Category Archives: Step 1

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Love Won’t Give Up on Me

As I smiled over cheap red wine and city lights, I chatted with a rather short endearing business man, and thought about Mr. Possibility.

We’re not speaking and I don’t really care to talk to him at this time – but he had just left me a voicemail and I heard his words lingering in my mind. Breaking up is tough, but really, I don’t think it’s as life-altering as Adele often makes it sound (though I do love the gal). I don’t find myself mourning the relationship as much as I miss the friendship. After an extended time, partners are of course lovers, but they also become our very best friend. They are the person you share the most intimate details of your life and your body with. Everything and everyone else hears the same stories, but they almost seem to have more value when you share it with someone you love. Part of the beauty – and the appeal – of a relationship is that you can come as you are, fall apart as you wish, and you still have someone to nestle into your neck at the end of the night.

But cuddling isn’t a reason to stay with someone, especially if to be spooned, you must spoon away parts of yourself to make room for all the mess they bring, I reminded myself as the businessman asked me about what I do and where I live. These are the most tiresome and common questions in New York, my friend M says, and I’m starting to agree. Small talk may be insignificant but it’s also exhausting, especially when you’re just not in the mood to connect with anyone. It’s too soon and for the first time – maybe ever – I have no desire to meet anyone. I’m enjoying and reveling in the time I have alone to really start doing the things I want and becoming the person I moved to New York to be. Single is as single does, and for me, it’s the perfect state to embrace right now.

But like any other person that has blood running through their veins, I still think about love. And for a few days after the final demise of our relationship, it made me incredibly sad to think about a thing that often appears so far-fetched. We all enter relationships with this hope that they will ultimately be the relationship. Casual dating is fun but at a certain point, age and mindset, we stop picking men we know are entirely wrong for us and we look for a stroke of special in the mates we mate with. But really, only one relationship actually works out – the rest teach us how to mend our broken spirits and they teach us what we really value in a person. All the Mr. Wrongs have brought both joy and tragedy, magic and misery, passion and pain to my life, and as the love comes to a close, it’s always up to me to decide how I want to process those varying emotions.

In the past, my first reaction was to declare I”ve given up on love. In an effort to strip my heart of any lingering memories or feelings, I’d drown myself in champagne and cheap conversation by dancing with boys in bars just so they’d buy me a drink. I’d write and spew hateful truths (or white lies) about the man who stepped all over my dignity and I’d position him in the part of my brain reserved for only things I despised. I’d yell and scream in the privacy of my own home, cry my eyes out until there was nothing left to escape. I’d foolishly call my ex continuously, hoping that they’d feel an ounce of the torture I felt like I was going through. I’d become instantly jealous of everyone I knew who seemed to have their love life together and I’d stop listening to love songs, just so I wouldn’t have to be reminded of what I thought I had but really didn’t.

Sure, this time, I could give up on love – but love won’t give up on me.

It’s still there when I see a random act of kindness on the subway when a teenager gives up his seat for an elderly woman. It’s there when one of the kids I volunteer with smiles so brightly at a job well done that my heart swells in admiration. It’s there when I see an older man block off the rest of the passengers on the bus so his wife, with a cane and a limp, can get off at her own pace. It’s there when the city surprises me with its ease and when a handsome man doing his laundry holds his glance at me a bit longer while trying to conceal a crooked smile. It’s there when I Skype with my parents and still, after all these years, they still make each other laugh. It’s there in the comfort of my friends, that no matter what I do or how ridiculous I may be, stand by me with umbrellas and cheer, reminding me of all the city I have left to discover and all the people I’ve yet to meet.

And so, even though it’s let me down countless times and probably will continue to for years to come, I choose love. I choose to focus on the things, the people, the places and the experiences that remind me of the goodness in my life. I choose to release the negativity and the hurt that comes with a difficult breakup and set my sights on the higher road I’ve decided to take. I choose to not lose too much sleep or too many tears over Mr. Possibility, for his purpose in my life has been fulfilled and has now ended. I choose to believe in the moments where the world seems beautiful instead of those dark hours when it appears impossible.

And most importantly, I choose to never let anyone or anything cause me to give up on love. Because as long as I decide to fill my heart with love, there will be no room for anything else.

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The Sound of Hope

Puffy-eyed with my ego severely bruised, I sat across from Mr. Possibility feeling especially vulnerable and terribly foolish. It was the great exchange on Saturday: returning the items we kept at our separate places to their rightful owner. I refused to travel to Brooklyn, and so after a little expected protest, he made his way to the Upper West Side, carrying a pair of heels and some cheap perfume (I dare not leave anything of value in his hands – we already saw what that did to my heart).

It is never a pleasant experience to take back the physical things you left in someone’s care. Keeping something even as simple as my night creme or some hair conditioner is symbolic in a way, but it’s more territorial. It’s saying: my stuff is here so no other lady’s stuff can be here, and vice versa. Sure, there are ways to get around such an unintended (but purposeful, I think?) clause. Though I knew I would probably cry and so would he, I was actually looking forward to sealing it all up. If there is nothing left for me to hand over, nothing else I need from his place, then I can put the whole baby to bed. Then, I can really start to mend myself and get to healing the pieces I let get the best of me by being united with him.

It didn’t go as I thought though, it was far more dramatic, as it always is with Mr. P. There were both hateful and loving words, accusatory remarks and pitiful apologies. There were dated excuses and lack-luster advances, discussions of what was and a question of what could be. It was up and down, just as our relationship had been, and he made no real commitment to do anything with graciousness, just has he never done before. By the second hour, I was teetering toward sincerely crying my eyes out with no hope of the type of remorse I wanted him to have in return, when I heard a faint saxophone in the distance.

Distracted by the Louie Armstrong-esqe tune, I stopped talking and asked him to kindly shut up. I listened to the notes and I was brought back to nearly a year ago, almost to the day – when I had my date with freedom.

It was one of my favorite posts and one of my dearest New York memories. I had walked around the Jackie O reservoir, treated myself to fine wine and dinner, and took a gander around the Metropolitan Museum of art. After taking my time and observing everything around me with a loving, attentive eye, I started to head out into the fall afternoon when I heard a saxophone at the edge of the steps at the Met. I never included this part in my post, for at the time, it felt too magical, too personal to share with strangers I hadn’t started to connect with yet.

With that beautiful melody, so smoky yet clear – I sat down near him, threw a dollar or two into his case and just listened. I leaned up against a pillar, my high-heeled feet relieved for some much-need relief and I watched him play. His fingers moved so quickly, his face scrunched up in pure passion – and I could relate. That’s how I feel when I write – when I put everything I have into the medium I best express it with – that’s when I feel alive, that’s when I feel my own form of music run through my veins. It doesn’t take as much breath support, but it requires some pretty fast hands. He was older but with a kind face, and I think he was satisfied with the company he attracted. I couldn’t tell you though, anything about those people who shared that moment with me. At the time, it felt like I was listening to the melodies in the New Orleans, in a private little bar that was just for me.

I was mesmerized.  Once dusk started to trickle into the city, I picked myself up and gave a few more dollars before walking away and making a promise to myself: I will go to a jazz club alone, wear a stunning black dress and red lipstick, and I will sit in the front row with some burgundy wine and spend the night with the music.

I never went to a jazz club,” I said to Mr. P wistfully. “You never told me you wanted to go to a jazz club. I would have taken you,” he defended himself (as usual). “Because I didn’t ever want to go with you. I wanted to go alone,” I replied, maintaining eye contact. “Well, if you ever want to go, I could maybe take you sometime,” he offered, fully trying to free himself of any guilt. “I won’t want to go with you. I want to go with me,” I replied before leaning further out of my chair, trying to hear more of the sax.

He probably didn’t get it – I’m not even sure I did right then-and-there. But what I meant was, against my better judgment and during this wonderful journey, I still lost myself in the relationship. I still wandered off my own path to try to make two parallel roads join together, though as logic tells us – they never would have. I stopped doing those things I wanted to do. I placed my best interest and sometimes, my friends and family behind Mr. Possibility in some desperate mission to make something that wasn’t working, work. I lost sight of what New York meant to me in an effort to make myself mean something to him. I stopped planning for what I wanted, what I hoped to do, so I could try to urge Mr. P into making plans with me.

But then – mind my ridiculously cliché pun – I heard the music. I was brought back to that date, before Mr. Unavailable was Mr. P, before there were any distractions of the male kind. And I remembered what I wanted to do, and there in that depressing moment where I knew my relationship was officially over and the key to his door and to my heart were switched – I found some strength. I found something to look forward to.

Tonight, on my way to the train from yet another blissful day at work, I walked down 14th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenue and I heard that addicting melody again – someone in some apartment was playing their little tune, and I smiled. It echoed on the block the whole way down, almost like a marching anthem to remind me of what’s important in my life. When I turned the corner and cascaded down the grimy steps, already bubbly from hearing the music, I was so astonished to see another saxophone player on the platform that I laughed.

Those who noticed my uncontrollable giggles probably wrote me off as another crazy mad woman in New York — but to me, the mix of my own laughter paired with the brilliance of a talented, bluesy player sounded like one thing: hope.

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Claiming My Bed Back

Sitting in the Village with my dear friend K, I munched on a taco while trying to keep myself together enough to stomach the meal. Don’t get me wrong – K is great company and usually says all of the things I wish I could say, but never work up the courage to actually speak. Perhaps in a few years when I’m her age, I will.

We had just finished catching up in her apartment (which if she ever decides to leave, I will claim before anyone else can) and thought to grab an inexpensive bite about town. There, we chatted about her upcoming weekend with the new boy she likes – semi-tall, charming, funny, great in bed and most importantly, for the first time in a while – she just simply likes him. It’s nice to see her blush and if he doesn’t work out, there will surely be more – but maybe, just maybe, this one will be something. As she usually does when she gets on a roll, she shared a rather adorable conversation they had post-bumping:

“We were laying in his bed, talking, my head was on his chest. After a while, he interrupted me and asked if my feet were hanging off the edge. I’m so used to my feet dangling, that it never occurred to me  – I didn’t even notice. When I can’t sleep, I always kick a foot out of the covers and it soothes me for some reason. But because he knew we were around the same height and I was lower down in the bed, my feet would be hanging off. It’s funny – sleeping habits. We are both so used to being single that we also both sleep in the middle of our beds – that doesn’t always work with two people!”

As she’s happily telling her story with a little hesitation (somehow talking about the happy things makes them seem like they’ll disappear), I thought about how I’ve never experienced any of those things: 1- I’m rather petite, so I can’t remember any instance where my feet are anywhere but tucked closely to my body, several inches from the edge of the bed, and 2- Even when I’ve been single, I’ve always kept to my side of the bed, leaving lots of idle space next to me.

Well, until last night that is.

I thoroughly cleansed my room of Mr. P – took out pressed sheets, reorganized my dresser drawers, bought some new candles, packed away his photos, notes and jewelry for safe keeping, and bought myself a new bouquet of fresh flowers. I threw open the curtains and let the cool Fall air breathe new life into my apartment. After indulging in some much-needed therapy: good food, Desperate Housewives and Friends (the show and the real things), read a few pages in my friend’s book club book of the month and went to settle into bed. Without thinking, I instinctively scooted over near the window, until I heard K’s words in my head and decided…

…it was time to claim my bed back.

This bed no longer smells of him and while he was the last man to lay in it, he won’t be the last. He used to have that corner and that pillow, but the cases are different and the space in my heart is healing. He used to sleep on his side and look at his BBerry at 4 a.m., waking me up prematurely. But not anymore, this room will stay dark until the morning creeps in quietly, not via his loud BBM alert. Only a few months ago, I made a rather significant commitment to this bed – buying it with my own hard-earned cash. The comforter, I bought. Along with the pillows and the sham. I make it up every morning, only to ruin it every night by my incoherent tossing and turning that never wakes me up, but looks like warfare in the morning. I pay for the room this bed sits in – and damn it, it’s my bed! Determined, I moved over to the middle and laid flat with my legs reaching for the corners. I stretched until I couldn’t anymore and closed my eyes, feeling myself easily drift to sleep in my new cemented position.

Unlike any night in the last week, I didn’t wake up once in the middle of night to put my heart to sleep. It slept just fine on its own, without any assistance and it stayed that way, nestled in a Queen mattress from Ikea. When my alarm went off at 8 a.m., I groggily wondered if I was still claiming my bed back, as I so intently sought to do hours before. I was happily surprised to find that not only was I sprawled out across my entire bed, but I had one arm dangling off the edge, too.

Looks like I’m claiming my bed back. And my single status, too.

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Love Me Still

One of my favorite professors in college (actually, she’s the reason I minored in sociology) once told a story from the early days of her 30-something highly-successful and loving marriage.

At the time, her and her husband had yet to learn how to communicate with one another and often got in tedious fights over in the most insignificant of differences. In a particularly nasty fight, she stormed off into their bedroom, slamming the door and collapsing into the bed, sobbing uncontrollably. Ten minutes later, when her husband didn’t follow to console her and apologize, she raised out of her despair to find him. She pulled the drapes away to find him outside, mowing the lawn, seemingly unaffected by the argument they just had.

Infuriated, she sought revenge to make him feel the same pain she did. She described herself running through the house inhibited, furiously looking for something to destroy. And there, sitting in its prized placement on their living room coffee table, sat a book of beloved poems. Not just any collection bought second-hand at a bookstore – but an actual, original copy. Knowing her love for the greats, it had been a wedding gift.

In her rage, she took it in her hands and ripped out the pages, letting them splash across the floor as pitifully as the tears rolled down her face. In this moment, her husband walked in and saw her. She stood frozen, the shreds pressed against the bottoms of her feet, and he stopped in his tracks. Whimpering, she put her angry face back on to show she wouldn’t be the first to let up or to give in. She was sure this would get him – look what she had done. This would get him.

Without saying a word, he picked up a garbage bag and dust pan, swept up the pieces of the book, including the spine and walked away. They went to bed mad, never saying anything, and she continued to pout.

Months later, at Christmastime, the fights had lessened and they had started to effectively discuss issues instead of taking them out on one another (or literature). When their guests had cleared and they were left alone, he said he had a special gift for her. Excitedly, they sat in front of the fireplace, next to the coffee table and she unwrapped a book. The book.

He had painstakingly taped back together every last page of that antique collection of poetry, and inside the front flap, written: How do I love thee? Still.

She had forgotten by then what that awful fight was about but she never forgot that gesture, and she tried to never do something so vicious again. My eyes watered while my heart swelled in class, and it still makes me a little gooey inside to write it now. It was inspiring – and so touching – that a person could forgive and still love someone ever after doing something so horribly disrespectful.

But now, a few relationships and more than a few years later, I’ve come to realize that what she did is no different than what we all do. Especially when we rely on immaturity and grand gestures to keep a relationship strong. If we race away (and wait the allotted few minutes or so), he’ll feel guilty and come to our rescue, tell us he’s sorry and all will be well. We really think that by leaving, the other person will surely follow, for they could never imagine their life without us. We believe that if we remove ourselves enough from the relationship, even cutting the chord or doing something we know that’ll dig that dagger despicably deep, they’ll see how much they’re hurting us because they’ll hurt too. And if they hurt and we hurt, then we’ll get back together, we’ll get over that awful predicament, to be together.

It doesn’t work that way, does it? It’s not supposed to, is it?

I can’t imagine being in (another) relationship where I feel like to be noticed, to be valued, to not be taken for granted, I have to leave. And I surely don’t want to be in one where even if I do, even if I’m pushed to that point, I’m left out there in the street, still waiting for a gesture that I’m nearly convinced will never happen.

Because somewhere out there, in this concrete jungle or maybe on a safari I’ve yet to scour, there is a man who will love me still. Who will love me despite the madness or the sadness, and regardless if I’m crazy or collected. Who will be able to give me what I need and appreciate what I give him. Who will be able to fall in love with me as easily as I fall for him.

And if there isn’t – if that’s not my destiny, I’ll still love me…still.

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You Have to Feel It

In an effort to stop eating half-a-pizza on my own, placing cooling cream on my eyes every single morning and sending out hasty, long-winded emails to my friends complaining about how much it sucks– my friend M demanded I hit the town, in style. So, we met at Bowlmor – a “luxury” bowling alley (if there can be such a thing) to redeem a free game we won because we successfully played corn hole. (Note to New Yorkers – corn hole is quite common in the South, especially if you tailgate).

It was raining on Friday and we came in a little frizzy and damp, determined to make that pitcher of Blue Moon and single game last long enough to get our overpriced Spinach and Artichoke dip’s worth. While I bowled quite a good game (three strikes!), my mind was anywhere but there in that semi-fancy establishment. I smiled and laughed, talked about my week and we both tried to steer clear of the topic of Mr. P. It’s more than a sore subject.

After we couldn’t squeeze anymore time out of the game, we headed to bar close by, snuggling under one black umbrella, trying to walk slowly in tight, cotton black mini-skirts and pumps. M was in a cheerful mood, trying to keep me occupied and distracted so I wouldn’t let myself get down. We stood near the back of the bar, sipping on our drinks and watching the crowd buzz. It was an alive night – everyone was out and about, staying inside to hide from the weather and meet with friends or flirt with strangers. As they always do, a group of guys found their way to us and started chatting. Though I wasn’t in the mood, I responded a bit, faking a few smiles and made small talk to keep the conversation going. But in less than a few minutes, the guy asked me quite sincerely: Are you okay? Your eyes look so sad.

Wow, I thought. I can’t hide it at all.

He’s right and so are all of my friends – I look sad. I am sad. I wasn’t at first, though. I savored being incredibly angry and feeling rightfully justified. I was proud of myself for getting up the courage (finally) to walk away from something that was toxic and not bringing me the enrichment I know I deserve. I had my hopes set high for Mr. P and when I realized he wasn’t going to meet them, he emotionally wasn’t ready for what I wanted – I left. It wasn’t that I really wanted to leave, it was just that I had to, or we would grow to resent one another and any chance for a friendship down the road would be a distant possibility. The relationship wasn’t working because there was only one person who actually was…well, working.

And maybe because of this blog or just because I’m learning with each man, I loved myself enough to let go, so I could at least have the opportunity to meet someone who is right for me. I also loved Mr. P enough to give him the space and time he needs to learn to love himself – which is far more important, in the long run, than him learning to love me.

I know all of these things rationally. I saw the destruction and I felt myself fall apart each time we were around each other because I couldn’t stand another day where the only thing I could think was: Why can’t he just feel how I want him to feel? Why can’t he see what he has? Why does he take me for granted? I couldn’t hide that frustration and I couldn’t stop my heart from breaking, so of course I made a decision and remarkably, even after returning his key and returning his things, I stuck to it. The Lindsay I was a year ago would have caved, but this one is determined to have more than a lack-luster, unwilling-to-emotionally-commit, show-up-an-hour-late to my birthday party kind of man. Even if I do, still, after everything, foolishly love him dearly.

And that’s maybe why it’s so hard. There was no huge, big blowout fight where I stormed away in my high heels and he came racing after me. There was no grand exit or big reveal that made me turn on a dime and hit the road. As far as I know he was loyal and apart from the final month of our relationship, he was always someone I could communicate with. We started as friends and we grew to be best friends – maybe the turning into lovers part was a bad idea, but it happened and here we are now. Or there we were.

It’s easier when everything comes crashing down and you can depend on pure animosity to keep you warm at night. When there are no lingering feelings or when someone does something so remarkably selfish that you can’t stomach the idea of being with them again – maybe the wound isn’t as deep. But when it simply won’t work because the other person doesn’t have themselves together enough to love you truly, that’s when it all just feels bittersweet. That’s when, even though you know it’s the right thing to do for everyone involved, your heart still aches for it to be different.

After Mr. P left with everything I ever borrowed of his, plus some gifts for his nieces that I now will not be able to give in person, I cried on the phone to M: Why does it have to hurt so bad? I know I made the best decision I could and I don’t want to be with him, not when he’s like this, so why does it have to hurt? I’m strong and I’m okay being single, why can’t I be stronger than this? Why do I have to hurt?

Carefully, as if not to unleash the sobbing machine that I can be when my heart is so fragile, she reminded me that it only hurts because it meant something. If it meant nothing, I would feel nothing. And to get to the happiness – I have to feel the hurt. And yes, the hurt will suck, I’ll have those sad, sad eyes for a while, but the sparkle will return. So will my confidence that always seems to lose its way after a breakup. But I have to feel it, I have to let the hurt come and let it leave so that I can feel something different. Something better than what I’ve felt before.

After I got off the phone with her and was left alone to myself, I thought about how accurate she is. Not just about this messy clean-up period following the end of my first New York relationship (which was as complicated as any girl would ever wish it wouldn’t be) – but about love in general. Just like you have to feel the hurt to get over it, you have to let yourself feel love to ever have it. And sometimes that love will stand the test of time, sometimes it’ll just last a few years or months, sometimes it’ll show you a new side of yourself, sometimes it’ll crash you continuously, sometimes it’ll give you six-months worth of blogs, sometimes it’ll leave as easily as it came.

But I’d rather feel love and lose it then to protect myself from any hurt at all. Because if I can get through the love and the hurt that follows it, I know I’m strong enough to do it all over again. Love is painful, even when it’s the love. If it wasn’t, it’d never be worth it.