Memorial Day Weekend
One year ago today, you broke up with me.
You told me it was because we had been fighting all the time, and you weren't happy. I think at the time, I understood that those things were true, but didn't want to face them.
My mom had been in town and had seen you, in person, from behind the bar, for the first time the day before. I had texted you, cold and afraid of saying goodbye to my mom the next day, that I loved you, and that I wanted to work things out, no matter what it took. I wanted so badly to be able to live in the present, to sit upstairs with my family and watch TV, to ignore the earth-shattering discomfort of my grandfather's health problems, to not consciously twirl my phone back and forth between my hands, waiting for you to say something, anything, back. You didn't. I couldn't.
I have written the story already of when you broke up with me. It happened as I lounged, dappled in the sunshine spilling from the windows onto your bed. I've told of the way the sun shined on without me, how the warmth and the orange light mocked everything, how tears spilled everywhere as I drove home--on the steering wheel, the seatbelt, my lips, my chin, under my fingernails.
A day off of work can be so cruel sometimes; I would've loved anything meant to distract me, anything to peel me from the floor, to force me to eat, to speak without crying, to breathe normally. Looking back now, I don't think I would have been able to function at my job; the following days I talked endlessly to my coworker about you, wondered what every tiny feeling meant, looked for meaning in everything we had ever done together.
The final day--the day before we were to work together and get back together and agree to go to Colorado, together--I went to a Starbucks and wrote about the moments during and after the time you told me it was over. I dreamed of you loving me too much to leave forever, but in that Starbucks, I felt okay. I felt free, awake, alive in the face of something that felt like death.
It's been a year, and you've broken up with me again. We lasted another six months after that first time, another half of our relationship, in its totality. We went to Colorado, Mexico, LA. We fought, less than before, separated ourselves from how bound together we had been, cried to each other, were gentle and strong, and kind.
Last week, you told me that you aren't in love with me anymore. You asked: isn't this what we wanted, what we were working towards? You insisted I wasn't getting it, would never get it, couldn't try to. I felt like a burden, struck dumb by your harsh words, and small, so very, very small. After all, we both have admitted that I've loved you more than I've loved anyone before, that I've loved you harder, more truly than anyone else has loved you.
Sometimes I think of the ways you admitted your love for me, and I think of the times you described being "surprised how much you missed me" or the way you whispered that you loved little things I'd do, little pieces of me stacked up like pleasant little blocks--all tangible and there, in spite of your continued surprise at their existence.
I know that you really loved me, in your own way. I know that at times, we each gave each other everything that we had, offered it up without asking questions, held our hearts to each other's chests, trying to force them inside. I know that sometimes when we looked at each other it felt like the world stopped, sometimes when we held each other it felt like complete and utter stillness, sometimes when we had sex it felt like rocketing through the universe.
Sometimes people don't have to smell like anything for you to love the way that they smell. I love the cologne that I bought you, and the way your hair smells like coconuts when you're done getting ready, the way your skin drips little droplets of water that smell like soap after you shower. But none of these things are what you smell like. The way that your skin smells, tastes, feels, it's all the same. It's warm and it's inviting, and home.
If you wrote about me, I wonder what you would say. My feelings fall out of me like water--in words on a page, in whispers and cries and explanations to friends and family, in everything that I do, have done, since that first time a year ago. You hold yours tight to your chest like cards, let them slip out in strong whips--in cruel words and unanswered messages and pure, unfiltered frustration at me. You let them out in accusations, rejections, endless ways of showing me that I'm wrong, have been wrong this whole time.
Most of your friends have told me that they don't recognize you. That should feel validating, should feel good, but it doesn't. They don't know why you've changed, don't have a reason to hold at arms length, why you don't seem so approachable and interested in them anymore. I have one of those. For months I've been waiting for you to turn back time, look into my eyes, get goosebumps when I brush against you. I've been longing to touch you, but, more than that, longing for you to want to touch me, forever, without conditions, to long for me the way it seemed like you used to. I've been crying for the cruelty of hope, the twisted way that words can seem so definite and undecided at the same damn time. For the way that you've seemed to vilify me, shut me out, do everything you can to show me I'm not wanted. I've been crying for the way that I can't seem to let go, no matter how hard I try.
I believed in everything about you. I don't think that was wrong. But I do have this tendency to lose myself when I start giving too much; and I tend to give the most when it doesn't look like I'll receive much in return.
You taught me to feel beautiful, to feel vulnerable, to feel unbelievable hurt, to feel ecstatic joy. I believe every word you've ever told me, every tear you've ever cried in front of me, every action you've ever shown me.
Do you ever look at the shoe chair in Tonic, when you're working there alone, and think about how we had sex on it, before the bar opened? Do you think about how days after that you pushed me away in bed, asked me for space, told me I'd been smothering you, embarrassing you, accused me of spreading rumors about your best friend? Do you think about the time you told me, more sure than I'd heard you say it before, that you were sure about us working out, because you were in love with me? Do you remember when I cried in your bed, told you that sometimes I don't think I'm what you want, that I'm not good enough for you, and you pulled me close, hugged me tight, told me I'm everything you want? I believed you in those moments. I believed you so deeply that I forgot about the times you made me feel small. I forgot about when you told me I couldn't dance, the times you refused to talk to me when I traveled without you, the times you stormed away from me, picked fights on the phone when you were in Thailand, wrenched the power out of my hands so you could feel more in control.
Do you want to hear my biggest regret? It's that Saturday when we got back together. It's leaving Rachael in that bar in Hayes Valley and getting an Uber back to you because you threatened to stop talking to me altogether. You couldn't handle an hour of the way I had been feeling for a week. And you knew exactly what I stood to lose when you threatened me like that. And still I did it. Blamed myself for not trusting you enough to not break up with me on a whim, for bringing up the past, for not getting over things the way you insisted I should if we were ever to move forward.
I loved you with every single piece of me. Everything I had to give, I offered to you first. In return you offered to change me, for, you insisted, the better. You asked me to give differently, try harder, be transformed. I don't know how long you've been with the new girl. But she's already changed you more than I ever could.
I still love you. Desperately, without ceasing, entirely. I don't know if that will ever change. But I can't wait for you and cry for you and live so dependent on what you think of me. Not anymore. Not with absolutely nothing in return but memories. Your love reminds me too much of what I grew up with from my dad--it's conditional. And the conditions are never the same, never predictable, never easy. I hope you find what you're looking for.
You told me it was because we had been fighting all the time, and you weren't happy. I think at the time, I understood that those things were true, but didn't want to face them.
My mom had been in town and had seen you, in person, from behind the bar, for the first time the day before. I had texted you, cold and afraid of saying goodbye to my mom the next day, that I loved you, and that I wanted to work things out, no matter what it took. I wanted so badly to be able to live in the present, to sit upstairs with my family and watch TV, to ignore the earth-shattering discomfort of my grandfather's health problems, to not consciously twirl my phone back and forth between my hands, waiting for you to say something, anything, back. You didn't. I couldn't.
I have written the story already of when you broke up with me. It happened as I lounged, dappled in the sunshine spilling from the windows onto your bed. I've told of the way the sun shined on without me, how the warmth and the orange light mocked everything, how tears spilled everywhere as I drove home--on the steering wheel, the seatbelt, my lips, my chin, under my fingernails.
A day off of work can be so cruel sometimes; I would've loved anything meant to distract me, anything to peel me from the floor, to force me to eat, to speak without crying, to breathe normally. Looking back now, I don't think I would have been able to function at my job; the following days I talked endlessly to my coworker about you, wondered what every tiny feeling meant, looked for meaning in everything we had ever done together.
The final day--the day before we were to work together and get back together and agree to go to Colorado, together--I went to a Starbucks and wrote about the moments during and after the time you told me it was over. I dreamed of you loving me too much to leave forever, but in that Starbucks, I felt okay. I felt free, awake, alive in the face of something that felt like death.
It's been a year, and you've broken up with me again. We lasted another six months after that first time, another half of our relationship, in its totality. We went to Colorado, Mexico, LA. We fought, less than before, separated ourselves from how bound together we had been, cried to each other, were gentle and strong, and kind.
Last week, you told me that you aren't in love with me anymore. You asked: isn't this what we wanted, what we were working towards? You insisted I wasn't getting it, would never get it, couldn't try to. I felt like a burden, struck dumb by your harsh words, and small, so very, very small. After all, we both have admitted that I've loved you more than I've loved anyone before, that I've loved you harder, more truly than anyone else has loved you.
Sometimes I think of the ways you admitted your love for me, and I think of the times you described being "surprised how much you missed me" or the way you whispered that you loved little things I'd do, little pieces of me stacked up like pleasant little blocks--all tangible and there, in spite of your continued surprise at their existence.
I know that you really loved me, in your own way. I know that at times, we each gave each other everything that we had, offered it up without asking questions, held our hearts to each other's chests, trying to force them inside. I know that sometimes when we looked at each other it felt like the world stopped, sometimes when we held each other it felt like complete and utter stillness, sometimes when we had sex it felt like rocketing through the universe.
Sometimes people don't have to smell like anything for you to love the way that they smell. I love the cologne that I bought you, and the way your hair smells like coconuts when you're done getting ready, the way your skin drips little droplets of water that smell like soap after you shower. But none of these things are what you smell like. The way that your skin smells, tastes, feels, it's all the same. It's warm and it's inviting, and home.
If you wrote about me, I wonder what you would say. My feelings fall out of me like water--in words on a page, in whispers and cries and explanations to friends and family, in everything that I do, have done, since that first time a year ago. You hold yours tight to your chest like cards, let them slip out in strong whips--in cruel words and unanswered messages and pure, unfiltered frustration at me. You let them out in accusations, rejections, endless ways of showing me that I'm wrong, have been wrong this whole time.
Most of your friends have told me that they don't recognize you. That should feel validating, should feel good, but it doesn't. They don't know why you've changed, don't have a reason to hold at arms length, why you don't seem so approachable and interested in them anymore. I have one of those. For months I've been waiting for you to turn back time, look into my eyes, get goosebumps when I brush against you. I've been longing to touch you, but, more than that, longing for you to want to touch me, forever, without conditions, to long for me the way it seemed like you used to. I've been crying for the cruelty of hope, the twisted way that words can seem so definite and undecided at the same damn time. For the way that you've seemed to vilify me, shut me out, do everything you can to show me I'm not wanted. I've been crying for the way that I can't seem to let go, no matter how hard I try.
I believed in everything about you. I don't think that was wrong. But I do have this tendency to lose myself when I start giving too much; and I tend to give the most when it doesn't look like I'll receive much in return.
You taught me to feel beautiful, to feel vulnerable, to feel unbelievable hurt, to feel ecstatic joy. I believe every word you've ever told me, every tear you've ever cried in front of me, every action you've ever shown me.
Do you ever look at the shoe chair in Tonic, when you're working there alone, and think about how we had sex on it, before the bar opened? Do you think about how days after that you pushed me away in bed, asked me for space, told me I'd been smothering you, embarrassing you, accused me of spreading rumors about your best friend? Do you think about the time you told me, more sure than I'd heard you say it before, that you were sure about us working out, because you were in love with me? Do you remember when I cried in your bed, told you that sometimes I don't think I'm what you want, that I'm not good enough for you, and you pulled me close, hugged me tight, told me I'm everything you want? I believed you in those moments. I believed you so deeply that I forgot about the times you made me feel small. I forgot about when you told me I couldn't dance, the times you refused to talk to me when I traveled without you, the times you stormed away from me, picked fights on the phone when you were in Thailand, wrenched the power out of my hands so you could feel more in control.
Do you want to hear my biggest regret? It's that Saturday when we got back together. It's leaving Rachael in that bar in Hayes Valley and getting an Uber back to you because you threatened to stop talking to me altogether. You couldn't handle an hour of the way I had been feeling for a week. And you knew exactly what I stood to lose when you threatened me like that. And still I did it. Blamed myself for not trusting you enough to not break up with me on a whim, for bringing up the past, for not getting over things the way you insisted I should if we were ever to move forward.
I loved you with every single piece of me. Everything I had to give, I offered to you first. In return you offered to change me, for, you insisted, the better. You asked me to give differently, try harder, be transformed. I don't know how long you've been with the new girl. But she's already changed you more than I ever could.
I still love you. Desperately, without ceasing, entirely. I don't know if that will ever change. But I can't wait for you and cry for you and live so dependent on what you think of me. Not anymore. Not with absolutely nothing in return but memories. Your love reminds me too much of what I grew up with from my dad--it's conditional. And the conditions are never the same, never predictable, never easy. I hope you find what you're looking for.
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