~ from my friend Fabeku when I posted this photo.Interesting because I am also a handful.
My friend’s responses are practically giving them whiplash. “What? Are you fucking kidding me? I thought the next announcement from you guys would be your engagement. I have seen you together and you don’t fake things. The love and affection is real”True words. It is real. Then it wasn’t. And now it’s not. I have not changed our fb status and neither has he. One little click in a daytime of a million little clicks and I can’t do it. This will bring questions I can’t answer cause it was more his decision than our discussion and I have to live with that.When the shit hits the fan I do what I always do. Call in the troops and then become the poster child for introverts.I pin. I surf. I check in with my love list.
I cry and they witness and then I turtle and watch pop culture shows and makes notes of the secret messages I find in them.
I don’t wash my hair or return texts right away. I have a hard time talking to my mom cause I know she worries.
I drink cheap wine and smoke cigarettes on my patio in the dark. Heartbreak and smoking go hand in hand.
I eat a lot of soup. I don’t do enough yoga. I cry so much my eyelashes disappear. I am not myself without mascara.
I sleep but not well. I wake up screaming and have dreams involving my ex who killed himself and I cleaning out my moms place. She is dead in these dreams.
Nigel is like Velcro. Where I am he is, but the missing is getting to him too. He is skinny and I can feel his little senior cat hips.
I asked for fire. Like a Phoenix rising from the ashes I imagined I would feel the heat, burn and rise. I never considered I would rise alone.
As my friend said the terror is real. That guy is not a bad guy. I would not have spent a decade with a bad guy. He is a great guy and somewhere in the last little while we forgot how to love each other.
I might have to move. I have no fear of moving. I am a weirdo who likes moving – new space new decor purging decorating making it mine – but this time I have Nigel to consider.
Moving on is terrifying. I am 47. And I thought he was it. The guy I would wake up next to when I am 80.
Thank god for my people. My friends meet me in rage and sadness. Checking in and holding me close. Asking the questions I don’t want to answer but need to be considered. Those kill me but I am grateful for them because it moves me forward.
I told my friends I am either manically depressed or so fucking sure of myself and my worth that I have nothing to say. This is unfamiliar to me in a break up. But I have no desire to remind him of our decade together and what we are. I said once that unless someone is standing naked behind me I don’t bend over. Not anymore, I know the value I bring. I know who I am.
Also, I know it’s the right thing to do.
The romance is over. The love is not. For both of us. Now I will call him by his name instead of Bearcat and he will call me Renee instead of Squirrel. Ten years later. That hurts.
Right now all I can do is look at my part. We can only own our 100% of our 50% of a relationship and it’s never entirely someone’s else’s fault.
I know for sure I would have said more about what was happening but something shifted in him when his best friend died and we all grieve in our own way. I didn’t want to add to his trauma but you do the best you can and when you know better you do better.
For now the terror lies in living. My slow marketing and attention to detail and absolute surety of the community I am building offers an income to co-live in Vancouver but not much of one to live alone.
I am brilliant at compartmentalizing my life. I have a chameleon soul. I know nothing is either/or. It’s all an and/and. I can be sad and I can be happy all at the same time.
My home is my sanctuary. I need to be in a place that feels safe and gives me the energy necessary to give back to my clients and my dreams.
I have a new site and offerings in the works that came to life long before this happened, and were derailed temporarily because this happened, but back to it I go.
A different bridge job than the vintage store maybe because I need more hours.
New clients always arrive in my universe at just the right time.
The Wild Muse vintage is selling even though I have yet to get it online.
I am living moment by moment which is not much different than how I lived before this.
I get asked “is it over for good?”
Yes. Maybe. No. Probably. Possibly. Unfathomably. Never.
We will see. This moment as I write this our love affair is. After a few weeks of cold civility we talked and are now navigating this transition from lovers to friends with the tenderness that a decade long relationship deserves.
I don’t want him to be my boyfriend anymore.
I know that.
I want someone to look at me like I am made of magic and neither of us have looked at each other like that in a while.
I am sure of nothing that lies ahead but again that is not much different either, except for one crucial point. He will not be there. My mom will die from her cancer and he will not be there. Nigel will pass and he will not be there. I will find the thing, that thing that is my thing, and he will not be there.
So because I asked and because it is necessary I will continue to stand in the fire and St. Gerard will watch over me and perform miracles.
I am the mother of dragons and my eggs are my dreams.
I will rise.
Somehow, someway I will rise.
Actually, I feel like I already am.
Stay gold Wild Ones.
Thanks for hanging out with me.