on letting go

(…) so now i’m on a bus writing to you. it’s about 1:45am, everyone is sleeping and the stars are gorgeous. the engine of the bus is relaxing. it’s pitch black except for this little light above my head. my feet hurt from all the walking, along with my brain from thoughts of the little time spent with such a beautiful you. it’s been two days away from where my heart is, and it already feels like an eternity

i’m not good at packing.

i over-think and under-plan and fuck, i’m a mess. frankly, this is the first move i’ve made wherein i am not running, or doing things hastily. this has been planned and carefully thought out and yet, i’m programmed. i’ve been wired to act as if moving means hiding, running. i am so overly stressed by my situation at work, and i’m worn. on the bright side, i’ve been carefully boxing things i know i’ll enjoy having in me and dan’s apartment. i’m purging the poison i’ve been stowing in my boxes, in closets, under piles of clothes, in my heart. i’m ridding myself of furniture we don’t need to make room for pieces that will complement everything else we own. i’m choosing things based on dan’s taste, and mine. things that will mesh together in our home.

i trashed my m box.

i’m so sick of this negative non-sense i’ve been carrying around like a coward- like some sort of fucking medal showcasing my broken pieces. and i’m done with that. it’s a new year and a new opportunity and a new house. i’m starting from scratch, again… and this time i’m doing it right. i’m completing my healing process and moving forward. m has no right to invade a space i can finally call home, with a man who has me completely wrapped up inside of him. dan has helped me heal more than he’ll ever be able to understand, and i’m so grateful for his patience.

originally i wanted to make a big production of the disposing of the m box. but truthfully? the scars are reminder enough- what good will it to to wallow and cry and give him the fucking privilege of making me cry, again. and so i scrapped that idea, briefly sifted through the only happy pages of our relationship, and then trashed it. goodbye, good riddance, fuck you. that’s it. that’s all it deserved.

i am so drained from work and trying to deal with my anger. i had a panic attack for the first time since, well, m… to be honest. i haven’t felt so ripped apart and beaten down and years, and it’s time to be healthy. i can’t keep letting people destroy me like this if i ever plan to be happy again, on the inside, i mean. my brains, my heart. i need to fix myself.

what am i looking forward to this weekend? alone time with my lover. not doing much of anything, really. we’re celebrating valentine’s day on sunday- and i’m not quite sure what dan has up his sleeve, but i do know i’ll be giving him the framed (silly & naked) pictures my friend took of me, and i can’t wait to see the hilarious look on his face.

tomorrow’s a new day, and i’m turning today’s page.

i’ll see ya’ll on monday.



in a way it’s funny, in a way it’s filthy

when i met m i was sure i had my entire life figured out. sure, he was addicted to drugs and having sex with other women, had inexplicable anger inside of him, had violent outbursts regularly, belittled me on a daily basis, and left me with nothing but a couple of moving boxes and suitcases when he decided he needed enlightenment by backpacking across the world going to halifax for a few weeks to get fucked up because he didn’t have a passport, when i was barely eighteen years old.

but the man loved me.

when he wasn’t molesting my friend in her sleep, fucking his neighbour when i was babysitting our godson, or punching holes in the walls… he totally loved me. because picking me flowers on the way home from work, or writing me cards and love letters all the time, or bringing me on a surprise picnic in the middle of the night totally made up for hurling my (then) 110 pound body onto the leather couch when he was angry with me, right? the nights of champagne in bed in our underwear, or curling up together on the ten year old lazy-boy (our only piece of furniture at the time) watching stolen cable on a 13-inch television, kissing in between sentences definitely made up for the debt i accumulated for having to move every time he found me- every time i lost the safety of living peacefully in my own home.

it’s funny, you know… how the only man i ever loved could be so fucking evil.

andy gave me the world (and then some)… he gave me safe arms to fall asleep in, a beautiful home to live in, and all the hope in the world- and i couldn’t tell him i loved him. i thought about it sometimes. i’d catch him looking at me a certain way, or he’d place his hand on the small of my back when he’d be trying to get by, or he’d make me laugh so hard my sides hurt. i could kiss that man forever. he would come home from work; sweaty, smelly, and tired and i couldn’t keep my damn hands off him. i’d rush home from work so i could get started on dinner and i’d get antsy until i’d get that daily text message… on my way home, babe. i couldn’t wait to kiss him as soon as he’d walk through the door… to taste his sweet lip balm mixed with salty sweat. to hug him and breathe in his dirty work clothes. i ached for that. i don’t think i was ever in love with andy- simply the idea of him. i know i loved him, in some way. i loved that he could make me feel again- every morning i wanted to wake up if only to see his blue eyes looking back at me, and kiss his bearded chin- like i always did. he made me feel alive after being dead for so long. i loved how soft-spoken he was…. he never raised his voice, never made me feel guilty or sad. even when we broke up, we sat quietly in the kitchen, whispering. we just held each other and cried, and cried, and cried.

it worries me that i haven’t been able to feel for anyone what i felt for m. maybe it’s out of fear, or worry- maybe self-preservation. i’ve seen what it is to be so happy and so in love- to have the entire world at my finger tips and then have that person turn on me. to have them absolutely destroy all the good i had inside of me. maybe i’m being selfish or stupid for blaming m for who and what i’ve become- i don’t care. i was his enabler, and yes i’m aware of that- but no one in the world deserves to feel anything less than human. i wasn’t alive when i was with m… i was a skeleton of someone i once was; nothing but bones. the only thing i was able to feel was that dull pain in my gut every single time i saw him. part of me felt okay when he’d ask him to flush the drugs, or tell me he’d want to spend a night in instead of out at the bar… but none of that was ever permanent. he’d beg me to start a family with him, and although a lost, beaten, sad little puppy i was… i was always sober enough to know better.

his on again/off again girlfriend decided to message me the other day to let me know that they’d recently been to cuba, where he was planning to propose, and instead came home and broke up with her. why she feels the need to let me know these things is completely beyond me- but that’s beside the point. i did what any human with half a heart would do, and comforted her. what else could i do? i know how hard it is to escape him.

in any case i guess this is some pseudo-excuse as to why the hell i’m so broken. luc constantly tells me i’m impossible and he’d do anything to reverse whatever pain m has inflicted so i could just give him a chance… but i’m beyond that at this point. i’ve had two relationships- both at polar opposite ends of the spectrum and both of those were rollercoasters and now i’m just tired.

i’m so fucking tired.

human skin can be hard to live in

the next time i wake up, i want to be
in a rabbit hole to the sound of you
(making coffee)
– seabear

i had a dream that m and i were apartment hunting. he was riding his bike around town while i met with landlords. i kept feeling sick- like i was making some sort of mistake. he was getting angry and none of the houses were good enough. i woke up feeling angry and anxious.

when i fell back asleep, i had a dream that andy asked me to go visit our old home because he’d decided to buy and renovate it (a plan that was actually in the works when we were still living together). when i walked in most of the layout was different; i was trying to remember what our house looked like when we lived together. he ripped up all the floors and put in beautiful hardwood. he grabbed my hand and lead me to “the love nook”- a room with a comfortable sofa, dozens of candles, and my favourite pictures of us everywhere. i cried as he tried to explain that he wanted to keep a part of me in the house, to make it feel like home. he then lead me to the bedroom- the details i can’t even get into because it completely breaks me heart, it was so real. i woke up gasping for air, covered in a cold sweat.

andy and i have been in contact recently… and when the messages aren’t totally mundane, they’re absolutely heart-breaking. and for no other reason than because they remind me of the first few weeks of us dating. the messages were flirty, fun, and harmless. we were giddy and giggly and happy. and that’s just how they feel now. it’s so easy to talk to him and get lost because i’d never, ever felt more safe than when i was with him.

living alone is hard.

i liked it so much a few years back, but now i’m finding it less easy. it was so simple to do it the first time because i didn’t miss the holes in the walls or the panic of wondering when m would be home. i didn’t miss picking up after roommates or getting frustrated over privacy. but now? how do i go from waking up early saturday mornings to kisses on my face, cartoons on the tv, and the sounds of andy and his brother in the kitchen? i miss cooking together, cleaning together, watching movies together. i miss sitting out on the deck, or making hot dogs in the afternoon (using the bbq i’d spray painted gold and lovingly nick-named B3Q0). i miss folding the boys’ matching underwear and putting their clothes on their beds. i miss brushing my teeth with andy every night. i miss feeling him quietly crawl beside me and wrapping his arms around me after i’d already gone to sleep. i miss watching him work- ripping up the old floors in the basement, or building a bedframe from scratch for us. i can’t forget the excited look on his face the day he came back with olive green and chocolate brown egyptian cotton sheets to match the colours of our bedroom. that’s what i loved so much about andy- the effort he made into making our house a home. the effort he put into seeing me smile. i miss that so much.

give me a few days, maybe i’ll start feeling better about this.


people tip-toe around the subject.

i have nothing against her, i don’t have any ill feelings towards her, i don’t dislike her. i’m not jealous of their love, and i don’t get sad to think of how his lips part hers. it doesn’t bother me to think of the trip he never took me on, and the one they’ll be taking this year.

of course i wonder about the small things- if he rubs her feet the way he rubbed mine while watching movies on the couch. i wonder if he picks her flowers when he goes for walks, or if he leaves sticky notes by her bed with “i love you” scribbled in his terrible writing. i wonder if he lets her shave his head, and if he washes her hair when they shower together. i wonder if they go on adventures like we did. i wonder if they read in bed together on work nights, or if they drink champagne in bed in their underwear the way we did. do they buy a box of wine and watch horror flicks all night? does he call her honey bee, beebee, little beenut? i wonder if he lays in bed, watching her get dressed for the day. i wonder if they go camping, or do crosswords together sitting in the same chair. i wonder if she visits him at work and fucks him in his booth. i wonder if he draws her pictures and writes her love letters. i wonder if they have a leather-bound scrapbook. do they have pictures together? i wonder what their song is, and if it makes him cry the way he cries to ours. i wonder if she sleeps at his mother’s and watches TLC with her. i wonder if she naps on the couch with the dogs, or if she has family christmas with them. i wonder if she calls his mum on holidays and brings her flowers. does she love her? what do his brothers think of her?

i wonder if she takes care of him when he’s sick. i remember him being nineteen and drunk, so drunk he couldn’t walk. he’d been sick in the cab and when we got to his mother’s house, he went straight to the washroom. i stayed up late eating soup and talking to his mother’s boyfriend all night. eventually i went to find him in the bathroom, where he’d was passed out with his arms wrapped around the toilet. i wiped the vomit from his mouth, took off his tshirt covered in puke, and threw his arm around my shoulders. “come on, baby”, i said, as i brought him downstairs to bed.

i wonder why he quit drugs, stopped drinking, and went in detox when he met her. i wonder why he couldn’t do that when he was with me. i wonder why her walls don’t have holes in them. i wonder if she knows what it’s like to put up posters in odd places to hide the truth from friends and family. i wonder if her mother calls her at 2am, begging her to run away. i wonder what he did to put those bruises on her chest. did he rip her shirt like he ripped mine? did he pick her up so far off the ground, her little toes couldn’t touch the cold floor? did he hurl her onto the couch? i wonder if he put his hands around her neck the way he did mine. did she black out too? i wonder if he cheats on her, if he fucks strangers and then goes home to fuck her. does she put up with it? does she fight back? does she know his family secrets? does she understand his past? can she sympathize or does she stand up for herself?

i don’t know why i can look passed everything and remember him being as beautiful as he was the day i met him. why do i remember applying mascara in the mirror while he whistled off-key in the shower? why do i remember the tears streaming down his face the first time he heard our song? why do i remember the sound of his laugh in the tent in the woods as i wrapped my arms around his neck and sang to him when he was barely twenty years old?

why can’t i remember the details of the way he yelled at me when the candle i’d bought him accidentally caught fire in his bedroom while we were asleep? why can’t i focus on the day he lashed out at me in his mother’s living room when we finally confronted him about the abuse- i can still taste his breath and feel my heart pounding inside of my chest when his nose touched mine and threatened me: “i’ll show you abuse”, he said while grinding his teeth. but why isn’t that the man i remember? why do i remember the boy i sat with on the deserted beach with in the middle of summer when i was sixteen? why do i remember exactly what i was wearing, where i was laying, and what night he first told me he loved me? why do i remember the smell of his neck and what he looked like while he slept?

i’ve moved on from that young girl. sometimes i ache for the m. i fell in love with, and yes, on my darkest days i do wonder all these things, and i worry she won’t ever know what it is to fall out of love with him. loving m. is not something you ever heal from, for the record. it’s not something you have trouble with one day, and are healed from the next. loving m. means living with a tiny hole in your heart and a constant black cloud over your head- it means learning to live with the dull pain in your chest and that void you can’t seem to fill. my innocence was ripped from me, and i still ache for the childhood i never had because of m. is she going to regret her young adulthood because of him the way i yearn for my teenage years?

i’m not jealous of the good things, and i don’t miss the bad things. if anything i’m relieved to have his hands off me.

i just wish she could say the same.