up and saw my ex's name instead, I froze. Cookie crumbs dropped from my hand, as well as the pit of my stomach, not to mention anything about my previously ravenous appetite. I texted back, more incited with his extremely casual text than anything else, and had to take a seat when I realized I was dizzy from this sudden turn of events. Our conversation quickly boiled down to him asking if I'd come over (and believe me, SOMEONE wanted to enjoy some cookie that night other than me), but other than establishing the loss of desire to finish the rest of my cookies and being saved from my sweet-tooth, it also established some odd revelations:

1.) I was able to turn my ex down, something I previously did not know I was humanly capable of. I deserve the Congressional Medal of Honor for this. You may not think so. You don't know my ex.

2.) This meant I liked the guy I am currently seeing a lot more than I previously realized. Oh. OH.

3.) In the moment of having to explain to my ex that I would not be coming over this time, or any other time in the foreseeable future, I felt a sudden wave of extreme tenderness and empathy toward him. It can't be easy, I thought, to reach out to someone you haven't seen or spoken to in awhile, let alone slept with, and admit that you need them for one of your basest desires. I certainly know how hard that is for me, and knowing that I was about to be turning him down made me feel incredibly caring toward him, in a totally platonic way. It made me wonder, what is the least painful way to talk about your new relationship with your exes?

It feels odd to be sympathetic with your ex, and nearly even protective of their feelings again, especially if you haven't interacted with them for awhile. But there I was, finding myself asking how he was after telling him I was seeing someone else, wanting to make him feel like it wasn't a total loss to go out on a limb, wanting him to know that even if he lost the girl, he hadn't lost the friend, instead of saying, "I wasted a year on you, to have to cheat and lie and use me, and now, NOW you expect me to roll over from a guy who's actually treating me like a princess, just because you finally decided on your own accord that you want me?" like I would have wanted to a few months ago, when I was still raw and fresh and sure that I would never heal, that I would never find someone to right the wrongs. Surprise.

A half hour after his initial text and being turned down, he surprised me by texting back and asking if my new S.O was a good guy. I told him he was, and thanked him for asking. I thought this was a good move. I thought it was classy. And then I got another text from him last night. And this time, I had to be firm about it and tell him clearly that I was currently monogamous with someone else, even after he offered so gentlemanly to pay for my cab fare over to his place (the first time he ever offered to pay for anything in the last year and a half we've known each other in a romantic sense). "Well, if you wanna take me up on that let me know. Anytime, probably," he told me, and it was suddenly like I was back in Italy and had to be very straight-forward about the fact that nothing was going to be happening, while still being polite as to not start an international incident.

"Thanks for the offer, but I'm pretty happy right now."

Strange, as he used to be the person I was thinking of while gently turning other men down. I was caught in a sudden kaleidescope of time fragments, thinking about how I used to hold out on other guys for him; how he and I had our own falling out; how I was now holding out on him in favor of another man, while at the same time learning how to put aside my feelings of disappointment and disgust about our dissolution in favor of seeing him as a real person again, a real person who went out on a limb with no promise of a safety net, whose feelings could be crushed, who was trusting me to at least let them down gently-- which, to my surprise, I found myself doing as I thought of him as my friend and the man I once loved for reasons I once knew well, and not just an X in a box for "been there, done that." Oh, how times change. And how YOU change.

XOXO

Long Gone

Tonight, I went to a bar with one of my exes. (Don't worry; this is not one of "those" stories that involve the equation of an emotionally vulnerable woman + man from her past/present she can tell you full measurements of, and I mean, FULL measurements + alcohol = oops.) It actually wasn't as simple as that, because it never is-- when he originally got in touch with me, he said "coffee" and "afternoon," which as the day progressed later and later, turned into "beers" and "11 PM" by the time we actually connected with each other. As is prone to happen, as soon as we made firm plans, a dinner invitation with friends rolled in, I realized I had absolutely nothing to wear in my over-flowing closest that was suitable for this occasion of "hi, this is casual, and yet don't I look great?", another guy came over while I was supposed to be getting dressed, and yet another man texted me to ask if I had any plans for the night. Yes. Yes, I'd say I did. (I swear men have uncanny Spidey-sense about when other men are moving into territory. As I followed my mid-dressing visitor into the kitchen, I had a brief, terrified moment where I thought he was actually going to sit down at our kitchen table to chat and render me hopelessly late for this most very important of dates.)

It always blows my mind how skittish women are about calling guys to firm up plans, but after the ship has sailed, I swear to god it's the easiest thing in the world, mostly, because you don't give a shit. You stop worrying about who was the last one to call or text, or if you're blowing their phone up. He texted me on Wednesday to let me know he was coming into town. He called me this afternoon to work out a time and let me pick a location-- he always lets me pick the location, and this is such a good move on his part. I texted to re-affirm that plans were still on. He texted me to let me know where he was downtown before the bar if I wanted to stop by and grab a slice of pizza pre-drinks, and I called him when I was 5 minutes away from the bar to make sure he was there. I have been told that in a perfectly functional relationship, this is the sort of discourse a couple can have. I have only been able to seemingly achieve it with a few of my exes. I never said I don't have my communication issues.

Once there, standing, pint glasses in hand, face-to-face again after 2 years, it got interesting. I was surprised to find myself no longer sexually bowled over by him, even since our last meeting. Not much had changed in his life, while a lot had in mine-- it made for uneven conversation and the feeling that the student was outgrowing the master. He's 25 now, and I was standing in front of him, drinking legally, obviously not 18 anymore; we were both a little taken aback. And then "Hot Thing" by Talib Kweli came on, and I couldn't place it-- other than the fact that it's on my iPod-- and why it seemed so familiar, and why we were both suddenly so stiff, until I realized it was one of Those Songs from a dark night and twisted bed sheets. Awwwkward. Thanks, 3 Needs.

Afterward, we strolled Church Street to talk where we could actually hear each other talking about our respective semesters in Florence over DMX growling, and when our arms brushed, there was no static charge anymore. In my mind, that was the end of The End. Ship. Officially. Sailed. Off over the horizon. I really have no clue how and why these things work. It makes me wonder if I'll wake up tomorrow morning, or the morning after that, or 2 weeks from now, or 3 months, and suddenly, have no feelings left for people I've held on so doggedly to and weathered through so much with. Probably, actually. Sad, really.

I'm not going to lie about this: Every woman secretly hopes to hear that a guy she used to be with has found that he just isn't able to live without her. This is very rarely the case. But, as we of the XX chromosome persuasion have to know everything, and figuring that all this time and all those other men in between later, I thought it was high time to actually come out with it while he walked me home and ask him why exactly he still calls me every time he comes back to Burlington and asks to meet up.

But instead of admitting his misfortune on dropping off the face of the Earth after graduation and dropping me faster than a hot potato covered in ignited kerosene, when asked why he's kept in touch with me, 3 years later, he grinned his little grin and said, "I still like seeing you. I liked seeing you tonight. And I enjoyed the friendship that we had," and kissed the side of my head. Roughly translated from his Manslation, "I liked the way you blew me."

I have no hope for huMANity. Or my love life.

XOXO

Normalcy Sucks.

Cosmopolitans. Good beer. My monthly women's magazines. Men's facial hair. Expensive leather interiors of expensive European cars. Bubble baths. Sunday football. Snakes. A few of my favorite things.

Writer's block. Or, more accurately, having absolutely nothing of interest to write about. Not one of my favorite things.

There comes a moment in your life when you've laid the past just enough to rest that you're more "more" over it than "less," and in a sort of gray-zone about where to go from there. This moment generally comes around when you've progressed to being friends with your ex; when you have decided that you are perfectly content with the way things are (for the most part); or when you've committed to keep sabotaging yourself or others for the stupid fun of it, but in a very small way. This moment is called A Love/Sex/Relationship Columnist's Nightmare.

I'm the sort of person who could never be happy in a perfectly functioning and progressing relationship. In order for me to remain happy and interested, there's always got to be some small level of drama-- something for me to tear apart over and over again in my head. Average just doesn't cut it for me. That's why I'm so notoriously picky. There aren't many guys who can keep THAT intrigue up. And when there is no drama, no intrigue, and no new news to report, it means that there is nothing for you to read.

So if you've noticed a downswing in the amount of content on this blog recently, sorry. I have no one, and nothing, to bitch about. Boo hoo. Normalcy sucks. I'll try to pick it up. Anyone know an attractive, emotionally unavailable, intelligent man with a casual style and psychological, misogynistic, and mommy issues with an charismatic and addictive personality who just happens to be misguidedly looking for the love that he will never be able to maintain? Kind of my specialty. (Not much of a specialty.) I need a project.

Or a new hobby, possibly less destructive than this.

XOXO

That's Life.

People love to be loved. It's strange, because right about the time you start trying to move the world for someone is usually right about the time in which they start trying to move away from you. I don't understand it-- we all profess to want nothing more in this world than to be loved and adored-- but it's true. It's been done to me, and I've most definitely also done it in return. Maybe it's the gravity of the situation. Maybe it's the fact we just don't know how to deal with it yet, emotionally stunted as we are.

It's impossibly easy after something like this to fall into the familiar Pit of Despair trap and become a miserable human being. It's impossibly easy to become moody and withdrawn, stop showering as often as is really socially accepted, and start self-medicating with alcohol, weed, what I fondly refer to as "suicide sticks" (otherwise known as cigarettes), and if you're feeling really low, you can go as far as consuming the cooking sherry and the bottle of wine with half a glass left that you opened for a house party over three months ago in "the better days" in a quest for something more than self-immolation.

Lord knows I have been caught in bed with the silty remnants of a bottle of wine at 10 AM.

But the thing that we don't tend to realize is that it's not a personal affront to US. WE are generally not the problem. I'm sure you're a perfectly lovely human being, once you, I don't know, maybe shower and shave and put on something other than the same shirt you've been wearing for the past 3 days, and it's probably not your fault that someone couldn't decide if they really wanted to be with you or not. IT'S THEM. I'm pretty sure that there are other people out there who would LOVE to be with you, and that they'd find your early smoker's cough and combative attitude charming.

So, Jesus Christ, stop acting like you're the only person who has ever had someone not fall completely in love with them, get your self-respect back, and stop spiking your afternoon coffee. Jesus. THAT'S LIFE. It sucks. It hurts. You're not the first, nor is this the last time you'll ever want someone who doesn't love you. And guaranteed, your spectacular sulk is not going to make you any more attractive.

Here are just a few things you can do to get over yourself:
- Take all your misguided self-loathing energy, and throw it into your friendships, because those are people who, believe it or not, still love you, irregardless of how infrequently you shower.
- Pick up a new book or hobby, preferably something very involved that doesn't leave much room for outside thought. "Infinite Jest" by David Foster Wallace is a good book choice, as it's over 1,000 pages long and requires infinite patience to follow, and I've found that learning to play the guitar is a hobby conducive to narrowing your world down to just your fingers and the strings. Because even I cannot sing and play at the same time, and I've been singing for years and years and years.
- Get out of your apartment. Go see a movie. Go on a short trip.
- Do something for other people. Volunteer, donate, compliment someone, whatever. It'll give your self-esteem a boost.
- Cliche, but eat some ice cream. Dublin Mudslide is my feeling-sorry-for-myself ice cream of choice. Because, after all, Ben & Jerry are the only two men a woman can really trust to give her what she really wants.
- Cut off contact with the person who was too stupid to see how awesome you really are. Believe me-- you don't need them right now.
- Sleep with someone else. Just, you know, don't start using other people as a crutch. That's just not nice, either.

I hope that helps. Because if I have to see you feeling sorry for yourself one more time, by god, I will REALLY slap you across the face and be forced to break into "Intervention: The Musical." And if song and dance still does nothing to shock you out of it, then I don't know what will.

I'm not kidding. I've created a musical about this self-pity-party phenomenon.

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.]

The Heartbreak Project

I'm taking a break from packing up my apartment (sob, sob, sob,) to share this with you, because I think it's remarkably important.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen recently.

I foresee great things happening with this project. Around the time you reach a certain age or certain number of relationships, everyone has a heartbreak story. Some people find it cathartic to share it. Some never would dream of it. Some keep it short and sweet. I'm a big fan of the six-word stories, so I'll keep my short, not so sweet, and condensed. I wrote the following for another great Facebook group started by the lovely Alli called "I Dated A Douchebag."

The Three Douchebags:
Story #1: Six months of catering. He cheated.
Alternate ending: He's married, kids now; secretly gay.

Story #2: Always, "Maybe later, baby." Never happened.

Story #3: Love. He left; disappeared. Thoroughly abandoned.

This last one is my personal heartbreak story. When I was a freshman in college, I shacked up with a senior. And then I fell in love for the first time. I can't tell you why-- he wasn't an exceptional guy in any way; in fact, I recognized this about him on a daily basis. Maybe it was just time for me. Anyway, I fell in love, and he graduated, left, moved back home, and completely washed his hands of me. There were no calls. No emails. No communication whatsoever. Witness Protection would have been proud. It was as if a friend you saw every day was suddenly not there, and you had know idea why. It was like missing my left arm. Even after he got arrested and I left a message asking if he could please let me know he was ok, I heard nothing. Nothing. This has resulted in some abandonment issues. I am terrified of being left this way again. I am terrified that any given day, the calls will stop; the communication lines, always tenuous with me in the first place, will break down; someone will have upped and moved away on me, either physically or metaphorically; that the places I once saw someone in will be empty.

After an entire summer and fall, an ocean of tears, hundreds of pages of writing, and countless hundreds of dollars spent smoking myself into an unfeeling oblivion, I woke up one morning completely free of him. Just as quickly as I fell into love, I fell out of love with him. It felt like the moon had suddenly stopped orbiting around the sun, and snapped off into deep space. In the end, I don't regret any of it: I don't regret taking that insane leap and falling in love for the first time; I don't regret what I learned about myself through the pain and the smoke and the writing; I don't regret equally ignoring him for the past year now that he's tried getting back in touch with me. From an utterly unremarkable relationship, I gained some truly remarkable knowledge. I feel; I love; I am.

And so, the (heart)beat goes on.

XOXO

The Not-So-Perfect Ending.

{ My Goodies-- Ciara} <--- Means "listen to this, please." See what I did? I'm kinda workin' a theme, here.

So I feel like I deserve to tell you the end of the "Me & Perfect" story. The Final Chapter, if you will. What happened right before I finished that book and apparently, single-handedly, snapped it shut and threw it in the fire.

Perfect and I got into that Epic Fight September 30th. We haven't talked since. Which may be partly because I may or may not have said some really nasty things. But hey. It's not all my fault. My defenses go up when you start blaming me for shit. I'll do a basic recap of WWIII for you:

Perfect: "You're getting too attached again!"

Me: "Excuse me, what could I get attached to? You're 3 and a half hours away. I never see you anymore. I'm sure you...busy, AKA: fucking your way through your freshmen class and any upper-class ladies you can get your big paws on. I'm BUSY."

Perfect: "Well, it just seemed like you're putting too much into this and getting too committed with all the things we've been saying and doing and all the nude pics I've been somehow convincing you to send me without even having to work for them. But short of ogling your strategically covered body, I can't commit like that right now. And you're going and committing!"

Me: "I'm just a tease. JUST LIKE YOU ARE. You're a great guy, except when you're being a complete asshole, like right now, and yeah, sometimes I wish things could be different, buy they're not. Look, I'm driving home from the gym. Can we continue this lovely blame-fest when I get home?"

Surprise, surprise, I didn't heard back from him. And I still hadn't. The other day, after realizing that I hadn't been seeing anything from him on my Stalker, errrr-- Newsfeed on Facebook lately, I went to go to his page to only find out I have apparently been unfriended either by him, or Facebook went on a binge and deleted half of his friends list like half of it is now missing, I did not, A.) Flip a shit, B.) Send him a snark-tasic message asking him to explain his incredibly juvenile actions, or C.) Call him and pick WWIII back up. Instead, I have decided to just brush it off. Whatever. I didn't think our fight was honestly that unforgivable, and I was hoping we could at least try and remain friends considering all that we've been through, because as he said, "Yeah, but I've had sex with you."

But after everything that's happened with Jersey Blunt, I'm starting to realize just how short and unpredictable life is. Add leaving for Italy for four months and a trans-Atlantic flight, into the mix, and I am feeling very, very mortal. And yes, I've been missing Perfect lately, too. There's nothing like one person going missing from your life to bring the other players hiding in the shadows out and to your attention. I miss the good times we had. I miss knowing he was there for me when I needed him. It felt real bad when all I wanted was strong arms to hold me, and knowing I don't have that luxury because the one guy who was always there for that hug is dead and gone, and the other one who might do that for me is silent, almost 50 days going. I'm not taking that for granted, anymore. So I got off my high horse of Pride and texted Perfect today.

"Hey, how are you?" I asked. "Surviving college?"

"Good," he responded. "Who is this?"

It was like a sucker-punch to my gut. But I guess I deserved it-- all the deletion from his life. I said some pretty nasty things.

"Wow, ok," I said. "It's Carissa."

"Hey, yeah-- I'm doing good," he told me.

"Awesome. Look, some things have happened in my life recently and made me realize I really don't want to leave things nasty from the last time we talked. Basically, I guess I'm sorry."

The whole time I drafted this text, (possibly the first time I've actually said "I'm sorry," to a guy,) I was sitting at work, looking at Anthony and going, "If I say, 'I guess I'm sorry,' it still counts as saying 'I'm sorry,' right?"

Can we tell I have a hard time saying this? If it's all my bad, I'm fine admitting it. But, let's face it-- he started it. I don't want to be fully culpable for this mess.

"Yeah, it was kinda weird! But I understand," Perfect said.

"Yeah, it was. Thanks for understanding," I told him. "Hope life's good!"

That was it. Swallowed my pride; made up (kind of), and lived to tell the tale. I feel so much better. I miss that kid.

But now I may or may not feel like the outcome of my dating triumph rides on whatever is going on with Gypsy ending well. It's not rebounding, per se-- it's just the fact that the two of them are so alike and I've been doing such a good job correcting all the mistakes I made with Perfect in what's going on with dealing with Gypsy that if I honestly can't pull this off, I'm going to feel like I failed miserably twice.

But really, I can't figure out what he wants from me. I'm not used to being considered a "prize," something to tap and be able to say, "I tapped that!" As I told Anthony today over dinner when he and Dos asked me why I was with a guy like Perfect in the first place-- heavy on the muscles, lite on the vocabulary-- there are some guys girls date just to say that we landed that; to admire for how warm they are, how nice they smell, how good they look, how much weight they can lift. Yeah, it may seem a bit shallow, but men, when you protest, let me ask you: why are you waiting for the girl with the bangin' body and niceness when there's that average girl friend of you who's super-intelligent, charming, and well-spoken? We're all only human-- we all like looking at nice things.

I'm just not used to being the "hot" girl. I'm not used to being the girl who gets asked over to sit on a sofa and look pretty while not being talked to. I'm not used to being the girl that your other friends stare at. I'm dying for some equal treatment, here. I'm dying for something other than a night that involves the alcohol that Gypsy mistakenly thinks will magically lower my jeans. (Seriously, better chance of me sleeping with you when both of us are sober than when we're drunk. I learned that lesson, and learned it hard.)

So, uh-- how do you tell a guy this without coming off like a total gold-digging tease? Seriously-- you know my "I buy my on goddamn food!" issues-- it's not like I'm asking for a free meal, here. I'm just asking for the sort of old-fashioned, formal acknowledgement of a status that can only be achieved by looking at someone in public (not in their apartment, not a frat house, not at a party in someone else's basement,) while masticating something that counts as sustenance. ("Chewing"...for those of you who instantly went to dirty places and are too lazy to open a new tab, go to Merriam-Webster online, and look it up. I live to serve-- I aim to please.)

Short of getting my ghetto on and telling him, "Playa, I ain't lookin' to be played, so y'all better make up your mind like, right now and we can either fuck and go our own separate ways, or you better be making an honest woman out of me," I am really at a loss. I would like to again make the point that we really are like two supremely socially awkward teenagers about this-- he has yet to make a solid move, and I have yet to throw him a bone. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I'm the sort of girl who really just wants a guy to grab me and kiss me. Fuck the gentlemanly shit at this point-- if I'm crawling into your bed and spending my Thursday nights out with you, I'm not flashing conflicting signs. I'm only talking to Greece more because he actually talks to me. I'm leaving because I refuse to be like any of your other girls and sit and wait for you to come home. I'm a flirt; you don't pay attention, and I'll find something more fun to do. I want you to do something here-- fight for it. Show me it's worth giving it up.

Or I'm gonna bounce to the next. I'm not the most patient girl. And I need reassurance, too.

Sure, he's a player. Sure, if it has a pulse, moves, and owns a vagina he'll make a pass at it. Sure, it's all very casual to him. But sure, it's also getting very casual quickly for me, too. I'm a ticking time-schedule, here. I would like to make something happen there sometime within the next, oh-- week. I'm feelin' it.

Here's to making up, and making out.

XOXO

The Proposal: Time, Work With Me For Once, Please.

Hind-sight being what it is, maybe "The Proposal" wasn't the best movie to go and see today, on the 1 month anniversary of my "I Feel That Way, Too...But I Think We Should Just Be Friends" conversation. Yes, the movie was funny, and sweet, and everything that you would expect from Anne Fletcher, director of both "The Proposal" and the previous "27 Dresses." At one point, as Sandra Bullock waved an adorable fluffy white Samoyed puppy at a golden eagle in exchange for her Crackberry, I found myself doubled-over and shaking in hysterical, breathless, noiseless laughter. (The last three times I've gone to the movies I've ended up in hysterics this way, even if it wasn't a particularly funny movie. I cracked up in "Watchmen" because of Malin Akerman's chin-mole, otherwise known that night as her "second profile, or Pale Mole Rising." She was yet again in Fletcher's second movie-- you may know Akerman as Katherine Heigel's entitled younger sister in "27 Dresses" as well. Apparently, Fletcher has a director-crush on her.) Not an overwhelmingly "chicky" flick, as Ryan Reynolds plays someone a little bit more downtrodden and submissive than most leading men tend to be, and there are no "shopping spree" fashion montages, but a really solid showing at a movie about men, women, and how complicated relationships can sometimes be-- can you imagine marrying your boss so they can get their green card? I don't think so.

It seems like I'm destined to spend the night of the 18th of every month around 8:30 feeling queasy. Last month, it was because as soon as I heard my phone ring with Perfect's "3 AM" ringtone, I knew it-- I knew I was losing the relationship, the sex, the plans we'd made for things like travel and visiting and motorcycle rides and roughhousing. I stood in Cait's kitchen, staring at the ID on my phone's screen before even flipping it open and thought, "here it all goes." I was so uncharacteristically quiet during our relationship negotiation (or "downsizing") that Perfect asked not once, but twice if I was ok, still there, and handling it. Both times, it took me a moment or two to fight back the "end of relationship and sex" nerves and nausea and answer him. I remember staring at my feet a lot, and once, leaning over the sink, thanking god I was so close to it if that's what it came down to.

This month, I gorged myself on about half my body weight's worth of popcorn to try and stop my feelings, which were simmering all throughout the movie, from actually exploding in a theater full of middle-aged strangers. (Lots of middle-aged women friends in groups of two or three, and a few middle-aged couples...Alli and I were officially the youngest patrons at the showing.) For the day, the circumstances, and the tender yet never overly mushy moments in the movie, it may have been a bad choice in casual Saturday afternoon flick, as it put me on the warpath for love to conquer everything. If a tyrannical book editor can inspire love in her beaten assistant, I should have no problems convincing Perfect that my feelings + his feelings= let's try for the best, you fucking dumbass. Right? Wrong. My life script wasn't written by Pete Chiarelli, and I do not have Sandra Bullock's capacity for wit and grace under pressure. I just tend to pop, like I was ready to, both emotionally and physically, by the time the lights came back up at the end of the credits.

"That may have been a bad movie for me to watch," I confided in Alli. "And the popcorn made me sick."

"Yeah, I was thinking that it was a little positive with the whole love-conquers-all," she said.

"I really just want to call him now and be like, "look, this is what I feel, and this is what you feel, and we can make this work, and WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?!"" My voice raised progressively higher throughout this diatribe. "But I know I can't, because then I would be proving every Crazy Bitch or psycho woman stereotype he ever had true. Do you know how many miles stand between me and a bad life decision?" I held up my fingers. "Four. Four miles between Perfect and I right now. And a whole lotta words."

"I feel like leaving this theater right now would be a bad choice," Alli conceded.

"Yeah. A.) I would probably get sick, and B.) I would make a Bad Life Decision. Again. Can we start abbreviating these to BLDs?"

And do you know that the kicker of the movie's moral was? When you love someone, you do whatever it takes to let them know. You fake a heart-attack. You try to stop a plane. You run from Alaska to New York City. (Not really, but you know, you hurry via private boat, plane, and foot.) Walking out of the theater, a clever mix of the smell of popcorn invading the entire theater and sidewalk in front of it and raw emotion and frustration made me want to vom. Why, WHY, I do not understand, can I not get my own "love conquers all" Hollywood ending? Why can't I even get a meeting with Perfect to discuss this? Why does Father Time in cohorts with The Universe keep making our schedules opposite and therefore, us unavailable to each other? Why were we even allowed to meet in the first place, and "click" and have one of those (previously thought to be fable-like to me,) instant connections like "I need and want this person, and this person needs and wants me, and the Earth drops from under me when I see them"? (Apparently, love-at-first-sight comes in a few different varying degrees, and I achieved one of them, maybe known as "I Care About You At First Sight. And Find Myself Ridiculously Attracted To You, Too.") If this is a test of patience, decidedly one of my worst-honed and almost nonexistent virtues, I like to think all this practice and good behavior while waiting is going to pay off in the end. Pay off BIG.

In the meantime, what they usually all say to you during your whole "I'm broken-up with and hurt phase"..."Times heals all wounds"...fuck it, it's all a big, fat, bleeding-heart lie, and you know it as well as I do. Time doesn't heal all wounds-- time just makes you forget a little bit and not think about it as much. Every time you do remember it, it smarts just as much as it originally did. There is no "getting over" some things-- first love, big betrayals, hurt feelings, crushed dreams, favorite memories together, or sometimes, just the scent of the deodorant someone used.

Some things are easy to quit: one day, I woke up, thought "I'm going to quit smoking weed," and POOF! Haven't felt the need or urge to sense then, and I'm the girl who used to host Weed Wednesday and Tweaker Tuesdays. Some things are harder to quit: drinking when your body tells you there's no need to stop yet, and in fact, another, please--; driving on the left side of the road oversees when you're used to driving on the right; dialing a friend's old phone number. And some things are nearly impossible to quit: obsessive-compulsive habits; using your dominant hand to to everything; and for me, having Perfect be a Big Thing in my life or getting over him. Maybe the fact that I'm having such an impossible time cutting him out means something. I've always been one of those girls who finds it much easier to just cut-off an ex when the relationship ends and then feasibly never talk to them again-- in fact, The Flaky Artist is the only one I was able to salvage a manageable working casual friendship with after a year. But Perfect? Perfect's just THERE.

He was there for me on my birthday; there when one of my best friends found out she was pregnant and I needed someone to go to who wouldn't judge either of us for freaking right the fuck out. He watched me brush my teeth, and put on deodorant and acne cream the next morning without even a flinch. He politely said, still reclining on my bed in just his boxer briefs, to say "hi" to my mom for him when she called after we had had sex. He always, still, lets me know when he'll be in town, even if we won't get a chance to see each other, just so I know he's in the area. (This is more than any other man has ever done for me. Usually, I hear, "Oh, yeah-- I was in town that night," two weeks after the fact.) He somehow, through leading by doing, got me to be more honest and open with him than 99.9% of the other people in my life by being open and honest with me and then asking questions and being persistent about them while still supportive. One of his favorite things to tack on to the end of a question if it looked like I was stalling with an answer was "I'm sorry if it's too personal; you don't have to answer it." But I always did, anyway, no matter how personal the question was or how loathe to part with the answer I was. I don't think I have ever once flat-out lied to him. I have never had a man be so solid, so dependable, and so there for me. Well, there within reason. I have to admit, now that we are no longer "us," it feels a lot different to not be able to just expect him to drop everything and show up to see me. I don't like the way it feels, but I'm coping, more or less.

In the end, of course Ryan Reynolds gets the girl. In the end, I ended up being able to keep my over-indulgent popcorn down. In the end, Alli and I got home safe without any side-trips or phone calls or freak-outs. In the end, I may not see Perfect tomorrow as we had hoped, but I will see a friend of his in Worcester, and that will hopefully be enough to keep me present and in his loop. And in the end, I may not get my rom-com ending, complete with swelling chorus of violins, but maybe, just maybe, I will be able to get the chance to salvage this relationship. And that's all I'm really asking for.

XOXO

P.S: And, oh-- no Perfect and Baby Mix illicit bro-love sightings. Of course. Silly.