GUEST POST: how to say the hard stuff OR not even in the face of armageddon

This is Chris

My dear and very wise friend Chris, who has been reading my blog since its beginning (it is the very source of our friendship) and helping me work through the muck of life, love, and spiritual growth, wrote this beautiful guest post for us today. It was inspired by my post A Heart's Gamble, and I am so happy to share his insights here.

Enjoy...

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I once spent two and half years working up the clarity / confidence in my choice to tell a woman that as much as I loved her, deeply, profoundly loved her, I was not truly happy in the relationship with her because she and I wanted different things out of life, or at least to live in ways that did not bring me closer to her.  It was *excruciatingly* difficult to commit my future to that path, of ultimately living without her in my life.  The (many!) times I thought about it and what it would mean... and what could I possibly be thinking that I would give up all the extraordinary times we had together in hopes that I would somehow find something "better"?  What kind of fool did I think I was?!...  I waffled.  I tried all kinds of things to make it work, to contort myself for us to fit better -- and I know she did a lot of that too on her end, for sure.

I had numerous conversations with friends and family along the way to sanity check myself.  My best friend gave me lots of wisdom and a broader perspective.  My brother gave me a lot of practicality, but empathy all the same.  Nevertheless, in terms of the positive benefits my suffering could bring to the world, my mom was the most interesting one to talk to about what I went through.  My dad had divorced her only after 20+ years of marriage counseling and trying and trying... and trying.  They just weren't right for each other.  She gave me, in her own way, a woman's perspective of being on the receiving end of a serious breakup, and I gave her, much to my tangential happiness, a perspective on what a man's side of instigating such a breakup could be like.  That it was hard.

The reality is, I have been unskillful with women.  I have done and said the worst possible things at the worst possible moments.  Usually things I thought were innocuous and sometimes took me years to realize what a horrible thing I done to that poor woman's psyche.  I certainly hope they have recovered well, and at least learned something useful from my horrendous mistakes.  I myself have learned a great deal from my "failing big" and am very, very enjoyably much more skillful now, but even now I still have no strong knowledge of how to handle situations where really deep feelings are involved.  Hell, even when incredibly superficial feelings are involved on both sides: how do you, compassionately, tell a chick you know just came over because she was horny, "btw, I don't want you to sleep here tonight, can I get you a cab?"  Sometimes there's just no easy way to say some things.

So, how, in what was unquestionably the most serious relationship of my life to date, how could I possibly know the right thing to say, to express my real feelings, to be heard and understood that I had my own needs, but that they did not correspond with what she wanted (to remain with me)?  It hurts me deeply to hurt women.  I *love* women, I love taking care of them, treating them well and making them feel safe and comforted.  But as I am a monogamist, I can not do this for all women for all time...  The women I take some time with to explore and see how we fit, learn about her -- and learn about me! -- well...  Statistically, there are going to be more breakups than lifelong relationships that result.  But I remain nevertheless anxious that even after the hurt, somehow, *somehow*, I can find a way to impart to each one the knowledge and certainty that I cared so deeply for her, want her to be profoundly happy and wish with all my heart that a better guy for her than me shows up just around the corner.  And all the while I feel as though she is going to hate my guts no matter what I say, no matter how hard I try -- especially if I am actually _honest_ with her about my feelings, god forbid!

I do not begrudge the women of the world their bar hopping in the aftermath, telling their friends -- or random strangers, or the very next guy they hook up with for a night to forget... -- any stories they can think of that paint their ex-men in the worst possible lights so they can all commiserate on how men are scum, or at least that particular one.  But by the gods I wish it was not so.  Holy fuck I wish there was a way to demonstrate/share/empath the struggle and pain and frustration that goes into the desire to find an, honestly, _better_ happiness -- but still acknowledging that it was indeed a happiness before with that woman.  To know that a woman I cared so deeply for, and gave so much of myself to, that she would remember me fondly and know that I do still, until the end of all days, care for her, in a different way, yes, but deeply care all the same.

When my mom, over time, came to acknowledge that I was clearly greatly concerned about the happiness and well being of the woman I was contemplating leaving behind, she developed at least a hint of appreciation for what my dad went through.  That was so hopeful for me, that at least one woman saw that the guys who do/say these things to them are not cold heartless sociopaths who were lying about their feelings the whole time they were having these intimate moments prior to the uncomfortable conclusion, but rather human beings going through a struggle of their own, to find their own way in this confusing world and trying their damnedest to do the best they could with the skills they had at the time.

And it's not just the super intense moments.  The whole dating game is ripe with opportunity to hurt each other as we gradually shed layers with each other.  (And sometimes not so gradually -- thankfully!  I have cried my own eyes out over such times and am so, so, so immensely grateful to have had those experiences.)  We are all unskillful at times and we are all trying to find happiness in our own particularly selfish (but not in a bad way!) /individual ways.  I want to live in a world where we all recognize this of each other, and can respect our "opponents" in the battle of the sexes, especially from skirmish to skirmish as wounds are inflicted.  Forgiveness, compassion, understanding.

I would rather spend my life looking for a relationship that is truly satisfying for me, even if I never find such a creature, than settle for "almost but not quite" and then spend the rest of my life wondering what it would have been like to experience the satisfaction I knew I truly desired.  I will never stay with someone who wants something that is not what I want to offer, or offering less/other than what I know it would take to truly satisfy me.  Along the way, I will break hearts, including my own, and I hope that, at least for me, all the women I encounter are able to see and value my own attempts to do the right thing, even when it conflicts with their desires and thereby causes them pain.  

Eternally pursue that which brings you joy (and learn better every day what that really is!), perpetually operate from the assumption that hope is worthwhile even when it seems pointless or impossible, and, please, constantly look for the best in everyone on your path to real satisfaction.

May you, ultimately, find peace.

****

*Note from the author regarding the title: I have always planned for my own blog, agonizingbliss.com to title articles twice, once somewhat obviously, and the second a seemingly nonsensical reference at first that ultimately relates to what the article turns into.  This particular second title is somewhat unfortunately a bit obscure, it requires quick googling for those who are not already very familiar with the source material, but it is _extremely_ profound when taken in context and is very apt for the material.  A suggestion to google it after reading might be worthwhile. You should read the graphic novel it comes from, although it is a substantial commitment to do so -- it would take a day start to finish, basically.  A very very profoundly moving day.

A Heart's Gamble

Image from here.

Eyes smile at each other and touches linger. Flirtation plants its seed and desire waters it. Between would you like another drink and you're beautiful, we kiss. Boom boom double-boom, goes my heart, and in an instant smaller than a sigh, hope is born. 

Legs interlace, noses touch, hips kiss. Grr grr grrar, goes my body, and in between this is nice and yeah there, my armor falls to the floor. 

I am nervous, he touches my cheek and torsos piece into each other, a puzzle completed.

Vulnerable and hopeful, I rest on his chest and wait for his lips to find my forehead, his heart to find mine. 

But it doesn't. 

His body goes cold. I don't want to hurt you, I'm not ready for more than this, I don't want you to have expectations, his lips say instead. 

Boom. 

In a breath of space smaller than the sigh in which it was birthed, hope is killed. Desire vanishes, hearts hide.

I turn away and quickly touch my heart. Shh, little heart, it's okay. We'll be okay. We were too quick to trust. We know how this goes. Let's pack up and go now. 

I get up from the bed, and I feel a part of me stay there. That's the gamble; a part of us is always lost. Good bye, my sweet romantic girl. 

I pick up my armor from the floor and put it back on. It is heavier now.  I feel my edges sharpen, I am older. It will be harder to take off next time...

I Wonder About You

Are you better at sadness now? 

I am. Or at least I am used to it. I have not been as sad as you, for as long, but sadness is sadness, and it's deathly in all its sizes.


Do they, the new "she's"-- (I rather think there are many than one; one is too threatening still.) Do they understand? Are they better at it than I was? 

I didn't set the bar too high. But still, I hope they are not.


Are things like smiling and tomorrow still chores? 

I wanted so much to make you smile; I failed to understand you needed me to be the one person you did not have to smile for. Or talk about tomorrow with, for that matter.


Do you still ache for the mundane? 

Sameness, which was so excruciating to me, is precisely what I miss the most.


Do you fit in yet? 

I can't imagine you do. You are an outsider and you are arrogant-- rightfully so, you are too smart and too beautiful for normality. I was much better at seeming comfortable. But it's a pose, nonetheless. I think I have become more transparent and tired. A facade requires cement-like armor and energy.


Are you forgetting? 

I am. 

I would rather who I was be dead to both of us. 


And... Do you, too, wonder?

I hope not. And I hope not never.


*

A Leap

It takes me a year to get over a loss. Be it heartbreak, a death, the end of school, or a friend who moves away; the first year is always full of anniversaries. I keep a one-sentence-a-day-for-five-years journal, so every day I read what I was doing exactly one year prior. I do this deliberately, because I like to remember, relive, and re-feel. It's how I cherish what once was and let it go fully, without storing unnecessary sadness or pain.

Yesterday was the anniversary of the incredibly painful end to my last relationship. Yesterday meant I survived that first year after losing him and the following 365 days of remembering him.

But today was the 29th of February. Today did not exist last year. Today was new.

Take a leap, my phone reminded me at 9:00am today. Have I grown? Am I changed? Have I healed? Am I okay yet? 

I don't know. But I am here. My little heart is still beating fiercely, anxious to be filled with love again.

And on this day, after all those days of what was, there is nothing to remember.

It is almost midnight. Today provided a crack between this "year" and the next one. The one that is not full of anniversaries anymore. The one that might be full of possibilities. I am about to step into tomorrow.

No, not step. Leap.



Leap with me?

Forced Intimacy

He unloads the dishes.

She folds their clothes.

He brings her flowers.

She leaves chocolates on his pillow.

He brings her coffee.

She sends him texts throughout the day.

They sleep together.

They look good together.

They want the same things.

But...

He doesn't hold her hand underneath the table.

She is distracted when they watch TV together.

He plays with his phone while she talks.

She doesn't tell him that she's mad.

He doesn't tell her that he's sad.

She forgets to kiss him.

He doesn't mind sitting apart from her.

She is afraid of leaving him.

They can hear the sound of their forks hitting their plates.

They sleep together.

They look good together.

They want the same things...

When An Ex Reads Your Blog

People have asked me if, when I write, I take into consideration that my ex (ex's...) may be reading.

The answer is yes and no; how could I and how could I not?

Sometimes, as I am writing, I definitely hope that he might read it. I hope that he will know how I feel now, know that I still think about him, know that I am still sorry, know that even if we never see each other again, he meant a lot to me. Back when I was really hurting, I used this blog to purge my pain and I did hope to reach him. I hoped to somehow show him that I was human, since I knew I had turned into someone he couldn't love anymore. I ached for his forgiveness, and I was asking for it through every avenue I could think of. I had no interest in seeming strong, put together, over it, and better off without him. I was broken and I missed him desperately; it leaked right through my writing weather I wanted it to or not. I didn't have any guarantees that he'd read my blog, but I figured that if I could put it out into the universe, it might help me to heal anyway. 

At the same time, I had to set the thoughts of him reading it aside in order to hit publish. I have plenty of drafts of posts I wrote that I didn't have the courage to publish because the thought of him reading it mortified me. So, the ones I've published here I've done so by letting go of wondering weather he'd read it or not; I published them because I wanted them to exist regardless of his possible reactions. I needed to put them out here, where they could touch others, shift, and bounce back to me as a little bit of armor, a drop of medicine, a step closer to relief.

When I've written about older ex's, I have generally written under the assumption that they do not read my blog. I have been mostly wrong, as many have contacted me to tell me they do, in fact, read it. Still, I never took down any published posts because I believed they all had value. If I ever wrote a blog that downright offended someone or exposed them in a way they did not want to be exposed, and they let me know, I would take it down. It hasn't happened yet, because I believe they all know that our stories can serve others, and that I write here what has helped me to heal and become a stronger, more loving person.

I don't think he, or any of my ex's, wish to see me in pain, or get off on how much losing them has hurt me. I don't think any of them come here hunting for evidence that they scarred me in some way, or wanting to read about my inevitably biased perception of what we lived through so that they can then write me an angry email about how wrong I have it all.

So, why do they come here?

If I were to guess, I'd say it's for the same reason I still write about them, too; because no matter how much pain and disappointment we may have caused one another, we meant something to each other, and that's hard to find.

What Could Have Been

I see you there, standing on the front porch of our house- a house we painted ourselves-  with our baby in your arms and our toddler hanging on your legs. The smell of the breakfast we cooked together still hangs in the air around the house. I put my hand on the small of your back, our bellies touch, I kiss you on the lips, and you wish me luck on my audition. Our hands touch for a few moments; the insides of our palms say I love you to each other. I walk past our peonies and get into our car, and I look at you again, standing there with our kids, in front of our home. You look perfect; you are and always have been perfect. 

This is exactly what we always wanted. The comfortable relief of having it is palpable.

This is the world I escape to when I’m in line at the post office, when the dairy products in the grocery store all look the same to me, when I’m in the subway and the world surrounding me has too many details for me to take in, and when I’m alone in my bed at night, staring out into the darkness trying desperately not to ever forget what his chest felt like next to my cheek.

It is the world of What Could Have Been. It is make-believe and fantasy; it does not exist.

I know I must let it go. I do not want to—I want to hold on to this world forever, I want to return to it many more times, but I know I cannot.

So, I am walking away today. I do not know how long it will take before it is out of sight, or if it ever will be, but I am starting my journey now. I am leaving it behind. I am leaving him behind, along with all my dreams of what could have been. It is a difficult and slow walk. I often look back and see him there, standing tall and handsome, and I want to run back, fling my arms around him, kiss his perfect face, and bury my head into his chest. I want to say, Let me stay! Let me live here a little longer! Don’t let me go just yet!

I know I have to go now, though. 

Saying good-bye to him and to the life I had created for us in my head is really difficult and painful. I am leaving because I have to, not because I want to. We cannot be, and what I dreamed up for us will not come true; I must accept that and I must move on. 

It’s not going to be us this time around; it’s not going to be you and me. It’ll be you and someone else; me and someone else. We will live separate lives, love other people, and become the people we are meant to be, without each other.

For a while, it was a path that corresponded with reality. I saw our lives running their course, together, for the rest of our time here. I am walking away today, but a part of me walked down that path with him and will always live there, in that pretty house with a front yard, where our kids grew up in a home made of love. It is beautiful, because dreams are beautiful. 

I let it be beautiful for now. I know that one day we’ll look back and this dream will have faded; we'll be lost in the past, upstaged by other stories, and our paths will seem to have just barely touched. 

It is sad, because reality is sad. 

Love's Scars

I distinctly remember the realization I had after the first time I got my heart badly broken. Everyone said, It'll pass, You will heal, This won't kill you, It gets better with time. And my realization, which came upon me one day mid-recovery while crying so hard I couldn't keep my eyes open long enough to see the tissue box, was that this was precisely the problem: Surviving something hurts like a bitch! If it had killed me, if I hadn't been able to heal, if time didn't do it's thing, then I wouldn't have had to go through the survival thing- the torturous learning experience, the painful growth stuff, and the what doesn't kill you makes you stronger routine. Survival is linked to the biting pain of loss, and it means carrying that pain with us and living with it, because no, it does not always kill us.

We were all happier before we lost that person we loved. Music, poetry, and films have reinforced this fact over and over again:

Raul Seixas, genius of Brazilian music, says in one of his songs, "Today I know/ that no one in this world is happy/ having loved once."

Pablo Neruda wrote, "Love is so short, forgetting is so long."

In the 1961 movie, Two Rode Together, Marshal Guthrie McCabe says, "You know, sometimes it takes a lot more courage to live than it does to die." (Perhaps an extreme example, but still- heartbreak can be extreme at times.)

And then, after it hurts enough to heal, we are left with a scar. The "break" in our hearts becomes a crease, the pain concealed neatly behind a stitch, and we move through life and, hopefully, let ourselves love again.

When I was going through that first "survival" process, I didn't know that it would be okay one day. I didn't know that today I would look back on it, think of him, see the scar, and feel grateful for the experience in its entirety. That deep, uncensored first love, followed by a loss that knocked the wind out of me, became the patchwork from which I constructed my survival mechanism. Because of it, I developed the mantra, "I have survived my past, and I give myself permission to let it go;" words I repeat to myself on almost a daily basis when I feel something from the past weighing me down.

My most recent scar has been throbbing a little lately, and I've had to attend to the residual grief. It's still painful. It still paralyzes me. I am still surviving it, and I am still letting it go. It doesn't get easier with time; surviving a loss. It mostly just becomes something I know I can do, and that gives me strength, but the work is still there: I still have to survive this.

The other realization I had after that first big loss was that the wounded knew something the unwounded did not. They knew the essence of the human experience: everything changes. "Nothing gold can stay," wrote Robert Frost. A sweet, tender love can turn bitter. The person who teaches us to live to our full potential can leave us one day. The one we want to protect with all of our might may be the one we end up hurting tremendously. There are no guarantees, or permanent states of loving- of living, for that matter- and what is true today may not be true forever.

In that sense, we best let people in. We do well to let them scar us. What we gain with love- the stories beneath the scars- that is life's fuel. Loss is not temporary, but suffering is. While what we have lost remains so, what we gain is also ours to keep. Part of us lives on in the hearts of others, and they live on in ours, even as our stories change.

I am grateful for all of love's scars. They are my treasured stories.

Let's go, I tell my heart today, let's go love again.

Relationship Lessons

Check out my Guest Spotlight Post for Simply Solo, going up today! 

And, in the spirit of single life and dating, here's a lesson plan on what my past relationships have taught me. May I review it often and never make the same mistakes again. (Or, if I must, may they be delicious, exciting, and passionate mistakes).

The Good High-School Boyfriend

·      Losing one’s virginity to a boyfriend is better than losing it to some random guy at a party, I’m guessing, because it’s forgettable. The latter would have been more memorable, in a bad way.

·      Cheating doesn’t change the fact that you’re still in a bad relationship.

·      Getting to say, “I have a boyfriend,” is not a good enough reason to be with someone.

The Bad College Boyfriend

·      Losing weight and working out like a maniac will not stop a man from looking at other women.

·      Open relationships are bullshit.

·      If he doesn’t say, “I love you,” he probably doesn’t love me.

The Feminist Guy (one of my favorites)

·      A woman does not have to be tamed, waxed, manicured, plucked, smooth, soft, undernourished, or even feminine, if that’s not who she is.

·      There’s no such thing as “good enough to marry”. Everyone is good enough to marry.

·      The female orgasm is VERY IMPORTANT. 

The Richard Burton to my inner Elizabeth Taylor 

·      Passion makes everything amazing, and also very dramatic.

·      Fantastic sex does not mean you’re madly in love and should get married.

·      When a man says, “I’m not looking for a committed relationship,” it means he’s not looking for a committed relationship. Not now, and not when he gets to know you better and has so much sex with you that the obvious next-step would be to want to be in a committed relationship with you.

The Forbidden Love

·      Everything feels amazing when it's forbidden, but that doesn't change the fact that it's forbidden.

·      It’s easy for guys to say, “I love you, you’re my soul mate, I can’t live without you,” when they’re in an impossible situation that has a definite end-point in sight.

·      I’m not all good. It’s important to know that.

The Serious Boyfriend

·      If I don’t trust a guy, there’s probably good reason for it. No need to stick around and investigate what the reasons are, just get out.

·      If I’m not happy, I better speak up, and soon.

·      Never give up passion. That is a compromise that will come back to bite me in the butt.  

Conclusion: If it didn't work out, learn from it, grow, and know that I will never know everything there is to know about relationships and how to make them work. There's always more to learn, and so there are always more love stories to come. At least until I find the guy I want to keep making mistakes with and learning from for the rest of my life...

Running Into Someone You Once Loved

It will not be easy. You will not be prepared. You will be looking for the perfect avocado at a fruit stand and then, in what will feel like the second half of the same instant, you will look up and see a face that turns your legs to liquid. It all happens very quickly. Stunned looks turn into smiles of recognition, eyes widen, hands go about- do you shake hands? do you hug? do you kiss on the cheek? where the hell are the rules for these encounters? You scan his face- yes, it's older now, but still perfect, still familiar, still lovable beyond measure. The years have passed, you no longer know every part of him. You do not recognize the clothes he's wearing, or the wrinkles on his forehead. And then- and who knows why you will do this, but you will- you look at his hand, you look for a ring. It's there. Of course it is. You already knew. It is the Era of Facebook; you even know her name.

This encounter has happened throughout all of time, thousands of people have written about it, beautiful novels and films have immortalized it; it is impossible not to romanticize it, not to be thrust into the sentimental space of Past Lovers Reunite. Whether the sky really is pinkish-blue, whether the fruits in the stand really do give off a bitter-sweet aroma just for this moment, whether no one is really bothered by two people just standing there- well, it doesn't matter. It's how it'll play out in your mind, and it'll be poetic because it has to be. Because these things are too surreal to be real. Because past loves live in a far-off island, protected from and unchanged by life.

It's so good to-

How great to-

I thought you lived in-

I'm just here visiting-

I can't believe-

Isn't it funny-

You look-

You look-

This is-

Isn't this-

I thought maybe I'd-

I wish I'd known you were-

But it was a last minute- 

It's been so many-

You haven't changed-

You still look-

...

How have you-

I heard you-

Good-

Yeah-

I read that you-

I saw that you-

Oh-

Uh-

How great for-

I'm so happy for-

Thanks-

Thanks-

...

Well I really should-

And I better-

But how great to-

Such a nice treat to- 

Can I write you when-

Let's not lose-

Yes of course-

Yes we must-

...

I'm off this way-

I still have to- 

Right-

Yes-

It's so great to see-

How great to see-

It is-

It is-

Enjoy this beautiful-

I hope you enjoy-

We'll talk-

Yes of- 

Soon-

Soon-

...

Bye-

Bye-

...

And then it's over. He'll go. You'll stay. You will wonder, briefly, why the universe sent him to you today, during this time in your life, when your heart is in limbo. You'll think maybe it means you can love again. Or maybe it means you had to remember a time when you were someone else, to someone else. Or maybe it just means it was time to see him again, to see that everything passes, that everything changes, that every story has an ending. The world will remain suspended for a while, but then it'll go back to normal. You'll pick out your avocados. You'll go home. Except you'll wear your sunglasses just a little longer today, because your eyes will fill up with tears.

Chipped and Changed

It dawned on me today that once you do something to someone, or once someone does something to you, it can never be undone.

I made a lot of mistakes in my last relationship. I don't want to get into the details, so, to put it mildly: I hurt someone I loved. I realized that I can be ugly, mean, vengeful, and dishonest. I did not like realizing these things. I want to see myself as a loving, gentle, truthful, and kind person. Bringing up all this- for lack of a better word- shit, was like being thrown into a storm after waking from a restful nap.

Was all of this always here, I wonder? I try to imagine looking at 13-year-old Larissa, who was so completely romantic, who believed in pure, eternal love, who saw the world through pink shades, and telling her, "You're capable of being a hypocrite, a liar, and a cruel, manipulative bitch." It breaks my heart to even think about it. But where did it all come from, then? Were my actions a consequence of circumstance? Have I been molded by life's experiences into a person I could not have foreseen becoming? I don't know. 

Sometimes it's been so difficult to face myself that I've turned away from it all completely. It's been kind of an all-or-nothing phase of analysis and coping. Either I'm all in it, looking at myself and seeing everything I don't like and having mini-anxiety attacks, or I'm all out of it, unable to think about it at all, distracting myself with life and what-not. 

Once upon a time, I could believe I was not capable of certain things, that I was above certain actions, that I was even better than certain thought-processes. Now, for better or for worse, I know things about myself I did not know before- things that I do not like, that I do not admire, and that I do not enjoy in the least. There they are- the chips in my armor.

As I thought about all of this, I realized: I am forever changed. I won't ever get back to square one. I can't erase and re-write my life. I am not 13 and pure. I am 25 and chipped. Tainted, imperfect, flawed. But also, I recognize, human. Grown, learned, lived.

I wish I hadn't hurt someone in order to learn the lessons I had to learn. I wish it had been cleaner. I wish I'd been responsible. I wish I'd known better. But it happened the way it did, and now I have to carry that around with me.

Though it's difficult to keep this in check, I know the bad doesn't cancel out all the good. My capacity to hurt someone does not kill my capacity to love. I can be mean, yes, but that doesn't mean I can't be kind. I can be bitter, and also sweet. I can be forgiving, and also remorseful. I can cause pain, but I can also bring joy.

I can be chipped and changed, but my heart is still beating.

Missing

I was so done with New York three weeks ago, when I left on my "vacation". I have been basking in my parents' home life. I had to extend my trip, for personal reasons, and thought it a gift from the universe. I was grateful to be away from everything for a while.

But today I missed sitting at a New York City diner and having a cup of bad coffee with sausage, egg, and cheese on a roll.

I missed waiting for the subway and listening to 27 different ipods blasting not-so-different songs.

I missed walking on the crowded streets around Union Square, debating whether to pee at Whole Foods or at Barnes & Nobles.

I missed my set of too-many-keys, my subway cards lost in my purse, the sounds of my cell phone, and my yoga mat.


I missed my life- the life I have constructed over the years, that I take for granted on most days.


And I missed him, too.

As a friend so aptly put it, there's a hole in me now. It occurs to me that after a while, a human being is full of holes. Gaping spaces where someone or something or someplace used to be. We learn, and relearn, and unlearn, to walk around with these voids, I guess. Filling them up or covering them up or maybe leaving them there, exposed, for a long time. The sense is that something is missing (verb of the day), that something is gone.

I can change my setting, leave the reminders, but I'm still walking around with a hole.

Something is missing, something is gone.

My Vows

Some things I do, I can't apologize for enough. There isn't really an apology that surmises certain actions, that finds a way to explain the "why's" and "how's" of what came to be. For all the pain we can inflict upon each other as human beings, we still haven't found the words to make up for it. So, I can go on through life calling myself a monster, sure. And I'm sure I still will, at times. But with every mistake I make, I do learn. If I don't learn from it, I'm bound to make the same mistake again. This time, I simply can't afford to let that happen. So, I've taken what I've learned and made it into a vow. A vow for myself, for those I've wronged, and for those who are yet to come into my life and trust me with their hearts. This is a personal commitment, a list of intentions, and a promise that I have learned from what I've lost.

I vow to be responsible over my feelings, wants, and needs.

I vow to communicate what I want and need as I am wanting and needing it.

I vow to value another person's trust and faith in me, never taking it for granted or abusing it.

I vow to be honest, with myself above all, and with others, always.

I vow to love deeply and to the best of my ability, with courage and strength.

I vow to treat myself with care and love.

I vow to treat others with care and love, too.

I vow to find the blessings in every love story, daily.

I vow to give up assuming I know myself and what I'm capable of.

I vow to give up assuming I know others and what they're capable of, too.

I vow to listen to my heart, even when it says something I don't want to hear.

I vow to trust my instincts.

I vow to attend to my harmful thoughts before they turn into harmful actions.

I vow to be forgiving of my- and others'- humanity.

I vow to give all that I am able to give to those I promise to love.

I vow to be mindful of consequences.

I vow to be myself, always, and with no exceptions.


It is a tall order, but it is how I want to live, and I trust I can honor my vows.

The Very Rainy Day

The city was a toilet today. Rainy, windy, messy, miserable. Much like my insides. When my external environment matches my inner life, I consider it a blessing and a curse.

A curse because, if it's bad, it seems worse. A gloomy stormy day magnifies my own negative feelings. It's one thing to feel sad and then go for a walk on a nice day and feel the sunshine on my skin, and it's another to feel sad and then go for a walk and get pushed and shoved and drenched by a vicious storm.

But it's a blessing, too, because it prevents me from running away from my feelings and my reality, which is necessary at times. There was no way to pretend everything was okay today. Unable to numb my pain, I had to just sink into it, let it run its course, and learn from it.

I could have stayed inside all day, but I had a commitment, and I needed some air. So I went out in that rain and found solace in how it freed up my thoughts. Fuck it, I don't really want to be happy right now. I don't want to be okay, I don't want to be strong, I don't want to be entertaining, I don't want to be enlightened. I want to be a mess. I want to wallow in my sadness, like a big drama queen, and think it's the end of the world. My umbrella eventually broke- it was that windy. Defenseless, I was free to get rained on mercilessly. I looked up at the sky and let the rain wash over my face, disguise my tears, take with it my make-up, moisturizer, and, eventually- finally- my "I'm okay" mask. I let it take over me- punish me and heal me simultaneously. I'm not going to say it felt "great", but it did feel real. I felt alive for a little while, and I felt like my pain, for once, wasn't clogged inside me, but rather moving through me.

I learned that sometimes, you have to not be okay. You have to just be sad, feel weak, undo any "progress" you've made in your recovery process. You have to go back to square one, forget everything you know about how "everything happens for a reason" and "it wasn't meant to be" and "letting go". Be a teenager and feel certain that in all of time, for all of mankind, around the entire world, no one has ever known such pain. Be a child and feel enraged that something good was taken away from you- give up accountability and just feel how unfair life is. Stomp, scream, thrash, splash. Even if someone's looking, it's okay- they probably won't care.

I can't tell you how great the wave of relief is. Don't get me wrong- giving up control, especially of my feelings, isn't easy. It's actually easier to be in a "getting better" place. I love feeling free from suffering. I love smiling. I love keeping it together. I love handling things well. I love it when I feel like I'll survive this, I'll be okay, I'll get better, I'll forgive myself, I'll grow, etc. But it's just not always true. Sometimes, that's just not what's going on with me. Sometimes I'm defeated and suffering a lot, and there's just no way to ignore it. It doesn't feel good, and it's probably rather uninteresting to other people, but it's still real and must be honored.

I'd like to say something like, "after the storm, there's always a rainbow," but the truth is sometimes there isn't. And I may not be ready for a rainbow yet, or even sunshine. What I do know is that not every day is a rainy day, and even a storm as powerful as the one we had today must get tired. Even if a bright sunny day is far away, it will stop raining eventually. Sadness doesn't suddenly turn into happiness, but it doesn't last forever either.

For now, I'm here, and it's raining, and I'm not always okay. Respecting that this is where I'm at is painful, but, as I learned today, it's also a blessing in disguise.

So, let it rain.

Sucky Sunday

I'm not a fan of Sundays. I don't like their lazy, unproductive, end-of-the-weekend, general sadness. They always feel heavy to me, and like I'm supposed to be doing something- even if that something I'm supposed to be doing is relaxing from the week. So a rainy, gray Sunday is pretty sucky. And a rainy, gray Sunday when I'm super sad and missing someone and waiting is just fucking miserable.

Here's what I discovered makes sucky Sundays worse:

Waking up with a headache that's not even attached to a hang-over. Just one of those inexplicable headaches.

Realizing I didn't just dream it all up. This is actually my life.

Piled up dishes in the sink and a full dishwasher (can I have an UGH! please?).

Overflowing trash bin.

No more milk.

My least favorite food network shows on.

Nothing going on on facebook (shame on you).

Putting on gym clothes and taking them off- accepting that no, I am not going to the gym today.

Counting calories (just a bad idea any time, really. goes hand-in-hand with weighing myself).

Staying at home, staring at the rain.

Staring at my unshaven armpits (I know, that image is gonna stick with you for a while. heh).

Googling "I'm so fucking sad what do I do" (absolutely useless).

Looking at my pores in the magnifying mirror (a Nazi invented that thing, for sure).


And then there are some things that make a sucky Sunday a little (or a lot) better:

Putting clothes on (pj's invite moping).

Shaving my armpits (you're welcome).

Doing the dishes. Taking out the trash. Deciding that that's really enough house-keeping for one day.

Going for a walk, even if it's raining. Walking is so much better than not walking.

Calling a good friend (she knows who she is- thank you darling...).

Going into a bookstore. Books have healing powers. Especially really bad self-help ones.

Cooking. Eating is so much better than not eating.

A brownie (okay, I only ate half of it. baby steps, guys, baby steps).

Coffee (I know, I pay a lot of tribute to coffee, leave me alone).

Yoga (can't thank that one enough-- though it totally. kicked. my. ass. today.).

Reading all the "bad" magazines out there (I couldn't do the "this is how to land a man" ones, but I did all the "how to look your best" and "this celebrity is so interesting!" ones).

Dinner with my brother (my guardian angel).

A mango martini. Just one. To sooth the soul, you know.

Catching up on Glee (just so damn fun).

Blogging (heh).

Realizing I survived my sucky Sunday. There will be others, but I did okay today. And that's good enough for now.

Thanks for all the nice thoughts and kind words, everyone.

Ow

It's so hard to miss someone. There's just no way around it. It's this huge, suffocating, paralyzing pain.

The day tends to start with it. I wake up and for just a split moment, I forget why I am in so much pain. Why is my chest so tight? Why does my stomach hurt? Why is it so hard to open my eyes? Why are my feet so cold? Why do I feel so very, very small? And then I remember. The realization doesn't settle in, but rather crashes and crushes me. He's gone. Boom. Any desire to get out of bed evaporates. I want to stay there, sarcophagied in my mess of blankets, forever.

But then I have to pee. Wetting my bed, fortunately, is not yet an option. I do, however, wait until the last possible minute, until I'm about to burst. And then I get up. And it sucks. It's cold and I have to look at myself in the bathroom mirror on my way to the toilet and I look like garbage. My reflection hates me. I hate me. Even the tiles in the bathroom seem to hate me, making themselves extra cold for my feet.

Luckily, I also have a caffeine addiction, and so I know that now that I've gotten up I need to have coffee within the next thirty minutes unless I want to be greeted with a headache and extreme moodiness. At this point, I'd be crazy to add any more pain to my body. So I don't crawl back to my cocoon. I go to the kitchen.

I make my coffee, and as I start drinking it, I feel better, even if only because I managed to not go back to bed and stay there all day long. My phone, which is now a permanent extension of my hand, is dead silent. Call me. Please. Please please please. The chant is constant.

The day awaits me. Gym yoga rehearsal lunch with a friend book to read emails to send websites to check out call a friend write watch the food network go to the grocery store stop at barnes & nobles have a coffee laundry dishes wash hair dry hair comb hair paint nails call mom eat something go for a walk sit on the couch look at pores floss wander from the bedroom to the living room take out the trash go on facebook drink more coffee stare out into space organize socks look for any distraction anywhere all the time. I go through it- or some higher being inhabits my body and goes through it for me, I don't know. And yes, for some time, I am okay. There is some relief.

But then something will make me smile. And the muscles in my face will immediately register how strange that feels. You aren't happy. You're miserable. Don't you dare smile. The ache never left, there was no real relief. It's always there. I miss him.

It's hard and it hurts like hell. It is close to impossible to truly believe that it will get better, that it will pass, that it will shift, that I will grow from this experience. I hate every second of this.

The day ends and now I dread going back to bed. I know that sleeplessness and tears and guilt and a brain that can not stop thinking await me. Nighttime magnifies everything that's bad. I will lie down and a balloon will grow in my stomach, a big ball of hollowness.

I wait. I pace. I look for empty activities. My body will eventually tire. Or, I'll take an advil pm. And for a few hours, I will escape all of this. My mind will, anyway. My body seems to stay stuck and wake up in more pain, but my mind gets to go somewhere else.

And then it starts all over again.

It hurts. It hurts a lot.

When You're Hurting Beyond Measure...

Sleep during the day. Stay up all night.

Wear sunglasses in the subway. Blast your ipod until people move away from you.

Drink too much coffee. Don't eat. Eat something bad. Your body will forgive you.

Avoid mirrors.

Wear ugly sweatpants.

Forget to brush your hair.

Keep the curtains closed. Hate the sun. Hate everything that's beautiful.

Pray. Then curse at God. Then pray again. God will understand, She always does.

Spill milk and be too lazy to clean it up.

Stare into space and feel half dead.

Go to the gym and give up after four minutes on the treadmill. Let people wonder.

Check your phone every seven seconds. Check your email every eight seconds. Send test texts to your friends to make sure your phone is working.

Mute every other phone call. Nothing is really ever important.

Watch bad TV. Feel incapable of laughing.

Go outside not wearing enough clothes because feeling cold means you can still feel something.

Write letters and tear them up.

Bite your nails. Even if you never bite your nails.

Drink juice out of the carton. No one will know.

Go do what you have to do, even if you're numb.

Let the dishes pile up.

Don't fold the laundry. Wrinkled clothes work just as well.

Be dramatic. Your friends can put up with it.

Cry at the frozen peas in the grocery store. They can take it.

Hate yourself. Love yourself. Feel stupid. Feel awful. Feel like a piece of shit. Feel okay again.

Stay in the shower too long.

Go to bed. You can never go to bed too much.


Feel everything. This is part of survival. Shut off the brain and go on auto-pilot.


Remember, life goes on. Because it has to.

*

A Quote on Love

"It always fascinated me how people go from loving you madly to nothing at all, nothing. It hurts so much. When I feel someone is going to leave me, I have a tendency to break up first before I get to hear the whole thing. Here it is. One more, one less. Another wasted love story. I really love this one. When I think that it's over, that I'll never see him again like this... well yes, I'll bump into him, we'll meet our new boyfriend and girlfriend, act as if we had never been together, then we'll slowly think of each other less and less until we forget each other completely. Almost. Always the same for me. Break up, break down. Drunk up, fool around. Meet one guy, then another, fuck around. Forget the one and only. Then after a few months of total emptiness start again to look for true love, desperately look everywhere and after two years of loneliness meet a new love and swear it is the one, until that one is gone as well. There's a moment in life where you can't recover any more from another break-up. And even if this person bugs you sixty percent of the time, well, you still can’t live without him. And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well, you love his sneezes more than anyone else's kisses."

-From the movie Two Days in Paris

The Year of Healing and Blogging

I am back to the place where, a year ago, I began this blog. I came to Brazil at the end of last year to recover and heal. My heart had been broken, twice over, in that past year, and I was in pieces. I had just gone through my first semester out of school, ever, and it had been traumatically difficult to adjust. I had not acted in months, I did not have a job, and I did not see any future for my acting career. My soul was famished. I was sick of New York, sick of winter, sick of myself, and sick of pain. I came home to my parent's house in Sao Paulo and did not know if I would return to New York.

On the day that I arrived, I started going to an acting workshop. Even though the class was nothing extraordinary, I was thrilled to be among actors, and I felt life moving through me again. I was at my parent's home, eating fresh food and being taken care of. My mind, cluttered with negativity and sadness, had the space to calm down.

Being at home in such a vulnerable state led to an overflow of memories and nostalgia, which in turn gave me an appreciation for what I've been through, what I've survived, and who I am now. In an effort to work through the jumble of past joys and traumas, I started this blog. It seemed like a small thing to do, sharing some personal things in a public forum, but it provided me with an analytical narrative of my own life, which otherwise existed only in the pages of countless diaries. Sitting in my childhood room was a nest of inspiration and the blog posts seemed to happen involuntarily, almost effortlessly. I saw the time-line of my life, I wrote about it, and I started to heal.

Some people wrote to me to tell me they were reading my blog, and that they really appreciated it, which fueled me to keep it going. I made friends and reconnected with long lost friends because of the blog. I suddenly had pen-pals and a new connection to fellow bloggers. My world was growing.

Two months later, with a strengthened soul, body, and heart, I returned to New York. It greeted me with its brutal February winter and stubborn sameness. There was no acting career waiting for me when I walked into my apartment. The men who had hurt me still had the power to affect me. My surroundings were no different than I had left them, but I was changed. Things were not suddenly easier, but I carried with me the invaluable realization that I was not easily defeated.

This past year hasn't been easy either, but I have to acknowledge my achievements and growth. I acted in four plays. Although I hungered for more, those were all undeniably fulfilling experiences in their own way. One of them was my very own production, a first of its kind, and it was a big success. I discovered that in addition to acting, I also love directing and producing. I found a job where I got to write, and even though I was mostly miserable in it, I learned a lot about myself. My heart recovered, I started dating again, and I met someone really special. He has filled me with warmth, and I'm smiling again.

Here I am now, at the end of another year, and I am still recovering and healing. There are still reasons to doubt that dreams can come true and that love is always worth the risk. My body is still complaining, my heart hesitant, and my soul searching for its life force.

But that, I have started to accept, is life. Dreaming, wanting, hoping, falling, breaking, healing, standing, fighting, believing, doubting, knowing, searching, and, when I get chance, just being. That's the muck that makes the masterpiece.

I look at this blog, a year later, and I see it for what it is:

This is my life. These are my stories, and I am lucky to have them.

Thank you to all who follow, and happy holidays, from a grateful Little Larissa.

Surviving Heartbreak- My Two Cents

A lot of people are a big fan of the concept of "time" when they're giving advice or dishing out words of wisdom.

"Time will heal everything."

"Healing takes time."

"In time, everything will be okay."

"Just give it time."

"Take some time for yourself."

To list some popular ones.

And I don't know about you, but I find it maddening. I know people mean well when they say these things, I know there's truth to it, I know there's not much else that can be said, but I still just want to snap back, "Oh yeah? Well can you googlemap TIME for me and give me the directions so I can get there TODAY, because what sucks more than what I'm going through is the thought of having to sit with it for a period of TIME that is impossible to calculate."

This is all floating in my head right now because I've recently received two emails from readers of my blog who are going through break-ups, and they've read up on past posts of mine regarding love and the end of love, but they're both like, "Your posts have been so helpful, but I'm still in pain. Can you tell me how to get through this? Can you blog more about this?"

What they really want is a formula that will make their pain go away as fast as possible. They want to be okay again, and they want it now. They're searching for it everywhere.

(If I were to shout out now, May all who know such agony say "Aye aye!", the whole world would have one thing in common.)

Reading about how other people have survived their heartbreaks does help. It's one of the things, along with chocolate over-consumption and spontaneously painting your bathroom mint-green, that can bring us back to life. When I was nursing a heartbreak a few years ago, Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat Pray Love" was incredibly helpful. I needed to read a story that reminded me that heartbreak is universal and, perhaps more importantly, so is surviving it. The pain of losing someone is lonely, and it can save us to know that while our pain is our own, we are not alone in feeling it.

I read her book, I ate tons of carbohydrates, I went to yoga, I prayed, I started creating beautiful things, I performed rituals, I cried my guts out- in essence, I actively addressed my pain on a daily basis- and one day, indeed, I was okay again.

Yeah, we're paralyzed for a while. We forget how to laugh. We go through the motions of everyday life robotically. Caring about anything feels like an awful lot of work. We are sad and we want comfort- immediate, cost-what-it-may, good ol' comfort.

But there isn't a formula. There's no magic mantra, no super-powerful yoga pose, no sacred ritual, no fast-pass to the land of Being Okay Again. And it's not just TIME that heals us. WE have to show up for ourselves too.

If we suffer a car accident that cripples us and we're told that a certain amount of physical therapy for a certain amount of time will heal us, most of us will probably show up for physical therapy every day. It'll be painful and frustrating, but we'll do it, because we need our bodies. The "car accidents" that happen to our hearts are harder to work on, because we don't see the results physically manifesting- we don't even see the wounds- and there's not much value placed on taking time off our day to do "heart therapy". We have to be the wounded player and the cheering physician. We have to come up with our own healing routine, and then we have to be the ones to make sure we do it. It's a lot of work, and it's pretty damn lonely.

Here's what I realized one day mid-heart-recovery, when I was feeling particularly defeated by my own pain and in need of a pep-talk: No one was going to knock me out, cut open my chest, and surgically remove my heartache. Trust me, said a voice in my head, if that could be done, there'd be some rich-ass heart-healing doctors around. Even the people who help you- your therapist, your yoga teacher, your meditation buddy, your gay bff, and the girl whose blog you randomly follow *wink wink*- even those people's efforts are not enough on their own. So get out of bed, put some clothes on, and find out what you need to do today to heal your heart.

I did heal. I didn't shove anything under the rug and build on top of it. I was right there with my wound, present for every stitch, giving it what it needed every day- be that a good cry, a walk by the river, a conversation with my plants, a cooking experiment, or a new tattoo- until my darling heart was healed.

It took some icky sticky TIME, yes. But, more importantly, it took commitment and perseverance. I made myself a priority and I showed up for my recovery.

My healed heart, full of space to love again, was the pay-off.

*