Category: nostalgia

love is a hell you can not bear/give me mine back and then go there

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L’esprit d’escalier (literally, staircase wit) is a French term used in English that describes the predicament of thinking of the right comeback too late.

–From Wikipedia

So about four months ago, I wrote an email to a guy I used to be quite fond of, and he wrote back. At the time, it seemed we’d said what needed to be said, and I was comfortable trying to move on from the whole thing.

But, if you’ve been reading this here blahhhhg, you’ll know that I’ve been doing some work on self-blame lately, and damned if what he wrote to me doesn’t stick in my craw something fierce.

Because: We dated for a year. A year of hanging out and drinking in bars and spending time together in our respective houses and going out and doing things and having lots and lots of what was, quite frankly, amazing and unprecedented sex. For a goddamned year.

And that whole time, he was embarrassed by me? Afraid to let me around the other people in his  life that he cared about? I was good enough to fuck but not good enough to bring around his friends? For a year?

Let me tell you, the audience, and you, the guy who isn’t reading this (but whose network of little gnomes probably are) what my life was like during that year. I was losing my shit. Pretty much the whole time. My life was made up of three things: The Boy, numbness, and panic. I was not well. The drugs I was on to help my depression had turned me into a numb, panicky zombie who couldn’t function or even manage to leave the house very often, at least not when it was light out. I’d dropped out of school because I couldn’t sit still. I’d alienated a lot of my friends. I slept all day and stayed up all night and was making art with my own blood and was completely, balls-out obsessed with The Boy. Yes indeed.

He would have been entirely correct to have run the other way. He would have been more than justified in never seeing me again. But he didn’t stay away. He kept on having (crazy, wonderful) sex with me. He kept seeing me. For a year, until I deliberately sabotaged things so he’d stop coming around for free sex and emotional torture.

What the fuck does that say about him?

I might be crazy, dear readers, but I am not and have never been that much of an asshole.

only something new

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For those of you new to my self-indulgent ramblings, here’s a summary:

Four and a half years ago, I met a guy and fell head-over-heels in love with the unfeeling bastard, and we dated for a year before I sabotaged the relationship on purpose because loving him and not being loved back was killing me.

Two years ago, after moving back to CA from Portland, I met someone else and dated him for 15 months before he suddenly and without explanation dumped me. That happened about ten months ago.

All caught up? Okay.

Well, for starters, I’m back in Portland. SURPRISE. I’ve been back for about a month. I love being here, and I plan to stay. I have a job, I’m staying with friends, life is good.

And I, uh, met someone, and he’s really neato, and I like him. It hasn’t been going on long enough for me to have any idea if it’s going anywhere, but caring about someone is dredging up a whole bunch of old shit that I apparently haven’t finished dealing with yet. Hooray.

So I’ve been watching Justified because it’s awesome, and Timothy Olyphant and Walton Goggins make it so I don’t have to think about how broken my heart still is, how sad I still am, how hard it is to trust, how much giving a shit about someone terrifies me.

But I realize that this isn’t about the guy I’m seeing. It’s about me. And I need to deal with my massive trust issues before I give myself an aneurysm or scare off this very nice person who seems rather fond of me.

Gaaaaaaaah.

But I’m back in Portland. I’ve gone swimming in rivers. I have a tan, or what passes for one. Life is good. I’m happy. And I believe that my life is going to go well, whether or not I have a boy to fawn over. Or even if I’m haunted by ghosts of lovers past.

whatever and ever, amen

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So K is getting married. I know this because I am an idiot and I checked his Google+ page the other night.  And he’s getting married.  Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.  I’m happy for him.  But I don’t know whom to be more jealous of– her, because she has HIM, the love of my life, my cute geeky boy, blah blah blah– or HIM because he found someone he wants to spend the rest of his fucking life with and I’m alone, all alone, forever alone.

He was like my poly role model, people.  And then pretty much as soon as we broke it off, he hooked up with this [redacted], and now they’re getting MARRIED.

Yeah, yeah, move on.  I know.  I have.

But he’s seared into my soul.  Never loved anyone like that, not before, not since.  Blah blah blah.

I met someone.  He’s older than me.  He’s kind.  I don’t want to jinx it.  It’s new.  It’s open.

My poly role model is getting married, and here I am four years later, still doin’ the free-love thing.  Odd how things work out.

And it’s odd how meeting someone new can throw all these things from my past into such sharp relief.  I forgot what it feels like to let my guard down.  I forgot what it feels like to be adored back.  But now I remember.

One night with K, after some private adult aerobics, he rested his head on my chest for a few moments.  That may have been the closest he ever came to tenderness.  I can’t believe I was so in love with someone who wouldn’t/couldn’t/didn’t even hold me.  Or that I spent 15 months of the last two years with a guy– well, I’m done saying mean shit about Emery for now.  BUT I AM THINKING IT.

I deserve better.  I’m gonna go out and get it.

Pretty Good Year

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So. A couple of weeks ago I posted about this great love I used to love and how I still love him.  And about a week after that I wrote him an email that basically said “Hey, what’s up, I miss you and hope you’re well.” And he wrote back:

Kate- 

When we went out, you worried me that you had an unhealthy obsession with me. I was reluctant to introduce you to friends and family because i worried that you would not respect boundaries. 

Three years later, you appear to be pining for me. I think it would be best if you don’t contact me anymore.

-[Redacted]

And… all of a sudden… I was free.

I’m not saying that I’ll never miss him, that I won’t think of him. But he’s right, I’ve been pining. For years.  And it’s time to stop now.  It’s time to let go.

I think I’ve been waiting for him to say that for a long time, without knowing that I was waiting or what I was waiting for.  So I wrote back to say I will honor his request, and then I said:

Thanks for finally saying it. I think this is what closure feels like.

He doesn’t know the person I’ve become in the last few years, and there’s no way I could possibly explain it to him. I believe that, when everything’s considered, he’s the one losing out. But hey, at least he’s finally told me to fuck off. I don’t know why he didn’t say it sooner, and I don’t know why I needed him to say it. It’s done now. I remember all the pain I was in when I was with him. I remember how the pain finally overwhelmed all the love, and I ended the relationship.  I ended it.  I saved myself.

I can walk away now, three years too late, but better than never.

Anyway.  It’s after midnight on April 17th, which means that yesterday was my thirty-first birthday. Turning 30 was really hard for me, but my 31st birthday was delightful.  I had a great party on Sunday, with great people, and I felt happy and blessed and all those gross, sappy feelings.  It was a good birthday.

But:

I got laid off on Friday. This is my last week at my boring, dead-end job. I’d already been looking to move on, but it’s happening sooner than I wanted and in a rather abrupt and unfair way. Maybe this is the fates kicking me in the ass. I’m choosing to take it that way, anyway.

Something I’m realizing is that we can choose our lives. I mean, things happen to us that we can’t control.   Sometimes terrible things happen to us. And a lot of the time, it’s hard to see anything good in these terrible things that are out of our control. But I’m discovering that there’s a lot of power in choosing to own our lives. To, instead of being sad about things or resisting change, to, just… well…  choose it.  Own it.

Redacted never loved me.  Emery doesn’t anymore. My job is phasing me out. I could sit around pitying myself, or I could see all of this as an opportunity to pick up the pieces and move onto something better. I have learned so much from loving these people.  I have gained so much from having held a steady job and showing up every day, even when I didn’t feel like it. I’m better for having loved, and I’m better for having lost.  I’m sorry if I’m a cliche factory today, but– well, usually we don’t feel any different on our birthday, even when we expect to.  But this year, I do.  I feel like I’ve turned a corner.

I am choosing to have an awesome year. I am choosing to own my life.  I am choosing to be grateful.  I am grateful that I finally have a choice. I’m no longer being strangled by depression.  I feel hopeful.  I don’t feel lost nearly so much as I feel that I’m on an adventure.

Happy Birthday, indeed.

what i am now too smart to mention to you

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[I didn’t send this.  Obviously. Instead I’m blogging it.  Because.]

K:

So you’re 33, as of yesterday.  The same age as Jesus when he died, almost a third of the way to 100. We met a bit over four years ago, and I’m still madly in love with your memory.  I don’t remember the sound of your voice or exactly how you smelled, just that I loved those things.  I do remember the way you look when you laugh, that your eyes sparkle, that you tend to look down and cover your mouth sometimes with your hand.

And I’ll be 31 in nineteen days, and I’ve been back in California for almost two years, and I’ve been thinking a lot about how time plays tricks on us, and how the things that’ll end up being important to us often seem so inconsequential at first.  We seldom know the things that will shape us and change us until we are shaped and changed.

But I knew about you.  I always knew, from the night we met.

For such an introspective person, I have an amazing capacity for self-deception. I firebombed our relationship because I thought I couldn’t live any longer in love with someone who’d never love me back.  But I didn’t realize that there wasn’t anything I could do about that fundamental flaw, that disparity in emotion. You will never love me.  I will always love you. And even though the memories have faded and I don’t actually think of you that often anymore, every year around this time, you haunt me. I don’t know how I ever could have believed that you’d stop.

It’s not your fault, of course.  And I’m sure that you wish it weren’t so.

I’m certainly not pleased that things between us ended up this way, but looking back now with a few more years’ perspective, I still can’t really say what either of us should have done differently.  I don’t know if you have hard feelings, but I don’t.  I did for awhile, but there are plenty of people in the world more deserving of my recrimination and regret than you are.   So my thoughts of you are overwhelmingly fond, if bittersweet.

And now I know what I’m looking for– someone who lights my heart on fire, but this time, someone who loves me back.  In the three years since we stopped seeing each other, I’ve dated several very special people who couldn’t hold a candle to you.  I’ve been whole-heartedly single now for over five months (a record for me!) and plan to stay this way for awhile.  Until, I guess, I meet someone who makes me feel like you did.  Or better!  Better could happen!

You’ve been with [redacted] for a long time now.  Living together, I gather.  Don’t worry, I’m not watching your every move.  But I do check in from time to time.  I wonder what she has that I don’t.  I wonder why you wanted to be with her, but not with me.  But then I think “Kate, NO CUDDLING FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE” and I feel better.  I don’t know what it was about you that got me so hooked.  I wish I knew, and could find it somewhere else.

As always, I hope that you are well.

Sincerely,

Kate

I’m not too sure, and I’m not too proud to say…

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About a year ago, I was chatting with Austin, the boyfriend I had through most of high school, and I asked him if he had fond memories of me.  This is what he said:

We had some great times, some crazy times, and I think you’re a good person. And yeah, I focus on the good memories. Life’s better that way, I think. Those people that always say they have no regrets, bunch of people that lie to themselves, but damn they’re probably the happiest too.

I found this chat log yesterday, and it made me really happy.  So I thought I’d share.

It’s just me and my dog…

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Mom asked if I’d take our dog, Lily, for a walk tonight.  I was wearing shoes and Mom wasn’t, and I never really mind getting  out and seeing the stars, so I agreed happily.

But we couldn’t find the leash.  It’s one of those nice, retractable ones, and it’s hot pink, so it should have been easy to spot.  But it just wasn’t there.  Mom went digging through a cabinet and found something that would do: Sam’s old leash.

Sam was the first dog I ever had, the only other dog I’ve had.  We got her when I was eight, when my family was living on a ranch in Hollister.  I think I must have named her, because “Samantha” seems like the kind of thing an eight-year-old girl would name a puppy.  She was a mutt, apparently part Husky and mostly Question-Mark, and she had the coloring of a German Shepherd, but the coarse hair of a Lab.  She weighd about 50 pounds and was good at responding to verbal commands.  You could walk her without a leash.  She had the softest ears I’d ever felt.  I called them “velvet ears.”  She got stinky when she didn’t have a bath for awhile.  Sometimes we’d let her wander the neighborhood, and I had a special way of calling her, almost a song.  “Sa-MAAAAAAAAN-thaaaa.  C’mere, c’mere puppy!  Saaaaaa-mmmmy!”  And she’d always come, and you could hear the fast beat of her paws seconds before you’d see her.

She was a damned good dog, was Sam.

She got old and she died.  She was a shell of herself by the time she finally went.  I was maybe 23 when I got a call saying that Sam had died.  By that point, she wasn’t fun anymore.  I hadn’t really cared about her in years, if we’re being honest.  She was more a stinky, incontinent burden than anything else.  And she just made me so sad, seeing her so old and feeble when she’d been the best dog a kid could hope for.  It was a relief when she finally died.

I hadn’t really thought about Sam for a long time until my mom pulled that leash out of the cabinet tonight.  And I attached it to the collar of my spunky little Lily-Pie, my sweet puppy who doesn’t always come when called, who you can’t even think of walking without a leash, and I thought about my first dog,  my Sammy.  And I remembered what a good dog she was, what a sweet dog, and how much I loved her.

And now I’m crying harder than I’ve cried in months.

Damned dog.

Vintage Post #2 (Early 2008)

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[For an assignment in the greatest class I took in college, “Dangerous Words.”  We were supposed to write a cover letter for an imaginary job application.  This is mine.]

Dear Sir/Madam:

I am applying for your job as “Mattress Tester” which was listed in the Oregonian and on Craigslist.  As I have been sleeping in beds every night for nearly 27 years, I feel I am well and uniquely qualified for this job.

My parents raised me in a home in which beds were the norm.  I have slept on many different mattresses, and feel that I can distinguish not only good ones from bad ones, but which ones may be good for children or the elderly, due to issues of size and accessibility.  I can also evaluate frames as to their stability, durability and dimensions.  I have experience with cots, futons and the most luxurious of mattresses, including memory-foam mattresses, and can tell almost immediately whether a bed is comfortable or not.

In my past experience evaluating mattresses, I have often even worked double-shifts so that my assessments are thorough and detailed.  My dedication to sleep and the accoutrements that accompany it has been commented on many times by parents, friends and housemates.  Please consider me most seriously for this position.

Thank you for your time and kind attention.

Sincerely,

Kate Folsom