Little demons and everything else I am afraid of

I am physically and emotionally drained. Something out of "nothing" has become the biggest issue we've had to face, so far.

How big is a lie no matter how insignificant it was about? How often should we apply "past EXperiences?"

Now, it goes without saying that there are certain things that I am more cautious about after being lied to a hundred thousand times. There are certain things I can and cannot take, and maybe it's because I took a whole lot of it from someone else. It may sound unfair to apply past EXperiences with the Keeper (a.k.a. Francis), but it's like a test. I let it happen last time, but I won't let it happen this time, I tell myself. So, I painstakingly spend the rest of the night trying to make my point, trying to keep him in the tiny molehill until he understands why I'm pissed. When I realize that I can't explain myself any further, I walk into my cave and sulk.

There isn't much to this, because he always says, "Don't sweat the small stuff." Though I think my fellow ladies will agree that we're all afraid that if you let the small stuff go, it'll roll up into a boulder and eventually run us over. Neurosis and paranoia at it's finest.

I'm a little too afraid, I know, of the things I can't see; fearful of what can be, should be, and might not be. I'm afraid of the dark and of feelings I'm not familiar with. I'm afraid that if I hope too much, it will change me and break me into a thousand pieces. I'm afraid that if I hold on too tight, I will get carpel tunnel syndrome. That if I laugh too much, I'll release gas at the most inopportune times. And I'm afraid if I screw this one up, I may lose my mind and huge chunks of my heart.

So, I've decided to close the itty-bitty baggage I carry with me, the one with the EXperiences in it. I remember that this is different, that history does not always repeat itself. A man with a good heart does exist and is better than those farirytale Brad Pitt look-alikes [that I wanted to jump, at one point in time].

The ex-box

We recently moved into the new house. Well, not really new, just newly painted and carpeted. Anyway, my sister and I were putting away some of our things last Saturday. Of course, this is the time where you figure out what to throw away and what to keep. Out of the mountain of shoes and unused clothing, there was one box that stood out. This box was filled with two bears (one with its nose bitten off by my doggy woggy), a mug, a dog, and some other stuff I couldn't see. Little sis picked up some of the things, examined almost all the items as if she were trying to remember something, then placed them gently in the box, which she sealed and marked: Ex-Box. I laughed, but wondered why these things, no matter how far in the past we have to look back, still have a place in our lives, be it in boxes hidden in damp closets.

Five minutes later, I found an old bag, which I thought contained several drawings Gabie made for a project I had in college.

The bag was half-empty, except for a few old letters.

I had found my Ex-Box.

Most of the stuff from my Ex I burned years ago. I remember spending a humid afternoon with my best friend, Cedrick, bitter, numb and exhausted, throwing hundreds of letters in Mom's huge pot (used to make a big vat of soup). Those letters burned ashy black; Evidence of a past I thought I would stop living. I thought, that day, that my feelings along with mental pictures would perish in the flames too. Obviously, I was wrong. The flame didn't die for another three years.

So, I stood there reading that letter, the first after the ones that were burned and the first of the few to come in the next year and a half. It was the good-bye letter written to me before I moved back to California. I read those words and wondered why I allowed myself the right to be stupid. I was aware of the empty promises that letter held, like a void contract waiting to expire. I knew it then, I know it more now. And it's not like I lacked foresight. I knew how things would end up, that I was chasing my own tail, that he was a traitor-in-the-making.

As I read the last few paragraphs, I laughed at the words he used, at his feeble explanations. I had no longing nor pain in the middle of my chest. I didn't feel the need for closure. There is nothing left to analyze, feel or agonize about. But, see, that's what I wondered: after ten years of all of that, was there really nothing to show for it?

Surprisingly, I am not broken, no battlewounds on the chest or abnormal palpitations. I am not half the person I used to be, nor am I bitter and angry. I have no excess luggage or issues worthy of expensive couch-time. I left those things where they belong- pinpoints in time that make up my history. What I have are tiny insights that I draw upon every now and then, little reminders of how bad it was and how great it is now.

I threw the letter back in the bag and chucked it in the storage room. It will remain there forgotten, the testimony of what could have been and what is:

That my boy friend's shoes are sitting on my shoe rack. That he'll be back no matter what happens, that he need not put himself in writing because he shows himself everyday. Unguarded, unscathed, all laughter and honesty. And he's mine, all mine. And I will love him like I have never loved before- selfless and secure, because after 10 years of all of that, Francis is what I have to show for it.

Half-whole

I'd rather be sad alone. When you miss someone, you're by yourself. No one else will get it, even if they say they empathize. I don't discount the care that people have given me in regards to this terrible feeling. However, people can't see nor feel the part of you that's lost.

Francis went home on Tuesday (after a five-day vacation here). He helped us move out, he helped me with the chores, with cleaning and moving furniture and waiting for the service people to come out and do work on the house. We were together almost every minute. We bugged the hell out of each other and argued about the dumbest things. We laughed all the time and I tested his patience and talked on and on and on about nothing. We didn't go anywhere special or do anything amazing. We just enjoyed the time being together through pissy moods and fatigue.

So on Tuesday afternoon, as I turned onto my street, I realized I didn't have anything to do. He wouldn't be asleep on the couch waiting for me. He wasn't there for me to hold and laugh at and tease and whine to.

And I felt empty, as if there was a pit in my tummy. It's like I lost something and I know where it is, but I can't reach it.

That night, during the silent intervals on the phone, I hopelessly tried composing myself after crying, because the voice I could feel on my skin everyday is now 3000 miles away.

It's gotten harder for me. A lot harder. No one knows or even asks me seriously how I'm doing. And I don't care to tell the truth that the hardest pain to get over is longing for someone. Because they won't get it.

But I do.

And I'd rather be myself right now. There's nothing worse than being sad and alone.

5

I am the saddest person in the world right now.

It's the easiest emotion to show, but the hardest to get rid of.