Category Archives: Step 11

by - 14 Comments

I Put My Heart to Sleep

When Mr. Fire and I parted ways, I was sincerely shocked.

He became ancy and distant in the matter of a weekend, and within a week or so, all was finished. He ended everything outside of the library on our campus and it’s been the only time I’ve been thankful for bug-eyed sunglasses. I never wanted him to see my tears. I believe I would have been fine, I would have overcome the split easier and with a bit more class if he wouldn’t have started dating someone the very next day. Facebook displayed pictures as a nice slap in the face to his “I just don’t want a relationship” excuse and I spent the weekend down by the North Carolina shore, drinking and talking to God on the beach.

The worst of it at the time, though wasn’t the weekend that followed. It was the next few weeks that just happened to be during exams and my final weeks before I moved to New York for a summer internship. If I was going to be on my A-game for Cosmopolitan, I had better get over this dude and get over him fast – I couldn’t let my career be in jeopardy over a rugby player, now could I?

And so I did what every girl does when she’s mulling over a man: I defriended him on Facebook (only to add him back a year later when we could entertain a friendship), I rekindled a workout regimen to get my mind off of things (and to look super-duper sexy), I used what was left of my meal plan to buy far too much candy and ice cream (so much for those miles logged at the gym) and I avoided him (and her) at all costs. I threw myself into the school newspaper and I prepared for my summer away like a crazy woman, setting up networking lunches, making lists of all I wanted to see and do while I was there, and sending my friends incredibly long emails that now, I just write on these pages.

All of these tactics worked in my favor and throughout the day, I appeared fine. I didn’t miss deadlines and I didn’t tear-up in class. I didn’t curse his name or their relationship (they are still going strong and from what I can tell from frozen faces on Facebook, they are happy) and I did all that I could to build up the confidence that’s always smashed when someone decides to pass you up.

But then night would come.

I’m not sure what it is about darkness that makes you retreat back into the darkness within yourself, but going to sleep was hell. After a few restless nights, I invested in Tylonel PM and my mom sent me calcium tablets which apparently make you relax. My body quickly rejected both of these methods and I was left again, tossing and turning, trying to calm my mind so my spirit would ease. This was one of the first times in my adult life that I experienced what it was like to go without sleep, yet be haunted by dreams that wouldn’t come true. But it wasn’t really my racing mind or my sore body that kept me awake, it wasn’t even missing Mr. Fire really. What kept me from falling asleep was my own heart. Now, I know that it was beating so hard I could hear it out of anxiety (normal reaction to a breakup) but at the time, I thought:

This must be what it sounds and feels like when your heart literally breaks.

No matter if I laid on my stomach or my side, my back or curled up as tightly as my 5’4″ frame would allow, my heart would pound out of my chest so vibrantly that I couldn’t catch a good breath. Finally, after a week or so of un-sleep, I decided to hold my own heart. It was almost like a motherly reaction, an instinctive move to place my palms on top of my chest, as if I’m soothing something fragile: Hush now, it’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. Calm down. 

It didn’t surrender easily. It put up a strong opposition, continuing to race and threaten to bring tears to my eyes, though at that point, I was too tired to really cry anymore. But eventually, with some real effort on my end, I put my heart so sleep.

And once it gave in, once it relaxed and allowed me to sincerely get the rest I needed, I started feeling much better. I started sleeping regularly again, placing my palms on my chest nightly to insure it didn’t feel alone or abandoned. Like I needed to be reminded that I would love again, my heart needed to know that it could rest now, that it didn’t need to worry anymore, that the past person it loved was gone, but there would be more. It needed to know it was alright to let go, it was okay to sleep.

I got through those initial first weeks by holding my heart, and that’s how I get through anything that really upsets me now. Anytime I’m feeling anxiety or I’m really upset, I just hold my heart. I say soothing words until my body releases, my mind stops churning and my heart gives up its fearful rhythm. That was the first time I realized how much power I have over my own body. That no matter how much trouble it felt or how much pain I was going through, I could cope.

And I could do it alone with my own two hands.

by - 3 Comments

If Memory Serves Me Right

They say when one part of your life starts to excel, another part will ultimately crumble. Maybe it’s the way the universe stays aligned and keeps its perfect order that never seems to satisfy anyone for very long. We can’t have all of the things we want just as we want them or we’d never strive for anything, there would be no reason to have a furious fight inside of you. He who is handed it all will never learn what it feels like to work for something, so therefore, he must struggle.

Even so, when things fall apart the heavens have a simple way of keeping us sane – they never let everything that’s important to us to falter at once. Lighting rarely strikes in the same place twice and there is always something, even if it is a tiny unremarkable thing, to help us maintain our dignity and confidence in the world. Sometimes they are in the comforting words of friends ever-so-dear or in the soothing touch of crisp, cold, linen sheets against your bare body. It comes in the form of unexpected billowing winds inside the subway platform or in the support you depend on from someone you may have not known very long, but feel as if you’ve known them forever.

For me lately, my peace has been found in all of the above along with some magical New York moments I can only accredit as blessings sent from places higher than the Empire State, but most significantly, my calm has been instilled by the power of memories.

Mr. Possibility and I have been going through a very difficult period the last month. With our age difference and the fact that we’re at opposing stages of our lives, we’ve been riding the rough waters, attempting to find an anchor to hold us steady so we can sail into bay safely. Anchors aren’t always to be found though, and sometimes taking a breather and some much-needed space is the best thing any couple can do. And so while my career has been flourishing and I couldn’t be more thankful to finally be doing exactly what I always dreamed of doing, the man who helped me through the ups and downs of the last year, isn’t as sturdy as he appeared.

But I do remember when he was. I can recall the exact moment I knew I loved him – way back in January, while talking on Gchat following the Dubai disaster, and something just clicked. We waited a while after that before we made anything officially exclusive but in those times we spent building up our relationship, building up our connection, he couldn’t have been more beautiful to me. He was attractive in a way that made him human – I saw his shortcomings and I knew his downfalls but I chose to love him anyway, to trust him against my better judgement. Time will only tell if my grandiose hopes about him will ring trite-and-true and prove all of those against us, wrong. And maybe, prove myself wrong too.

It isn’t memories of us that grant me a sweet stillness, though. It’s rather in memories of myself.

I remember those weeks when he was far away overseas, only available to me through the wonderous webs of the Internet, where I had no responsibility to him but to reply to an email or arrive on time to a Skype date. I remember when this city was my dating playground, when though I wasn’t very good at disconnecting my expectations from my emotions, I enjoyed seeing New York from various points of view. I remember when I would dream about a love I couldn’t imagine, about having a man admire me just as my father admires my mother. I dreamed of a great love story, of something that wasn’t complicated or difficult, of something that brought me that easy, peaceful feeling instead of making my heart beat so uncontrollably I couldn’t fall asleep until well into dawn. I remember these moments during this journey itself, even when I knew Mr. Possibility, even when he was sitting next to me as I typed, where I longed to be single, where I finally found that strength to throw caution to the wind and take a chance on finding something great – in a man or in myself. I remember taking myself to dinner and to the movies, to the museum and to the cafe, just to sit in the company of myself, watching the city circulate its people with car horns and buses serenading the developing scenes.

I remember when this city was like Spring to me and I, still without my toughness or doubtfulness, believed in the best of people, the best of Mr. Possibility, and the best of myself. It’s realistic now but it will always be closer to extraordinary in my eyes and far from ordinary. Because even with all that’s happened, all that I’ve given that I can’t get back, all the attempts I’ve made that may not turn into anything of significance, I have those memories of what make me me to recall.

And if I can do it all alone once, of course I can do it again. Only this time, I’ll be a little stronger, a little brighter and have more hope for what’s to come. After all, if memory serves me right, I’ve always had the ability to believe that falling in love isn’t limited to the man who lives on the corner of Hope Street and is ripe of possibilities. Love indeed, begins inside of me and because of that, I can find it anywhere I go.

by - 4 Comments

You Can’t Screw Up What’s Meant to Be

Hard-to-get jobs and even harder-to-get men, high heels unintended for anyone but Ms. Lady Gaga herself, a city that allows few to make it before they break it, chances that have no reasonable shot in hell…. I tend to be pretty resilient and brave, a fighter who graces dresses and pearls while living up to the name I was born with.

But when it comes to gaining enough gumption to end a relationship…I suck.

Perhaps that’s not the most elegant of words to choose but it’s a pretty fair representation of how I view myself when a love affair turns sour. We all know when those boots should be made for walkin’, we know when the tension has turned from sexual to painful, and when nights are ruined by the presence of your partner, instead of brightened. The truth of any matters of the heart is that they are never easy. And if you’re anything like me, they are extended and lengthy, lingering around for far too long before they come to some immature, emotional and irrational head – leaving both parties destroyed and vulnerable, resenting each other for the past three hours of torture they endured. Not to mention, inflicted on one another. The end of a relationship is a great time-waster and mood killer. That’s when you know it is truly, completely over – when there is no hope for makeup sex because you just want…you need…to get away from one another.

God, it sucks.

My friends and family get to hear about this process the whole way through. They’re so lucky, aren’t they? As I wrangle with my exit strategy, make pro and con lists, go through periods of indescribable bliss that tease me into thinking things can change…only to be brought back down to reality the next day when the picture-perfect something I cooked up, boils over. It’s a nasty little ride I take myself on, a rollercoaster I not only pay for but add thrill to. Funny thing is though, it’s not thrilling but I entertain it anyway, waiting until the very last second before I finally push on the brakes. I barely miss a head-on collision each and every single time. My friend K says it’ll get easier as I date more New York men. I’ll grow accustomed to the process and it won’t be so difficult to turn on my heel and trot off. I’ll believe her when it happens, just as she had to experience it to believe it for herself.

For now though, I’m stubborn and falsely misled by fancy illusions of what a man could be, rather than really seeing, accepting and loving him for who he is. Possibility might as well be the middle name of any man I attempt to date -Lord knows I’ll be trying and trying again, until there is no more opportunity left to be found or piece of my heart to be shattered.

But when I get to that point, it is actually rather simple for me to cut my losses and tighten my ends. The decision becomes clear and my head stops spinning. I still experience the wallowing stages of misery that follow the death of love – after all, nothing dies more painfully or slowly than a dream, especially one that floated on Cloud 9 at one point. But when I decide it is time to leave, when there is no more fun to be had, no more fixing-up I’m capable of, no more squinting to try and visualize a future that never existed – I go. I swiftly get as far away as I can, severing contact and carefully tucking pictures with tattered, loved edges away for safe-keeping. For when it’s safe to look at them again without risking inexplicable sadness. And of course, without going up against the obsessive “What if” thoughts that attack the heartbroken spirit.

What if I would have tried harder? What if I wouldn’t have given up on him? On us? What if I would have been more understanding, more patient, kinder? What if I would have stayed around longer to see what could happen? What if I would have swallowed all of those things I wanted, just to be with him for a few more hours? Few days? What if we were at a turning point and I sealed our fate? What if all this is my fault? What if this is as good as it gets and I’m crazy for hoping for more? What if I walk away from him and he is my soulmate, and then I never find anyone else? What if I’m always alone?

What if I f***ed it all up?

When those thoughts disguised as fearful regrets won’t leave me alone, I remember my mother’s carefully selected words that she planted in my mind a decade ago when I felt so guilty for breaking up with Mr. Faithful after he had been so, well, faithful to me: Honey, you can’t screw up what’s meant to be. 

So tonight, with my two-piece fried chicken dinner from KFC because Southern food will always be my comfort food, a bottle of bubbly left over from ol’ Irene, a list of distracting movies from Netflix and some buttery, awfully bad for me popcorn for later on hand, I repeat her mantra in my head: Linds, you can’t screw up what’s meant to be. But I also add my own ending: you also can’t screw up what was never meant to be either.

by - 2 Comments

You’ll Be Sorry

Last summer was a great debate – should I or shouldn’t I go back to Mr. Idea?

We both flirted with the option, I even made an impromptu trip to visit him in his new a zip code, where he had new friends, a new apartment and a new job. We spent hours on the phone that usually resulted in some sort of bickering – I wasn’t doing enough of this, he wasn’t jumping to that conclusion. We would talk about the good times like they were decades ago, when in reality we had barely known each other a year. In the duration of our relationship, the honeymoon period was brief and lack-luster, but I think we both held onto the idea of what could be. Hence his name in this blog.

I knew then – or at least I’d like to believe I did – that it would never work out. Maybe we hadn’t known each other that long but in that time, a lot happened in my life: my dad recovered from a six-year health struggle, I graduated from college, I moved back home, I moved to the city, I found my first job, I paid rent for my first New York apartment, I became an adult. And with all of those big, life-altering, character-creating, patience-demanding changes – I started to learn more about what I wanted.

I discovered that I needed to be with someone who was supportive of my career – Mr. Idea didn’t really care for my writing (to each his own), nor would he ever approve of this blog (I can’t tell you how many times he’s called me to tell me not to write about him. I always listen, can’t you tell?). I figured out that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with someone who enjoyed having sex and initiated it (to be blunt, I’ve never met a man –sans Mr. Idea – who didn’t want to jump my bones). I realized I wanted someone who wanted the same things I wanted, who lived in the same place, who shared my same set of values (He was always a little too self-centered, far too stubborn and completely indulgent in fantasies of himself that simply weren’t true). I came to believe that while a man who made me laugh gave him an amazing advantage, a man who I could trust enough to never worry or doubt their devotion was far more important (I’ll give it to the guy, he’s funny – but I care more about that kindness that comes from your soul).

On and off paper and no matter which way I tilted the picture, Mr. Idea was far from my ideal mate. I didn’t have that deep, intense longing to be with him or to rekindle something that died within the first three months it was lit. Even so – I wanted him to want me. I wanted to have that comfort, that safety net just in case my feelings changed. Just in case I could mold him into the Mr. Right I sincerely knew, in my heart-of-hearts, he wasn’t.

But there’s that thin line between love and hate. That line that produces thoughts we’d rather not entertain (or admit we have) – I want him to think I’m the one who got away. If I’m sad and it is hard for me to walk away, I want him to be sad and have trouble letting me go. If I hurt, he should hurt. And if he doesn’t hurt, I’ll wait until it will hurt him to jet set off into my new, bright, fancy life. 

Ouch – writing out those words makes them sound far crueler than they ring in my head. But truth is painful sometimes, and most of the time, it’s a lot to stomach. I’m not proud of feeling that way or being so venomous, yet I know I’m not the only wounded lover or hopeful woman who had her hope lost when the rose-colored glasses she wore, shattered.

After exhausting conversations with him, where I would ultimately have to get off the phone so I wouldn’t say something I regret (like those crummy sentences italicized above) – I’d close my eyes, tuck my knees into my chest and I’d dream up the perfect scenario:

Mr. Idea would be visiting New York – or maybe he would have just accepted a job that finally brought him here, after months of arguments on why he wouldn’t look in the tri-state for opportunities. He’d be strolling in Central Park and see me sitting alone, wearing something ultra-flattering and alluring, and he’d have to rub his eyes, just in case I was a mirage. I wouldn’t be of course – but I’d be more beautiful than he remembered. After all, it would have been years since he’d seen or spoken to me. Casually with an air of hesitation, he’d approach me and we’d exchange niceties, both saying a lot without saying anything at all. The Autumn air would then circulate the city and my hair would fall in my face. He’d reach to push it away, giving me those puppy-dog eyes of remorse I craved – but then I’d move my head quickly and smile at a man walking up behind me with two ice cream cones. It would be early September, right before my birthday, and this man would be treating me to sweets as I celebrated another year. He’d kiss my cheek, I’d reach for the cone with my left hand, giving Mr. Idea a glistening view of my lovely engagement ring, and say, “Sweetie, you remember Mr. Idea I told you about? It looks like he’s found his way to New York!” And then Mr. Idea would be filled with regret, so disappointed that he let me get away, that he was so awful to me that I couldn’t stand to be his lady anymore. He’d be…sorry. He would be oh, so sorry.

A year later, a year maturer, and no part of me wants to rub anything in Mr. Idea’s face (pun intended). I actually want him to be happy, to be successful, to find the love that’s right for him. To find peace in those things that bothered him, to release whatever troubles haunt him. I don’t care if I’m the one who got away or just someone he briefly cared about for a short period of time, and though we participated in heated fights that were very hurtful, I wish nothing but the best for him.

Visions of revenge and witnessing your ex envious of your happiness may be enjoyable past times when you’re getting yourself through a breakup, but when you wake up on the other side – where acceptance and compassion live -you won’t be wishing that he’d wish for you, you’ll be sorry for having wished him any awfulness, at all.

by - 19 Comments

In Love in New York

Make sure to keep your belongings with you at all times, but keep your heart closer. Stand clear of the closing doors, but don’t keep that heart too open. If you see something, say something, but don’t say too little or too much, too soon or too late. Step away from the platform edge, but don’t be afraid to take a chance on that handsome stranger. A train is now approaching the station, but you’re not going to catch it. Not this one or the next one.

New York is a dangerous place to fall in love.

I used to think the image of his loafers next to my stilettos was quintessentially cute. It seemed so New York, I thought while avoiding eye contact with Mr. P this morning. “Now it just seems commonplace. I’ve watched our feet walk or stand in sync for almost a year now.”

“Can you believe it has almost been a year since we met? Since I started the blog?” I asked him over cheap sushi last night, celebrating the beginning of my 401k. His eyes were glistening in the faux-candlelight, his new haircut reminding me of freshly-cut grass – I yearned to reach across the table and brush away the sad little strands, but that was his length now. I hate his hair short but it irritates him when it’s long. His face burns when his facial hair gets too thick- so he trims and shaves, leaving me with scratches on my cheeks from his addiction to nuzzling. I know so much about him, now.

“Look how much you’ve changed in a year. Look how different you are from when I met you…” he started to say. I cut my glance down to my Passion Roll – one of my favorites with avocado and spicy tuna. It was true, I have changed – a new apartment, a new group of friends, a great new job, a new sense of self, a new everything. I have grown leaps-and-bounds in the nearly 12 months we’ve known each other. But while he was once Mr. Unavailable and he painfully, slowly transformed into Mr. Possibility – he hadn’t changed that much. I pushed a piece around in the low-fat soy sauce thinking, should I lie and say he’s changed too? 

“…you’ve come so far and I haven’t changed hardly at all,” he finished, taking a swift sip of Saki and slamming down the porcelain container. My mother’s China cabinet all the way in North Carolina shuddered at the thud when it hit the table. I gave him my happy grin, the one that says: “My darling, I understand. I’m here for you. You’re going to be fine. Don’t worry.” It’s the one I pull out when I don’t know what to say, when the situation can’t be fixed with kisses or quickies, when the hard work isn’t up to me, but up to him. I reached across the table and rolled my thumb along the top of his knuckles, remembering the first time I noticed our hands looked alike. They still do but are we alike anymore? I took a sip of boxed white wine and I moved the conversation in a different direction: politics. That’ll keep him occupied for a while.

Why do I always go back to that place? Sure, it’s cheap – $20 worth of sushi and you get unlimited wine, but it always gives me a headache. Always, I thought, still staring at Mr. P’s shoes, finding my mind wonder back to that moment in that downtown joint. I had come far, I was different but he wasn’t. He was still beautiful and wonderful in all the ways I first fell in love with him, but he is also now human. He is a man who has hurt me, who has disappointed me. He’s a man who still surprises me, who recalls things I do not. He’s delicate in a way he’d never admit and more vulnerable than most of this world will ever see. He is loving by nature, defensive because he thinks that’s how dudes should be, and stubborn to a point of exhaustion. He is my mate, my partner, my boyfriend.

He is a man who loves me. But he’s a man with a past to overcome, isn’t he? 

A grumpy business man who has been taking the 1 train to Wall Street for 20 years from his Upper West Side apartment, which is probably rent controlled near a cafe where he orders the same dish and the Bodega he buys his wife petite pink roses (her favorite) – crashes into me, pushing me into the arms of Mr. Possibility. I sure do make a habit of falling on him, don’t I? 

He rubs my back and takes a deep breath in, his chest rising to another melancholy occasion. He’s lost in his thoughts again. Lost in what was, what he’s missing, what he thinks he can’t get, what upsets him. He’s lost in worries and he’s wallowing in self-pity – a trait that absolutely frustrates me, no matter who it is. 

My friends warned me of this. So did my mom, though I’d prefer not to admit her astrological advances were accurate. Hell, even Mr. P said once I found my footing, I’d question my stance next to him. They all said: The girl with a future avoids the man with a past. Thank you Evan Escar, whoever you are. Here I am though, listening to the MTA give warnings of safety while I hear different precautions in my head. The girl with the future avoids the man with a past. The girl -me – avoids the man – Mr. P – with a past. 

She avoids him? Why can’t she let him work through the past so they can have a future? Or does he need to be alone to do that? Is he right? I hate when he’s right. Now that I feel set and comfortable, do I suddenly want to leave? I’m different, I’ve changed, he’s simply stayed the same – can that still work?

Now that I’m starting to feel suffocated both on this grimy, hot train and in this moment, I look around the cart, desperately waiting for someone to rescue me. Someone tell me what to do! Anyone? You over there, you’re falling asleep reading The Times. I can assure you that I would interest you enough to stay awake. Tell me – does the girl with a future really avoid the man with a past? Can we move forward if only one of us…is moving? 

This is what New York is like though – right? Love dims when the sun rises over the East river, when corner stores open for business, when everyone orders the everything bagel, when everyone realizes that everything that felt so right last night, doesn’t this morning. Those who come to the city looking for love quickly find it is a glorified Hollywood myth. Love only come to those who withstand the decade of dating disasters in their 20s, only to find a nice, shorter, balding man in their 30s who can provide. They marry him in a rush, have a baby within a year, and then they become part of the stroller brigades of Park Slope and the UWS, causing a whole new generation of 20-somethings to see their happy little family and big bling and think, Sigh, I want that, too.

But can the girl with a future have that with the man who has a past? New York is such a dangerous place to fall in love – one day you believe in it, the next day you condemn it and on Friday, you’ve decided you’ll try for it again.

I follow Mr. P’s example and exhale, a little too loudly. He notices, and in between 50th and Times Square, he tightens his grip around my waist, pulls me into him, grazes my forehead with his lips nearly a dozen times. Quietly, sweetly. It feels like we’re alone: I can feel his breath in my hair, his thumb pressing into my hip bone. He takes his hand to lift my chin up to him and meets my eyes before giving me our normal morning goodbye kiss. I love you Tigar. I’m so proud of you. I’m so happy to have you. Have a great day at work, he whispers as we reach the station, the doors fling open and he gets out, smiling at me through the subway windows as the cart hobbles away. The girl sitting in front of me rolls her eyes in envy and I read her mind instantly. She’s the girl I was a year ago, wishing for what she just witnessed.

The next station is Penn Station transfer is available to the 2, 3, A,C,E trains and the Long Island Railroad…

…and you can also, in just a stop, transfer your heart from thinking that New York’s a dangerous place to fall in love to believing it is a beautiful one. And that maybe, the girl with a future can love the man with a past. That is, as long as there are no delays that block her way.