By Grace

By the grace of whoever might be holy I met you. And so you were. Just. There.

There were days when you and I would spar at words over judges tables. Those days, I couldn’t imagine sparing with anyone else but you. But we were young, and you were beowolf and I but a petty attempt at shel silverstein. Our poetry was not our own, and we were but mirrors of the people we wanted to be…You something guarded and secret. Myself veiled in humor and drama….

And years past. But somehow we were brought together again. Monologues messed up. Poetry botched. Parents unexpected visits in tiny apartments. Virgina Woolf and secluded kisses. Those moments were hard to repeat and began our vicious cycle of the “what ifs” and “what could have been’s”.

It was Virginia, she was the woman who brought us together. We spoke of hidden waves and flowers bought. We hoped that these words would seal some binds between us…but oh we were mistaken. Visits across rivers were made. Kisses were exchanged, but still that was not enough to keep us together.

One spring we spent a few nights in a king sized bed. Opposite sides. Cues missed. Kisses lost. Drinking mike’s hard lemonades on playgrounds that reminded us that we were no longer children, but at the same time, we weren’t adults. An impass. Childhood and adulthood lay between us, and so we sat on playgrounds hoping that answers would spring forth. The picnic benches were not for us, but neither was the spiral slide. Somewhere in the gravel was where we belonged. But afraid we sat, alcohol in hand, silence ringing school bells somewhere.

Another summer I spent ten hours driving to you. Hours on the road to the middle of nowhere. And there you were—broken, shattered, perfect. We had a taste then, but the morning left nothing but tequila regrets etched in our palms, where love should have been. We shopped for heirloom tomatoes, and gleefully watched a juices spat between our lips. But both were too shy to explain why and how these came.

And now, years later I still wonder what should have happened. What could have happened.

I remember lying in your arms just praying for a miracle.

Those were stolen kisses meant for no one but us.

Phone calls begging for answers.

Messages. Emails. Dreams. Words. Lost.

Somedays I wish I could lie in those arms again. Older, wiser. More us. The us that could’ve told us back then that heirloom tomatoes, tequila, love, and Woolf were one in the same.

To the Woman I Love

She came out of nowhere. One day she wasn’t in my life, the next day she was one of the main thoughts on my mind. There was something about her. A quiet confidence, a subtlety to her entire demeanor that called to me. Something in me begged for more. More contact, more exchanged glances, more words passed between us.

I’d have assumed she was an angel if a) that weren’t so damned clichéd and b) I don’t believe in angels.

I remember very little of how we met (sometime at rugby), how we became acquaintances (eventually by talking to each other), then friends. And maybe I remember so little, because it was so uneventful. So easy. Too easy somedays.

But there she was, a member of my team. A team made up of 40 some-odd women, all of whom were so incredibly different, my mind often felt boggled. But it was her whom everyday would stir something in me. It was her that everywhere I went I was sad to see her go.

I remember Philly.

Had hoped we’d share a room, but instead she stayed elsewhere, without the team. And just like that, she vanished into the city as I awaited a few days to see her again.

I remember the ranch.

Where the two of us suffered under the watch of our rugby coach, hauling palettes, drinking fresh spring water from spiggets in the ground, sleeping in military tents to shield us from the brisk mountain air. She loaned me her jersey because I was cold, and I remember the way it smelled. The way everything she touches smells.

I remember being excited that she was coming with us to Chicago, and devastated when she had to cancel.

And I remember Austin, and the text messages I received from teammates—‘You’re reading into things…’ ‘She isn’t into you…’ ‘Not everyone has a crush on you…’

And from there I hedged. Wrote emails asking for a dinner date, which I never sent. Made plans to visit her in Cheyenne, and promptly cancelled them as butterflies became maelstroms in my gut. We exchanged a few emails; she said she’d be at xyz party. I would always spend the evening curled up alone in bed, not wanting her to see me at my worst or even at my best.

Fate would have it that you can’t hide from such things forever. And a text came, and plans were made. Liquid courage was consumed. And finally, I said something akin to nonsense but along the lines of “Um…I like you. Not just like you but like like you”. Somehow that was all that was required. And just like that there was something more.

Indescribable, simple, peaceful, easy.

To say she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me would be dramatic. But to say I am lucky would be an understatement.

I’d tell you she’s an angel, but we all know what I feel about that.

Dear Santa Part II

I must thank you for granting my x-mas wish. Even though I likely should be thanking Senator Lieberman.

The result is hope that me and the woman I am falling in love with may not be so far away from the life we hope to lead together.

Thank you. A million times thank you.

dear santa

All I want this year for Christmas is the repeal of the ridiculous military policy that is Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

Thank you.

maybe its just me...

Apparently I have a brain that traps everything in it and won't let any memories go.

The X just sent me a video to a song we both used to listen to obsessively...In fact it was on one of the first mix CDs I made her. And she sent it to me. Like I had never heard it.

Really X? Sigh.

Maybe its time to just write this one off.

viscountess francaise

Typical Sunday ritual in NYC for nearly 2.5 years: My partner-in-crime-and-in-love and I drank coffee in our petite home with our three cats and dog. She worked on her projects, I read the New York Times. I always start with the wedding section. There is something masochistic about this, especially in the shadow of said partner. Engaged and broken up ten times over. Nothing ever fit right, everything was always in flux. But nevertheless I dreamt of Williams and Sonoma wedding registries fulfilled (we’d had two), white dresses (I’d bought one and returned it a week later tearfully) and the thought that someone, anyone would be willing to stand in front of everyone I love and scream at the top of their lungs “I LOVE YOU!”

So each and every Sunday went this way. Me signing my dreams into thin newspaper. Staining my fingers with ink; my teeth with coffee. Her blissfully unaware of my swoons over fanciful dreams that I knew would never be reality. At least not with her.

But one Sunday in July, I opened the newspaper to see her. A brief tryst of mine I’d all but locked away in my brittle heart. The woman that left me sobbing on my living room floor after she rode off into the sunrise on her motorcycle, never to be seen again.

We met at a birthday party in Phnom Penh, during my sojourn into expatriotism in Cambodia. To say Cambodia was devoid of lesbians was an understatement. At best count there were only 10 or so. And even then, they were mostly partnered off. But there she was and there I was. We sat awkwardly unsure as whether to call out the other. And finally it slipped out “My ex-GIRLfriend”. We both stopped dead in our tracks and giggled. Now that it was out in the open, we spoke openly about the women we had left at home. The frustration that we felt being gay in Cambodia, our experiences at various upper echelon institutes of higher education.

And that was that. Three blissful months of speaking an odd mixture of Khmer, French and English all while gallivanting around on motorcycles. We ran errands together. Spent time entangled in sheets speaking whispers of dreams. We argued over topics of philanthropy, NGO policy, water distribution issues and much more. I took care of her during a delerious fever; fed her soup and made the compresses. All the while, I knew I was but the fill-in housewife. Knew there was a woman back stateside whom I could not even begin to compare to. This was a delusion, but one that we both bought into willingly.

We had thought we’d have more time. My plan had been to spend at least the following semester in Phnom Penh, but due to unforeseen circumstances I was leaving on New Year’s Eve. She was leaving before Christmas and wouldn’t be home until after I had left.

The morning came for her to return home for the holidays, and I knew I would soon be a distant memory. She said her goodbyes, kissed me, and rode away…..

And now, nearly two years later, there she was, smiling ear to ear with her now wife, printed on millions of copies of the Times. Both were dressed in white with the Northern California ocean as their picturesque backdrop. The article read something like this: "Lady A and Lady B wed in San Francisco among friends and family. Lady A (my lady) is the daughter of Viscount A and the late Viscountess A".

Well, shit was all I could think to mutter.

The woman who left me alone in Cambodia with my heart all but shattered was god damned French royalty.

closing november

Every holiday season, since I met the one who calls me Wednesday, I have found myself measuring the holiday season differently than I did before. I measure my holiday's on her. Probably because before I met her, I never thought about the holidays. Ever. They came and went. I unwrapped presents, took red-eye flights around the country, and ate turkey until my sides burst. She on the other hand, had iconic beliefs of what the holiday season should be. Perfectly trimmed trees, happy families, Its a Wonderful Life playing on the television. Its the season of her birthday, thanksgiving and christmas. And to her, it mattered.

Our first November brought us stolen kisses that were not meant for either of us. Birthday's celebrated in hidden darkness with bottles of Jest Red and nights cuddled under down comforters in dormitories.

Our second November led me to her house at the base of Vermont to celebrate her birth with her downtrodden, wine soaked mother who was nursing an aching heart. Only a few weeks later to whisk her from one fancy restaurant to another in the big apple. Afterward we stole home, hands entangled, more fleeting kisses. Directly following, I attempted to provide succor to her lobster-allergy-induced sickness. Christmas morning we shared mix tapes, and exchanged gifts over a brunch befit for kings--pomegranate seeds, goat cheese infused scrambles, champagne.

I still have that mix. The perfumes she saw as being 'iconically me' still sit in a box on my window.

Our third was spent exchanging awkward emails across oceans. Myself in my own private version of developmental country heaven. Expat thanksgivings and christmases with deep fried turkey, torrential downpours and 70 degree heat. Just a few days after my arrival back to the states in mid-January, we spent a few days in her Astoria studio as she nursed my wounds from six months overseas. We drank rose champagne, ate chocolate raspberry pancakes, skipped around on subways. I fell in love with New York that trip and with her, all over again.

The forth, we saw each other. Once. At a restaurant in midtown. Her new boyfriend and far happier mother in tow. She and I awkwardly hugged in greeting. I, had made the move to New York, and was overwhelmed. Her boyfriend at the time spent the dinner occupying my ability to be appropriate, and it resulted in his prompt departure while her mother and I consumed whiskey at a dive bar on the upper west side. Pianos and stolen glances. Seamed stockings and crushed hopes.

The fifth, I watched her perform on stage. Something I hadn't seen her do in years. And I was transported back to the first three, because on stage its easy to love her. And whatever malice I felt towards her was completely forgotten.

The sixth (this year), I forgot her birthday. I will not see her, and we are likely to not speak beyond a few texts. One for my attempt to assuage her disappointment for forgetting her birthday, and one for her to accept my apology. And let us not forget the yearly "Happy thanksgiving" text I have always received.

Perhaps its best this way, to be separated by miles of Americana, living in our respective circles of existence.

But every time I dance a tanda...I think of her.
Every time I write a word on a page...I think of her.
Every time I decide that tonight is a garters and cuban heeled stockings night...I think of her.

I wish she weren't just a few pages in a scrapbook--A collection of scalloped edged images pasted into their respective pages categorized by foods ate, experiences shared, dreams lost, kisses missed, birthday texts and presents shelved.

If you read this, which you likely will (and likely won't respond to), know that there are days...like today...where I still dream of tuscan homes, claw-footed bathtubs, linen curtains, and you.

On my type of women

A few weeks back, I decided to make a sojourn into the netherworld that is Charlies. Our local country western/hip hop gay bar. I went with friends. The type of friends that a girl couldn't live without...The ones that ask you the hard questions. For example: "Why that girl? Why not that one over there?" "But the one you like is so...old." or "butch" or "strange" or "what have you".

Ok. So maybe I have a type. And maybe that type is shocking to people. And maybe that is ok.

Now this friend hasn't hung out with me in a number of years. She was my date to prom in high school and we have since gone our separate ways. Since we have reconvened in each others' lives she was shocked to see me shamelessly flirting with the professional boxer, with the long hair, the cowboy hat, the crowsfeet, whom is obviously a bit older than me. (9 years to be exact). Now in hindsight, she's not really my type. But she did seem to fit the following bill....

What can I say. I know what I want. And what I like.

I like my women rough around the edges. Seeing them covered in bruises from rugby matches, boxing practice, or a hard fall on a mountain bike stirs something in me. It shows me they have guts, they play hard and that they live on the edge. Knowing that a woman has been in a bar fight (not one that she started mind you), makes me feel like she can protect me. And that I will be safe with her...no matter what. Military women (well, one in particular at this point in time) are the bane of my ability to keep my 'shit together' without melting into one giant puddle.

Knowing about cars, car parts, engines, tools, motorcycles, bicycles, etc is key. Even just a thing or two. Without some knowledge of this, you are less than interesting to me.

Loves to be outdoors. But also knows when to call it quits, throw on a pot of tea/crack open a bottle or wine, and cuddle by the fire.

I want someone to take care of, but that someone should also be independent enough to live without me when I need to do my own exploring.

I like callouses on hands. Sore muscle aches to soothe. Wounds that need bandaging.

Rough hands and creases around the eyes are musts. There is nothing sexier than knowing that these things show proof a life well lived, and these details tell stories.

I may be a softer sort, built for the likes of Academia, but at the same time...I'm not so gentle either. I too play rugby, and enjoy working in the dirt. I just imagine myself doing that work alongside being a mother, with a wife that does harder labor than me and needs me to tend to her bruises, etc.

And I like them awkward, but proud. Quietly self-confident. Casting shy and shifty glances, kicking the ground as they walk. A sort of shuffle.

Peter Pan complexes are key. They should never want to grow old and should just be hell bent on staying young physically and mentally. Meaning they can run through the chicago airport in the neon hallway with me, stone cold sober, and find it to be the highlight of their day. Or maybe go to the park and jump in a piles of leaves, a chance to relive a blissful fall morning of our youth.

And that my friends, is my type.

mirror images

I've always had this problem...When looking in the mirror I've always felt a stranger looking back.

But recently, as in the past two weeks or so, the one looking back at me from the mirror feels familiar, I like her, she feels like home.

Hot damn people. This must mean I'm doing something right.

accomplishments from the week that make me feel better

1. Didn't get drunk once.
2. Managed to almost quit smoking. I'm down to 1 a day basically.
3. Got a job offer.
4. Made a huge batch of pesto
5. Made two batches of sauerkraut. One red and one green. Now they just have to ferment.
6. Worked out four days in a row.
7. Started Rugby
8. Had a killer interview with an even better job than the job offer.
9. Made progress on the thesis
10. Went to bed before midnight many many nights in a row.

the beast howls in my veins

Just a mere three weeks after my last post and here I am.

Battered. War torn. Exhausted.

Whoever has likened love to that of war games wasn't lying. I'm not exactly clean in this game either (to say the least).

Updates:

TNG and I are kaput. For real. For a good while I think. She left for nine days yesterday and I felt so empty. I made a bad decision (or five) and it resulted in the true ending. Why? Well, it became clear to me that every day I spend with her I still feel alone. She's never actually there. She's physically present, and exists of course, but is never actually engaged in the relationship. Ever. And that is hard when she is present, but when she leaves town what happens is that I feel empty. And even more alone. But more "sen dep tank" alone once she leaves. When she isn't present while she is here it leaves me with a sense of dread. A deep longing for more. And I am kept here by small glances, a lucky kiss or two, or a night of cuddling. (All infrequent things, but they still occur). But when she leaves, its worse. Unbearable. And there is nothing to keep me going.

This time she said "You're a child." "I don't respect you." "You bore me." "Grow up." "You party too much." "You are a waste of my time."

Good, kind words.

What kills me is that its not me who can't communicate. Its not me who avoids any conversation of an emotional nature. Its her. In my opinion that shows a true lack of depth to maturity.

The X sometimes still haunts me. 7 months later and I still, sometimes, find it all to be unbearable. Its better than it has been, but its certainly not always easy to manage. No matter how much I rationalize everything, I still miss her.

And one of these days....I'll be ok again.

On the X and her apology

I quote:

"I abandoned you and didn't know everything about everything".

Well how about them apples?

It was a long, drawn out conversation that oscillated from "I'm sorry" to "Oh shit did I really do those things to to?" And it feels like I may have finally received closure.

As for TNG, things are still confusing. I'm still crushed. And I am still breathing.

But more on that later.

wherein hell freezes over...

The X apologized.

Holy. Crap.

heartbreak

The TNG left me. With nary an explanation besides "I don't think we are compatible".

I'm crushed.

Nothing eloquent to say. Just utterly battered.

Back to the drawing board.

grab your partner

In a show of "I can do this", I decided to go out last night and enjoy myself. I've spent the past week or so moping around the house and feeling downright ridiculous. Moping why? No reason. At all. As I said, ridiculous.

I made my way to the local country bar and decided to attempt (for only the second time) two-stepping. Now two-stepping isn't exactly the most elegant form of dance but hot damn was it fun. I also managed to line dance quite a bit, and it turns out all those years of modern, ballet, jazz, etc were quite useful and that learning the steps was not nearly as hard as I thought it would be.

Now why is any of this of interest to the blogosphere? (oh god I just said that word) Because it proved to me that I can go out, have a beer or two, and hang out with friends without feeling like a complete and total utter failure. I made a few new friends, figured out some steps, and had a damn good time and nary a hangover to show for it.

My last post, in all of its cryptic glory, still has yet to be resolved. I feel...adrift. Emotionally speaking. I am trying my damndest to figure out what's next and to keep my head on my shoulders without losing it.

sometimes

love just isn't easy to 'splain.

crap.

to clue ya'll in

When the X broke my heart in January I was in India, and had been living in New York with said X in a 300 square foot apartment. Two weeks in India post-foot break it became quite clear I would need to have surgery to repair the damage that five Kingfisher Strong's and my lack of coordination wrecked on my body. Realizing I had no home in NYC anymore (even though the X said I could stay and she'd help me for one day* post surgery) I fled back to Colorado and returned to the nest of the 'rents, a place I had flown at the tender age of 17 and never looked back.

The 'rents were loverly and super accommodating taking me from appointment to appointment. Enter the new girl (from here on out TNG). Bright blue eyes, big smile, smarty pants of an environmentalist. I'd known TNG for three years, as she was the X's good friend. The X also happens to be TNG's first girlfriend 13 years prior.

Apparently, TNG had quite a thing for me for some time now. In fact, on my first date with the X, TNG did her damndest to convince me that dating her instead of the X would be advantageous to my well-being as a human being that TNG was well-traveled, college educated, and much nicer to the ladies. I took her advances as flattering, but decided the X was the one for me. So I thanked her, and went on my merry little way.

In the meantime, I got engaged to the X and moved my ass to NYC from Boulder. All the while, TNG stayed in Denver/Boulder area and would insist on seeing me every time I came to town. Of course, being who I am and her position in the X's life I felt it my duty. (Not to mention those visits that came post breakups resulted in lots of space to whine to TNG about the X's inability to do y, z, a...whatever).

So three years later there I was, TNG ready, willing and able to do anything to make sure that I was happy post-surgery. And then one day it happened, I looked at her across a table and realized what a fine human being she was. And the rest they say is history....

Yes. This may make me a bad person.
Yes. It calls into question TNG's moral character.

But then again, how many times can you toss something aside before someone else decides that your trash is their treasure?

Six might well be enough times....

*obviously the nicest person ever. One flipping day of a five day recovery.

Wherein I realize I really hated New York...

For those of you who know me (which is few and far between of you I would guess), I spent the past nearly three years attempting to make a life for myself with the X in New York City–the city that never sleeps.

Now NYC for most people is a place where dreams are made. A place that inspires and instigates excitement deep within one's core.

For me, NYC was...exhausting.

I used to explain to people that NYC was simply bustling with too much humanity. That the daily grind made my teeth hurt. And I wasn't exaggerating in the least. I woke up each and everyday with that ever present sense of dread I mentioned a few posts back. (I'd totally hyper link you but since my blog at this point is only four posts, you can find it yourself kids).

I look back at my life there and I am always shocked to find that I truly, deeply, disliked NYC.

I loved my friends. I loved the X. But the city itself never settled into my core, I never had a rush of "oh my god I must live here" before the relocation and it never really found a place in me. Instead it sat like a half-pound blue cheese burger in my gut, perma-settled in my stomach.

And now, I feel lighter. Feel more at home. But the X still keeps me up at night. And maybe its because I finally realized it wasn't her that initiated the desires to throw myself under oncoming subways but rather the city that housed the subways themselves.

And that my friends, is as unsettling a realization as one can have at this stage in the game.

I'm doing this for me

That's it. I've had enough. Enough wallowing. Enough fear. Enough of everything.

I've managed to exist in a state of fear for about seven years now. A constant, unending, unnerving state of dread. Dread that I will fail, fear that I will lose everything, gut wrenching "oh shit" moments that this is my life. The worst of which has been the past three years in a relationship (if you can call it that), which caused me nothing but pain.

But I'm done. I'm packing up my bags and heading to a state of "take no prisoners".

My life, as I know it now, is by far the most fulfilling place I have been thus far. Despite my lack of job, my slowly mending broken heart and my unfinished thesis I do believe I am legitimately happy. I have love, someone to come home to, and friends that would easily throw themselves under the bus for me.

But happy is hard to enjoy when you still have a festering sore o' doom in your chest from the last one who ripped you open. I guess what it comes down to is closure.

Closure.

I want the X to call and apologize for breaking my heart consistently for three years. I want to hear "I'm sorry" from her lips. But then again, who am I to ask for her to apologize? To expect her, after three years and six breakups later, to be an adult and say what most human's would say without prodding.

And of course, I am party to her torture. I let it happen for three years. I was so afraid of losing her and her hurricane that I let her play with me. It was I, who let her yank my heart strings from here to Timbuktu, without a peep. Had I been the one to say enough is enough, I'd feel vindicated–the owner of the last punch thrown. But instead, I am once again KOed.

So I'll say it now! Enough is enough. I can't be afraid of something not worth losing, even if that means we never speak again. And maybe, just maybe, once that wound heals itself, I will be able to find my inner strength that I lost long ago, amid turmoil and lost loves.

Its time to take action.

Mark my words. In six months you won't even recognize this girl. And I think that will be a very very good thing.

Perhaps I am a tad bit maschochistic

I decided today, unceremoniously, to telephone the X. The one who, in all of her callousness, left me stranded, one limb down (right foot), in the Himalayas in India. Since the insipid phone call via skype, a mere three hours after my harrowing adventures in two different rural Indian ERs, she and I have been but ghosts to one another*.

It was the type of breakup that twisted everything within you into knots. There was no telling which was you were facing. A dizzying, tale spin of where did those last three years just go? I'll tell you where...Right down the crapper, kids.

And despite my best intentions and my deepest desires, I called. After promising, just a few weeks before, that I was done talking, thankyouverymuchmylifeisbetternow, I'm moving on.

But oh, how deep those ties can be. Ties you wish you could sever with a simple snip of the scissors. Only when trying to do so, it turns out that you need a crew of five, and a few chain saws to actually make a dent in said ties.

So I called. And we talked. Things were...civil...At first.

But then I realized, some where between her "You and I were never compatible" and "I never wanted to stay with you that long anyways," or maybe between her "I love you, but I don't appreciate you when you are so close"** and "You have so much to offer, I'm just not the one to take it" you realize HOT DAMN who does this person think I am.

So there you have it folks, after three years this woman knows me about a well as the bum she passes on Houston street each and every day. And to date, she has yet to alter her view of me. Has yet to acknowledge growth.

But then again...Seeing growth would be admitting fault that maybe, just maybe, she jumped the gun on the all-in-one-breath "I can't be with you anymore, sorry about your broken foot" skype call.


*save for my sojourn to the big bad city a few months prior to today. As I said, call me a masochist.

**cut the drivel, I'm not a god damned Monet painting.

"I'm fine"

Sometimes I forget the depth of sadness that I feel, as I have always been the queen of "I'm fine". Growing up my life was made of "Don't worry about me's" and "I promise, I'm totally fine."

I forget that I am a cancer survivor. I forget that I have lost two financés, both of which have now move long past me...At least one of them I still pine for daily. I forget that I am not as strong as I appear. I forget that I raised myself, while my mother suffered from debilitating auto-immune problems.

In all of this forgetting, sometimes I think I forget myself. Forget that I am but a human, one who is made to bend but who may someday break. That I may be powerful beyond belief, but admitting weakness doesn't jeopardize this power--it only makes me strong.

Still to this day, if someone asks me how I am doing, I, like most others respond with the obligatory "I'm fine". But the truth is, maybe I'm not. And maybe that is ok.

I'm burnt out. I'm tired. And I am ready for new opportunities to come knocking at my door.