ANTIVERSARIES: stuck in fucking flatbush.
One year ago today I received what I think was the only email ian sent me after he left. Oh, until the one that said he was coming to get his stuff. One year ago this week, and for many, many weeks after, I woke up crying every morning, looking to see if he was on gchat or had emailed. Then I would try to get a job, babysit some kids, and fall asleep crying on my sister's couch, watching Roseanne.
During those fucking horrible days, when I couldn't not cry (highly unusual for me under any circumstances), all I wanted was to hear from him. All I wanted was to feel like I had any idea what was going on.
I remember right after Miami, I was trying to be in touch with him too much. Even though I knew everything was out of wack, I was used to talking to him every day... and it's not like he told me not to contact him or anything remotely clear like that. So I would text him sweet things, and write on his facebook wall and email him funny things to watch, or words to hold onto. And he would say nothing in response.
I felt so ashamed, like I was over-communicating, smothering. So I forced myself not to reach out so much, knowing that it was largely about trying to reassure myself that things were going to be okay, and knowing that wasn't fair, wasn't being helpful enough. I emailed him and told him I was sorry for contacting him so much, when he must just need space. I made a practice of emailing myself every time I wanted to talk to him, so I could later sort through what really mattered to share, rather than burdening him with my thoughts and feelings.
I tried really hard not to be angry at him for never responding, for being so unclear, for allowing his silence to serve as my only indicator of the tectonic shift that had taken place. Every day of silence hurt a little more, you know. So I asked him what was reasonable, how often he wanted to be in touch until he came back.
In our one phone conversation, he said once a week was all he could do, in terms of communication with me. So of course that was fine with me. Really painful; everything revolved around when he might call. But it was ok with me as an arrangement. In truth, he could have asked me to do just about anything and I would have done it to help him get better. In fact, when he broke up with me, finally, in November, I offered to move to Chicago. Now *that's* a moment I'd like to forget. How fucking humiliating.
I was emailing and calling all of these couple's therapists, hoping to have everything at home nice, ready, dealt with, for his return.
Today, one year ago, I tried to write him something hopeful. I remember laboring over that email, wanting so much to express things he'd want to hear, and not just things I wanted to say, knowing I wouldn't allow myself to email him again for days, or maybe weeks. I was sitting on my sister's bed. In the end it was just 3 paragraphs, which is good for me, especially in a moment like that.
I asked him to remember all the good, important moments we'd shared. Like the moment I fell in love with him in Grant Park. And how I finally let go of the million and a half reservations I'd held onto for so long. See, I didn't fall in love with him until about a year and a half after we started dating. I asked him to remember all the things we'd been through together, stupid things, amazing things. I'll spare you the list. Most of all I asked him to remember that I loved him, to try to believe that he was loved at all. I knew that was the kind of thing he couldn't quite understand. I can't blame him for that though, since I'm exactly the same way.
Despite our "plan," I think we talked on the phone only that one time, when we first made the "plan." He sounded so cold, and he was doing that thing people do, where they are overly specific with language... "I love you," only when prompted, and never "I'm in love with you." "I'll call you again," but not "I miss you." Then, I didn't hear from him for weeks. I texted him about my job interview, so close to so many fun place we could go after work if I got the job. I texted him on election night, wondering if he was in Grant Park, again.
Then finally he called, but that's another story. No need to think about that now. It's not that antiversary just yet. No, today is just the anniversary of waiting and waiting. Trying to hold on to good thoughts, optimism, memories. Trying to be supportive of his need to be away from his life in new york. I thought, you know, that I was doing the right thing, giving him space, like you're supposed to with loved ones.
During those fucking horrible days, when I couldn't not cry (highly unusual for me under any circumstances), all I wanted was to hear from him. All I wanted was to feel like I had any idea what was going on.
I remember right after Miami, I was trying to be in touch with him too much. Even though I knew everything was out of wack, I was used to talking to him every day... and it's not like he told me not to contact him or anything remotely clear like that. So I would text him sweet things, and write on his facebook wall and email him funny things to watch, or words to hold onto. And he would say nothing in response.
I felt so ashamed, like I was over-communicating, smothering. So I forced myself not to reach out so much, knowing that it was largely about trying to reassure myself that things were going to be okay, and knowing that wasn't fair, wasn't being helpful enough. I emailed him and told him I was sorry for contacting him so much, when he must just need space. I made a practice of emailing myself every time I wanted to talk to him, so I could later sort through what really mattered to share, rather than burdening him with my thoughts and feelings.
I tried really hard not to be angry at him for never responding, for being so unclear, for allowing his silence to serve as my only indicator of the tectonic shift that had taken place. Every day of silence hurt a little more, you know. So I asked him what was reasonable, how often he wanted to be in touch until he came back.
In our one phone conversation, he said once a week was all he could do, in terms of communication with me. So of course that was fine with me. Really painful; everything revolved around when he might call. But it was ok with me as an arrangement. In truth, he could have asked me to do just about anything and I would have done it to help him get better. In fact, when he broke up with me, finally, in November, I offered to move to Chicago. Now *that's* a moment I'd like to forget. How fucking humiliating.
I was emailing and calling all of these couple's therapists, hoping to have everything at home nice, ready, dealt with, for his return.
Today, one year ago, I tried to write him something hopeful. I remember laboring over that email, wanting so much to express things he'd want to hear, and not just things I wanted to say, knowing I wouldn't allow myself to email him again for days, or maybe weeks. I was sitting on my sister's bed. In the end it was just 3 paragraphs, which is good for me, especially in a moment like that.
I asked him to remember all the good, important moments we'd shared. Like the moment I fell in love with him in Grant Park. And how I finally let go of the million and a half reservations I'd held onto for so long. See, I didn't fall in love with him until about a year and a half after we started dating. I asked him to remember all the things we'd been through together, stupid things, amazing things. I'll spare you the list. Most of all I asked him to remember that I loved him, to try to believe that he was loved at all. I knew that was the kind of thing he couldn't quite understand. I can't blame him for that though, since I'm exactly the same way.
Despite our "plan," I think we talked on the phone only that one time, when we first made the "plan." He sounded so cold, and he was doing that thing people do, where they are overly specific with language... "I love you," only when prompted, and never "I'm in love with you." "I'll call you again," but not "I miss you." Then, I didn't hear from him for weeks. I texted him about my job interview, so close to so many fun place we could go after work if I got the job. I texted him on election night, wondering if he was in Grant Park, again.
Then finally he called, but that's another story. No need to think about that now. It's not that antiversary just yet. No, today is just the anniversary of waiting and waiting. Trying to hold on to good thoughts, optimism, memories. Trying to be supportive of his need to be away from his life in new york. I thought, you know, that I was doing the right thing, giving him space, like you're supposed to with loved ones.