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That Un-Loving Feeling

It was right before dawn. I could hear the birds beginning the same sweet chorus, in the same little tune, they sing to wake up each new day. The sun was peeking into the darkened room, creating stripes of honey gold across my bare arms, and enticing my eyes to greet the inviting embrace of the great outside.

Though the gradual energy of the morning sought to spring me into a tomorrow I hadn’t experienced yet, its warm simplicity didn’t interest me. I was still in the day before – or so I felt – after spending the night restless, uncomfortable, and battling thoughts I couldn’t admit to thinking. Thoughts that threatened to change what I felt was a very important part of my existence.

Even if this something was obnoxiously snoring and possibly drooling down my back. The same back that turned away from him at the end of the night, feeling emotionally broken, undesirable, and still full of anger from yet another explosive fight. In an effort to win back some of his pride and my opinion of his honor – he had wrapped himself around my body, pressing down on me with his weight, and hiding his face in my curly locks. He wanted me to feel protected, loved, and to know that he cared about me.

But all I felt was suffocated. And confused. Bitterly sad. Every bone in my body, as achy as they were from not getting the rest they deserve, wanted to spree from his arms secured around my stomach. Yet, my body was like my heart – so heavy, so hesitant, so highly conflicted, I couldn’t even turn away from the sun glaring down at me. Or wipe away the steady stream of tears trickling its way down my cheek, as I prayed he wouldn’t hear my muffled sniffles.

Hadn’t I wanted this relationship? Hadn’t I fought for it endlessly? Hadn’t I fallen in love with this man, with this person, with this 6’4″ tall drink of water, who seemed to be everything I wanted? Hadn’t I introduced him to my family, to my friends, to those parts of my soul that a few rare gems ever know? Hadn’t I agreed to be his and desired his commitments to me? Hadn’t I longed for him, for this smell, for his presence in my life, for his laughter to fill the heart wounds I was still healing?

Flooded with questions and cheeks flushed with the rush of a clarity I didn’t want to accept, I rolled over to face him. He grumbled, as he always did, to let me know it wasn’t time to get out of bed yet. I agreed with him silently and placed my fingertips on the side of his two-day four o’clock shadow and around the perimeter of his lips. He squeezed my side and pulled me closer, recognizing that I was awake and admiring him. I placed my hand along the back of his neck and nibbled his chin, as we playfully always did to one another. With his blue eyes still hiding under their lids, he gave me a sweet sleep grin, and whispered in a voice that’s just between lovers: I love you, Linds.

And in my head, I thought, “But I don’t love you. Not anymore.”

In the weeks before Mr. Idea and I parted ways, we stopped sharing love and started sharing sentiments no two people should ever say – especially ones who are supposed to be in love with one another. We knew exactly which words would dig the deepest, cut the sharpest, and last the longest. We were not so much in a battle with each other, but placed with the difficult challenge of defending our own egos, which at the time had reached godly-like stature. We couldn’t agree on anything – from what to eat for dinner to how often we had sex. We both were looking for an excuse to be the one to walk away, be the one to pull the rug out from the other person, and send them crashing into the same emotional distraught we were feeling.

Yet, after each argument, each hateful feature that spewed from his speech or mine, he always apologized. He never took responsibility, but of any weapon of mass destruction I had against him, the one that was the strongest were my tears. And those, during the end of our relationship, fell daily. And nightly.

As much as we were not getting along and as awful as our exchanges were – the person I was really battling was not Mr. Idea. It was myself. I couldn’t believe after all the time it took to finally get over Mr. Fire, to put my heart back out in the line of love again – I found myself in the same situation I experienced with Mr. Faithful.

I had fallen out of love.

I had lost my interest. I had lost that love and found that un-loving feeling. The red flags I could let slide at the beginning became too bright, too impending that if I chose to ignore them, I’d be deciding to lower my standards. What had made me ga-ga over him in the first few months had suddenly became the same qualities that made my stomach churn. I didn’t crave him. I didn’t want to make love with him. I didn’t want to touch him. I didn’t see a future with him that was happy. But I could see a tomorrow beyond the mountaintops that was beautiful and full of promise.

That vision, however, for as far as I could see, didn’t include waking up to snoring and drooling, with a man who as much as he could have tried, would have never been what I wanted.

So many times in the past, when I was lonely or hating the single title I had been sentenced to, I feared I’d never fall in love again. I’d never feel that undeniable something that you can only feel from the splendor of someone you’re crazy about. That silly rush of emotion and passion that tell us, “Yes, this could be something.” Now, I don’t question that I’ll one day meet someone who will give me all the right feelings in all the right places – but I fear how sustainable that love is.

To hell with falling in love, what about falling out of it? Is it possible – or dare I say, reasonable – to love the same person, the same way, and with the same velocity as you did from square one? I don’t think so. I think like self-love, like that relationship that will always need developing – romantic love, in its best and most everlasting form, needs to be honest about the waves of change. We can’t, after all, avoid them.

Maybe there aren’t any perfect loves, perfect people, or perfect ways of staying in or leaving a relationship. Maybe falling out of love is just as much part of the game as falling into it. And maybe, just maybe, the best thing we can ever do is admit and accept that someone isn’t right for us. Even if at one point, we swore they were Mr. Right. Even if that means we have to hit the road again, alone. Prepared for another go, another expedition to the dating trenches – another shot at finding a person that won’t only remain by our side, but we’ll want them there, too.

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A Choice Just For Me

I recently attended my first talk show as an audience member. Going to live or pre-filmed shows has always seemed like the New York tourist experience to me – something you do when you’re staying at the Mariott and you rise at an unreasonable 3 a.m. hour to wait in the cold (or hummidity or rain) just to catch a glimpse of Regis & Kelly. I’m also not the biggest fan of television in general – I don’t have cable and I only use Hulu for a handful of sitcoms.

But when your company offers you the chance to leave the office for four hours, take away an armful of freebies, and have the chance to meet (or view from afar) a celebrity – I thought, why not? Due to privacy restrictions, I can’t reveal which show I attended, but it was geared toward cooking and the host was quite the villain in the kitchen.

Before being seated and organized in the rows based on the color of our clothes, audience members completed forms asking basic information. With my blue blouse I prayed would pop on camera and my pencil skirt, I attempted to fill out the yellow sheets across my hosed-legs. (For the record, without a clipboard, this is a task in itself.)

As I’m going through the questionnaire, I happily check “single,” give my email address, let them know how often I view the show (never, woops!), and how many people are in my household – one of their inquiries caught my interest.

In your home, who decides ‘what’s for dinner’?

Now, I realize when a brand and a show is built by developing the quality of life inside the home, this is an appropriate question to ask. It’ll let those who finance and develop new products determine if me, the ever-clapping, cheerful audience member, not only cooks for her family, but has one stiletto forcefully over her (and whoever she resides with) wallet.

As I confessed I was the one who decides what I place in my stomach each and every night, it occurred to me how many simple, unimportant decisions I make every day as a single woman. These choices do not initially shape my immediate future and in the grand scheme of my life, I’ll probably forget tens of thousands of the day-to-day decisions I arrive at. From what time I set my alarm and if I actually listen to its obnoxious tune, to what I buy at the corner market and how I manage my money- I shape my life, and everything in it, primarily considering myself and my future.

And one day, whenever I enter into a relationship – and most likely, marriage at some point – all of these simple actions, these considerations that don’t actually seem like concerns at the time – will stop being so me-focused, and more we-geared. Though at times I may desire a relationship, the thought of losing such an innocent independence and having to interject another person’s tastes and desires into each step I take – sounds exhausting.

When we’re in a relationship, when we fall in love, when we seek to find a suitable suitor – must we leave our independence on the table to cook up a couple?

I’ve been in a slew of wonderful and incredibly confusing relationships – some of which I left and others that ended much earlier than I hoped they would – but through them all, there’s been a trending complaint of each man: You just don’t need me enough. You don’t need me, you’ll go on to do these things you want and you’ll forget about me.

I think one guy even warned me I’d become cold, bitter, and heartless when I moved to New York. I think sometimes natives would prefer me to take on those qualities – but I doubt my Southern graces will ever allow hopefulness to completely leave my core fundamentals.

Nevertheless – when it comes to my hesitation to give away my single standards, is it because I’m afraid to give my heart away or to lose the independence I often take for granted? Is it because sometimes my jealousy and my lust outweigh my drive and the courage it takes to say when enough, is enough? Or is it because I see and know so many women who stop needing themselves, stop making an effort to have alone time, or to focus on their own self-growth, the second a man enters into their life? Without a doubt, I’ve made a dude the center of my universe before – but it isn’t a mistake I’d like to make again.

I’m not sure if a relationship can be defined as successful – if so, how would we measure it? By the number of children it produces? How long it lasts? How you come out of the hard times and celebrate those moments you know you’ll never find again? I can’t say what I think makes a relationship worth the trouble or worth the potential pain at the breaking point – but I do know that a relationship is one institution – where it be fireworks set a blaze or not – that needs compromise. And more so – it needs more than one person deciding how the course is run. Or how dinner is made. Or how much effort, understanding, compassion, and passion is needed to make the relations continue to be relatable.

A lot of times, the moment a relationship ends or fails or doesn’t last – it’s because one of the pair, lost themselves along the way. They stopped developing and entertaining those things, those beautifully unique interests and qualities that while they may attract the other person, they don’t belong to them.  Those independent and true-to-self notions belong to you. To me. To every single woman who after watching Runaway Bride decided she needed to know what kind of eggs she likes, without the advice of her man’s tastebuds.

The choices I make today are choices just for me. My daily schedule, my intake and my outake, the trains I board and the ones I depart, the runs I make a mile longer just because, and the extra hours I put into work because I can – are all decisions I’m allowed to be selfish about. All determinations I’m entitled to make. And for now, I chose to be single. I choose to never let any man – or person – dictate my everything, anymore. Even if he thinks that makes me undateable because I don’t seem to need him. Maybe he’s right, but I’d rather have a partner who values my love for him, my desire for his presence in my life, then my inability to function without him.

And one who appreciates that what’s for dinner isn’t nearly as important as what’s cooking not only in our kitchen, but in the food from our individual souls that we both bring to the table.

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I’m Female, I’m Single, I’m Human

The whole origination of this blog, the reason so many websites, organizations, and therapists make money, and why Carrie Bradshaw is a household name is due to one fact:

Being a single gal isn’t easy.

And the journey to learning to love yourself, no matter what, is one that is full of trials, complications, thoughts, changes, and mishaps. Sometimes, you get hit with responses you never considered and you have to learn to readjust and turn your direction. Often times, to find your way, you have to be willing to travel through the bumps, and the misguiding, misleading avenues that steer us to destinations we never intended to visit.

When I started writing this blog – it was never for anyone but me. I promoted through Facebook for my friends and I wanted to use it as a space for me to be completely honest, to start making better decisions about relationships, and to make a commitment to falling madly in love with myself. I had reached a point where men had literally consumed each and every single one of my thoughts, my choices, my actions, my life – and I was so exhausted of giving them energy, time, and spirit-I had to make a change. I’ve never been officially diagnosed as a “love addict” and I’m not trying to make light of those who have been – I merely coined the name and proscribed myself a healthy dose of reality.

As some readers have pointed out and perhaps even my friends – I go back and forth. Some days I’m fine and others I’m a mess. Some days I want to be hell in heels and walk away from every man that’s done me wrong or has the opportunity to hurt me. And others, I long to be wrapped up in someone’s embrace more than anything else in this big ole’ city. The comments in yesterday’s blogcaught me off guard and if I’m honest, maybe hurt my feelings a little bit. My first reaction was to defend myself and defend the purpose of the blog and of the journey – but then I took a step back.

And ya know what, I realized they’re right.

I am one quite incredibly ridiculous walking contradiction. My mood changes with the wind, along with my preferences, my tastes, and my desires. Sometimes I feel like I need a man to complete me and other times I don’t want one at all. There are days whenchildren light up my day and then they completely freak me out. Certain mornings, I wake up longing for a relationship, and some nights I go to bed totally alone and unbothered by it. I can go from crying and obsessing, to calm, cool, and collected in the same 12-hour span.

I’m not making excuses for myself, but I am human. And truth be told, I’m not a recovered “love addict” by the terms of a professional or of my own. I mean, I’m only on Step 5, actually.

I’m not an expert. I’m not the woman who has everything together and the leader of the troops for those battling the dating trenches. I don’t have a background in psychology and if anyone asks me for advice, I always say my thoughts come from experience, not from expertise. I’ve never believed that overnight or in six months’ worth of blog posts, I would ultimately be cured of each and every quality that caused me issues. I’m not a lot of things – but one thing I am…is honest.

As happy and as thankful I am that people can resonate with what I write, that it helps people – and apparently provides entertainment and mocking rituals for others – I write because it helps me. When I put it on paper, when I publish it, when I dig through my own feelings by giving them life on a page, I work through my own problems. The way I approach things and the decisions I make may not be the best ones and I could quite possibly be a Southern gal who lands facedown on Northeastern pavement – but I’m not afraid of that. I take responsibility for my choices and more importantly, I stand by the freedom to make them. If the blog and this journey has taught me a single important lesson, it’s that I have the strength, the ability, the confidence, and the will to stand alone.

And this blog isn’t about the men who cascade in my life, about Mr. Possibility, about Mr. Unavailable, or Mr. Fire– they have a space on this blog because I’m working through my past and I’m attempting to create a future that’s healthy and promising. It isn’t about those who read it, those who dislike it, or those who are recovered from obsessing about guys or those who claim they never have – it’s about me. I can’t be the voice of reason, but I can be the voice of me, Lindsay, a human, a single woman, trying to figure out what’s best for her, and allowing others a window into the life she lives.

And that life isn’t one that’s made of fairytales and I’m not (regardless if you believe it or not) searching for a Prince Charming to ride away into the sunset of Madison Avenue with. I’m not trying to be like Sex & the City (frankly, even with my high-heel obsession and desire to live in the Village, I know how unrealistic the show is. However – the dating dilemmas it portrayed are more than real – just like this blog). I’m not attempting to tell anyone how to lead their life or that they should listen to me. I’m a woman writing a personal blog and it is what it is – personal. Perhaps I get a little too gritty and maybe too intense, but I make no excuses. I’d rather be honest with myself, with all of the readers about how I feel, even if they decide not to agree. Thank you, for reality checks from time-to-time, but also know I’m not oblivious to red flags or glaring neon signs – even if I do decide to turn a cheek and test it anyways.

I’m sincerely, profoundly, aiming to love myself. I may take chances on men who quite possibly don’t deserve them and I may stumble and I may fall – but I’ll still be writing. I’ll still be learning. I hope you, whoever you are, will still continue to read. And by all means, comment.

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The Question of Possibility

Men say the damndest things.

You know, those things that crawl under our skin and we wallow over for hours (or possibly weeks), those things that we attempt to read in between the lines, searching for a hidden clue or unspoken something we so desperately want to give meaning to. And so, as we listen to what men say, without actually hearing them – we start to ask questions.

Now, as a journalist – this not-so-redeeming quality has played havoc on my relationships or even my dating life. While I’ll always suggest utter honesty over anything else when seeking romantic-anything with someone new, there’s also a thin line between hoping a man means something and realizing that most of the time, guys say exactly what they feel, when they feel it. Actually, it probably comes out less eloquently but with more impact than the way women would structure the same sentiment.

Nevertheless, sometimes questions seem to be quite ineluctable.

Recently, Mr. Possibility and I walked throughout the Upper East and West Sides, running errands, eating more sugar than both of our recommended nutritional intakes call for, and visiting an exhibit at one of my favorite museums. As we walked, bundling up in the unexpected, yet expected snow, and catching up on the months we missed while he was traveling, I kept noticing question marks. When we waited for the downtown train, I started noticing red question marks cleverly disguised in the amphibian artwork scrolled across the wall. Then at Barney’s as I pretended I could afford shoes that cost more than three months’ rent, the advertising scheme featured a question mark in cascading colors. Lastly and maybe the most obvious- outside of his apartment complex, there was a black sign with a silver question mark graffitied without explanation.

Climbing the steps to his third-floor condo, I couldn’t help but wonder, “What’s up with all these questions?” Noticing my confused stance, he gave me an inquisitive glance, and in return I smiled, imagining the same question marks I noticed throughout the city flashing above his annoyingly adorable head. With this image circulating, I realized the state of whatever it is we are or are not doing is best defined as questionable. Full of opportunity, deep in contradictions and complications, and most importantly, ripe with possibility that’s yet to be determined.

In my path to self-love as it intersects with Mr. Possibility, I’ve received some heat. Not just from my friends and my family, but from my readers, too. Some of the comments shared on this space haven’t been positive and there have been more than enough reasons for me to tuck my Tigar tail and sprint into a new safari of available men. I’ve questioned his feelings toward me, the seriousness of what could be growing, and if by staying put, I was avoiding standing up for myself. There have been moments in our ever-short history that I’ve felt the sting of heartbreak, where I doubted my decision to give him another chance, wondering and nearly convinced I was setting myself up to play the part of a fool. In his words, which have always been rather blunt and honest, even when that’s not always what I wanted to hear, I’ve hoped certain statements meant more than what they did. I’ve admittedly been jealous of other women and perhaps women I’ve never met but somehow characteristically resemble, and I’ve found myself sinking in a pool of unsettling feelings.

The only difference now, with my newfound confidence and level-head on the whole game of love, is that instead of diving head-first into his endless sea of could-be’s, I’ve made a conscious decision and effort to wade knee deep. And though my heart is still uncertain since his return, there are some baggage that needs to be discarded, and wounds that need some healing – I haven’t decided the troubling waters are so rough that I need to sail back into the safe harbor.

And by being more relaxed, but still saying what I need (for his swimmers not to swim into other lady’s lakes), I’ve learned that while questions are unavoiable, sometimes, they are merely just part of the gray areas of mystery that surprisingly leave us happier than dwelling in the black and white. The lovely color of gray also allows other shades to mingle into the mix and it encourages me to listen to what Mr. Possibility says as he says it, while not aiming to discover a hidden intention.

It also gives him the chance to ask some questions instead of me interviewing our relationship, looking for a new angle in his speech (which, by being from Queens, is quite difficult to decipher from time-to-time). A few nights ago, as a way to apologize and thank me, he treated me to an evening of quintessential New York spots. Unaware of where we were going, what we would be doing, or how long I would be gone, I was obviously full of long-winded questions. Not one who is very good at surprises, but loves them anyways, he simply told me to be ready on Sunday evening at 8 p.m. and wait for his instructions.

Though the thought of a man telling me what to do enticed me to spit out a sassy comeback, I decided in the name of romance and making-up-for-measly-mistakes, I’d click my heels together and beg not to turn into a questioning pumpkin at midnight. When the clock struck one-past-eight, my phone lit up to Mr. Possibility’s name, and without greeting me, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

In a car he sent for me, heading toward an unknown destination, as the driver drove so fast the light posts created lines that matched the linear avenues, I answered his question in my head: No, I don’t quite trust Mr. Possibility. I have more questions that need answering than matters of fact. I can’t and don’t desire to be with him every second of every day, and the decisions he makes away from me are still ones I’m not completely convinced have my best interest at heart. But do I trust him enough to listen to him? To hear what he says? To take things slow? To put my own feelings in check and demanding it not be all about him? Do I trust him to an extent where I’ll get into a black sedan promising to deliver me to Mr. Possibility’s embrace? Yes.

Once the car stopped, he opened the door and extended an arm out to lead me toward the center of a quiet and magically lit-Lincoln Center. There, in my vintage Michael Kohr’s, he looked into my eyes and said, “You once said you couldn’t wait to be kissed here, at night. I don’t know if it was a blog or in our conversation, but it’s time for it not be a wish anymore.” I’m sure you can guess what happened next.

There are always questions in relationships or courtships that could eventually turn into something profound. And perhaps not having all of the answers actually does us more good than it does us bad, if we’re brave enough to accept the opportunity for destruction matches the chance of delight. But maybe, there is one simple question we should ask ourselves when deciding to move forward or to walk away – which happens to be the next question Mr. Possibility proposed as we headed to meet our dinner reservation:

“Are you happy?”

And if the happiness outweighs the negativity, the uncertainty is less unsettling than absence, if there is more joy than there is pain – then perhaps, whatever it is or isn’t, whatever questions you can’t answer or commitments you can’t make, are worth the experience.

Worth the possibility.

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The Things I Don’t Know

The months before I graduated from college, however long ago, I couldn’t wait to get out. I had reached a point where anything and everything I was involved with or did was incredibly old. My classes stopped challenging me and I knew New York was in such a short reach, but it felt like I couldn’t extend to grasp it. I was in a relationship I knew was dead-end but my insecurities kept me from cutting the chord.

And yet, as I approached my graduation day (a semester earlier than anticipated, mind you) – I can’t count how many people warned, “Linds, college is the best time of your life. You’re going to miss it once you’re in the real world.”

I disagreed then, and I still beg to differ now.

Going away to school – even if it it’s just two hours away, like it was for me – teaches a kid a lot about growing up. You learn how to make Easy-Mac, how to avoid (or lose eventually) the freshmen 15, and how to force yourself to do things you do not want to do (biology at 8 a.m.). If you’re lucky, you also learn how to share a twin bed with someone, how to get over a college guy (or guys) with unfavorable intentions, and figure out not only your place on campus, but where you’ll be placed after you’re deemed certified by an accredited institution. When I was in college, I remember this feeling of not knowing where my life would go or if I’d ever get to the destination and the job I heavily preached and promised I’d arrive at. Because I never quite felt like I belonged on top of a mountain (imagine that) – I’m not sure I fully embraced being a college girl to the degree that I could have.

However, though I worried more than I partied, I also felt a sense of security by being in school.

When you’re a sophomore you know in a year, if all goes accordingly, you’ll be a junior. You have an idea of the track your courses will take or where you’ll rise in leadership at whatever organization you’re passionate about. You know when you’ll start applying for internships and you know when you’ll move out of the dorms and into an apartment. While there may be uncertainties about what happens after college, when you’re wrapped up in the books and the looks from upperclassmen you pass in the commons – you don’t have to wonder too much about what’s ahead of you. You basically know where you’ll be 12 months from that moment, no matter what. Perhaps it’s that feeling of not having to grow up too much, not having to plan everything out, or not having to stress over bills or if your career is heading down the right track or if you should be engaged or not, is what makes higher learning appear to be the best time of our lives.

Because once you’re out and you take on a city hundreds of miles away, all of the things you knew in college become all of the things you don’t know. If you ask me where I’ll be a year from now, I’d never be able to answer you. And for a while after I graduated, I hated all of the things I didn’t know.

There were no longer guarantees for my immediate future. There were no promises of housing and the comfort of the classroom never translated into an office. There wasn’t a sea of like-minded and similar-in-age people constantly surrounding me and the pool of dating options took a dive into deep diversity. There was no telling if the job I accepted would be the best move for me or if packing up all that I could into a few suitcases and taking a bite out of the Big Apple (or having it bite me) would be the start or the end of me. And while the majority of my classmates were heading (or planning to) down the aisle, I was ending a relationship and standing alone, without a friend, without a clue of where my life would go.

But, the older I get and the more comfortable I find myself in my own skin – I realize it’s the things I don’t know, the plans I can’t make, the questions I can’t answer – that ironically, make me the happiest. Dwelling in possibility opens up far more windows of opportunity than remaining in comfort. College may start the process of becoming an adult, but until you leave campus – you haven’t a clue about what living is actually about. More importantly, you don’t know who you really are yet or had the chance to define who you want to be – today or tomorrow.

And for now, the things I don’t know outweigh the things I do. One phone call, one offer from an unnamed source, one chance encounter in the middle of a city street or one email, one impossibility that evolves into a possibility, one opening in an international office, one impossible to pass up apartment, or one view on one page from one influential person – could change everything I know.

And it is the realization that everything, love and whatnot, is completely transitional, utterly temporary, and constantly in progression from one thing to another, that I realize the best days of my life were not years ago in college or even today – but rather, they on their way. They are in places, in people, in articles, in books, in magazines, in cities, in travels, in experiences, in trains, planes, and automobiles, in runs, in coffees, in embraces, in romantic escapes, in the laughter of children, in the growth of gray hairs, in all of the things – I’ve yet to experience.

When will I know I’ve reached the pivotal period where everything is just so, feels just right, and goes just as I hoped it would?  I don’t know. And really, I doubt I ever will.