Late Nights Alone

"What..." and I said this with elegantly exasperated hands in the air, fingers drumming invisible yet aggresive notes of confusion - "What in the actual fuck is wrong with me??"

At first my friend just stared at me, confounded. Then, as her face softened, she said reassuringly "Nothing, baby. Nothing at all."

Liar.

So here's the deal. I fell in love. Spent a whole damn quarantine with big dreams. Big mistake, right? I suppose I am comforted by the hundreds of stories I've heard about folks who found themselves in the same predicament over the last year or two. Didn't they write pop songs about fools who do that? Urban cautionary tales as told by Frankie Lymon...dead from substance abuse at 25. Sounds about right.

But really though. I don't know who's reading or if anyone actually cares but god dammit I am OUT here. Starting over yet again. Living my "best life" or whatever the kids say now. You know what, boys and girls? I just ate two-day leftover shrimp and noodles like a feral savage over the front burners of my stove. Long past midnight, deep shadows under my eyes, hunkered in the tragic false daylight of shaming overheads with spinach and other assorted garnishes most definitely draping not-so-gracefully from my crooked-ass teeth. It made me laugh out loud. And you know who was around to laugh with me? Fucking NO ONE. My cat. But she's a bitch so that doesn't count. Also she doesn't speak English and she has a uniquely standoffish sense of humor. My best life?

Meh. I'm calling shenanigans.

Then again...I'm here, right? I didn't just survive a pandemic, I vibed with one. I felt the quiet - deafening and almost cruel - and smiled with it. Reveled in it, actually. The silence. The lack of people-ness. The way the streets at night quickly reclaimed their place as part of the wild; glowing, nocturnal eyes outnumbering offensive LED headlights. I quite literally coasted through the emptiness of supermarkets, aisles "marked for safety", and turned my masked excursions into a real-life video game: each aisle's directional coordinates skillfully mapped out beginning with produce and inevitably ending up in the frozen foods section, my shopping cart skillfully maneuvered like some sort of off-road, pedi-powered vehicle without a governor. If you all didn't do this at least ONCE, my condolences. You missed out.

I coasted through a time of fear and chaos. I ate grilled steak and homemade shrimp tacos with crema and white wine. I drank morning coffee by the shores of a quiet upstate lake. I slept next to a man who told me I was special, who even seemed to love me for who I was. My cat would join us sometimes, and enjoyed sprinting aggressively up and down the carpeted stairs of the sweet, musty lake house. I giggled and often cried each Sunday when we would watch Some Good News with John Krasinski - the only "news" we chose to subscribe to for the first weeks of true lockdown. I don't mean to brag but like...yeah. It was pretty fucking dreamy.

Fast forward to the spring of 2021. In a large pot of boiling water, add a gallon of pent-up social deficiency mixed vigorously with a cross-country trip that included a massive (and ugly) blowout with my biological father resulting in my total emotional ruin. Slowly stir in mounting resentment for private issues long unresolved, and uncommunicated insecurities on behalf of both parties. Add a dash of the ole "fuck bitches, get money" laissez-faire attitude from a new boss, a healthy spoonful of hot young pussy running about and a pinch of overall lack of respect for one another and BOOM! You just concocted a deliciously predictable yet somehow blindsiding breakup. But no one wants to eat that shit. Too many sharp edges.

So for a while, I sort of begged. I wanted him back, wanted another "chance". I was confused. I was convinced it was all my fault. That I could somehow "fix" it. I wanted answers but I didn't know how to ask the questions. There seemed to be a hole in my life but not in his and that hurt exponentially more than the actual act of being rejected or, in layman's terms, dumped. How had I poured so much into this person's life and not my own? Where the fuck was I in all of this? It suddenly became painfully obvious that I had jumped right into the classic pattern of "helping" my partner. As my therapist, and other educated types (including myself) would say, I became codependent. Furthering him and using my resources to better his life, his dream, and neglecting my own. When he was happy, I smiled. When he was apathetic, I was wildly unsure of myself. Over time, his small criticisms became the only rhetoric I heard in my head. I became unattractive. Annoying. Overbearing. I "felt" too much. My needs were outlandish. I was unappetizing. I wasn't fun anymore. In a way, he wasn't wrong.

I wasn't fun. Because I wasn't speaking my truth. I was miserable.

I knew I was, and AM, worth someone's time. Hell, I'm worth lots of people's time. I'm definitely worth my own time. I knew I was, and AM, sexy. Desirable. And fun. And smart. I could see myself but he no longer could. The more I tried to shine for him, tried to smile and laugh and pretend everything was hunky-dory, the more he retreated. Jesus, he practically ran. For him, my light had flickered and died out a long time ago. Worst of all, we hadn't the courage to have a real conversation about what we were feeling...who we had become, how we came to view one another. We both kind of gave up and it became the corrosive underbelly in our relationship; he expected me to be shitty and so he was shitty and then when I called him on being shitty, he got shitty with me for being shitty and then it all would go to shit. We were both in love with people we hadn't even seen in months. It WAS shitty.

So I'm sitting here now, alone, and well past the initial hump of being heartbroken. It took me a few weeks but I eventually found myself in the arms of a lover who seemed to know exactly what I needed, what I had been missing for so long, and when I woke up the next morning with crazy hair and flushed skin and damp sheets I did so with a smile on my face. It wasn't about the lover. It wasn't about the way the sun seemed softer shining in through my window or how even though I only managed to get an hour or so of real sleep, I felt rejuvenated. It was something more, something in me, a feeling I'd forgotten; the quiet power of a woman who KNOWS she is "incredible", "delicious" and "so amazing". Words whispered in the dark that resonated so deeply with the woman in me who was desperate to come out of hiding and bask in the sunlight; to be seen and heard and appreciated for all the strength and beauty and imperfection once again.

I remembered how to love myself.

I've tucked that lover away for now. Such a beautiful human but purely of the "right time, right place" persuasion. He was my Winston and I was his Stella - he loved me like a woman should be loved and I in turn got my motherfuckin' groove back. And then I went back to my real life with a newfound sense of worth and a beaming smile.

I don't know what the real point of this is...my message might be muddied. At the end of the day it's a story that's been told countless times spanning eons. Someone falls in love. Someone breaks a heart. Someone cries, questions, yells at the stars. And then someone comes along to remind us that no matter how broken we may feel, there are most assuredly people we haven't met yet who will love us. Sometimes the people we haven't met yet is our Self.