I Just Can’t Put My Finger on It

In my observation, I can’t tell if I’m the victim, the prey, or the observer.

Who am I?

Who are we all?

It fucks me up when I know that the only thing I need to do in life is be me.

But who am I?

Where have I gone, what have I done, and who have I become?

It’s a crazy life, and I just can’t seem to put my finger on it.

At some point, I got really lost. At the exact same moment, I found myself. I have no idea where these two moments intersect, but I know that there is a specific moment in time, unbeknownst to me, when all of this chaos meets in a single place and becomes cordial.

It’s a place where serenity meets destiny. When “I don’t fucking care” sits down at the table with “Let’s do this.” It’s a place completely unfiltered, yet filtered to its fullest.

This place puts its best face forward. It smiles when it meets new people, shakes hands, and makes kind gestures.

This place angrily resents people it meets for their fortunes, their beautiful homes, their happy families, while simultaneously being thankful for all that it has, all that it’s come from, and all that its become.

My place, on the other hand, welcomes the inquiries from others and seeks to find solutions to their questions. I’m a people-pleaser. I love this about myself. Recently, my therapist has questioned if I should really love this quality as much as I do.

The answer? I should, and I do .

But her question made me question myself, as well it should (after all, that’s why I pay her.)

Who exactly am I supposed to be at this moment? I just can’t put my finger on it.

I see photos of friends’ kids graduating, and I think to myself, “Did I fuck up by not wanting that?”

I can’t afford myself, so, no, I can’t put a kid through college.

I see photos of my friends’ babies having their Year One bib baby pictures, and I think “Is that where I’m supposed to be?”

I can’t imagine having babies. So, no, that’s not it.

I see photos of my friends’ beautiful homes they’ve built from the ground, up, and I think, “That could be my house.”

I live in a 600 square foot shoebox. Maybe that’s it.

But I live in a happy life where a man treats me like a princess and plans his every day around my happiness. We’re not rich. We don’t have babies. We have each other.

I can’t quite put my finger on my frustration, but maybe that’s because there’s nothing to really put my finger on. Finger-pointing is blaming. What if I just have a great life, a man who loves me, and a job that needs me?

What if I’m looking for something I don’t need to make me happy? What if I can’t put my finger on it because everything I have in my everyday life is already everything I’ve asked for, regardless of titles, techniques, and tethered histories?

What if I can’t put my finger on it because it’s so obvious?

The Strength of Vulnerability

In my observation, it’s hard to be weak.

In truth, it sucks.  As people, we’re bred to think we know how to conquer the world.  We spend every night planning for the day ahead, and we spend every day, working to settle into the night.

We’re never not working.

I’m never not working.

I’m working to make money.  I’m working to better myself.  I’m working to make my family as happy and as prosperous as we can be.

I’m working to be the best person and woman I can be.

Two years ago, I met a man who changed my life.  From the moment I met him, I loved him.  Deeply.  Like nothing I’ve ever known.  This man is my family.

There are few things I don’t love about him, but among the most spectacular of characteristics is his vulnerability.

I find strength in his weakness, and he does so in mine.

I often wonder — Where would I be, had chance not given me this man who I treasure and hold so dearly?

We struggle.

Sometimes it’s hard to pay the bills.  Sometimes it’s hard to have fun with the incessant thoughts of life rustling around in the back of our heads.

I take the odd days.  He gets the evens.  Wednesdays, I’m allowed to feel down;  I give him Thursdays.

When I look at my life, and the last 34 years, I can honestly say that I’ve never felt so vulnerable as every moment I feel in my home right now.  I can say, too, that I’ve never felt so strong.  As individuals, people aren’t meant to make it through this life alone.  We need to cry.  We need to suck.  And we need someone to tell us to suck it up and be better.  With a partner, two individuals can conquer the world.

My job is to be strong when my person is vulnerable.  And my job is to let him figure out how to be weak.  His job is to figure out how to be vulnerable and to wrap his arms around me when I need strength.

There’s a certain comfort in tears.  They are your own.  They were born from your own feelings, experiences, frustrations, sadness, and loneliness.  You own them.  They belong to you.  They’re part of your own mind, heart, body, and soul.

When you’re strong enough to be vulnerable, you let someone else in.  You invite the possibilities of every weakness you’re allowed to encompass, and you welcome the people in your life to bind their strengths together to create a bridge from here to there.  In the end, you’ll either find you again, or you’ll find a new you who is ready to accept the challenges and uncomfortable situations the future has to offer.

I’ve always been strong.  And the person I love is even stronger.  We’re strong in different ways, which affords us the ability to be weak differently.  We’ll never fall.  The other one is always here to grab a shovel and scoop the other one into a healthy, loving spot where we can be ourselves — whoever that person may be at the time.

Without vulnerability, no one can be strong enough to do this life.  This life can’t be done without friends who love us unconditionally and without cause or clause.

Glass Walls

In my observation, adulthood is a strange place.  

Somewhere between love and hate, turbulence and serenity, we find ourselves.  Even if the selves we find are found to still be lost from decades past, we find an understanding of this wandering, and sometimes directionless, journey. 

There’s something so perfect about being able to be honest —

When emotions cry and angers rage —

When the truth comes out, despite every bulletproof article you arm your mind, body, and soul with, are you ready to take the hit?  Will otherwise silenced words slash like a sharp knife across your flesh when they’re unleashed?  Or are you strong enough to accept the person you’ve become and the people around you at face value?

Since I’ve discovered words on paper, conversations have become much easier.  I can’t decide if this ease is attributable to the tool I use to create a voice or if it’s simply something that comes with adulthood.  

Maybe it’s timing. 

Maybe everything is timing.  

Somewhere between “fuck you” and “I can’t live without you,” we all have people who can ignite passionate emotions unlike any flames another person could ignite.

I thank timing for delivering my person to me.

When the words start flying, which side of the glass walls will you be standing on?  Stones blemish the fragile layer of protection no matter from which side they’re thrown.  One crack can cause a spiderweb of pain and complex, intricate lines, each of which takes on its own destination and intention. 

At some point, the unified shield will collapse under the pressure, and nothing but shattered shards and ruins of what once was will remain. 

That is, of course, unless those stones turn from things we throw out of frustration and become decorative accessories upon which we choose to build a foundation and reinforce our fortress.

I choose love.  I choose strength.  I choose happiness. 

A Letter to the Ex

In my observation, you made me who I am.

So, please allow me to thank you.

Let me get this straight, for the record, of course.

Under your rule, I wasn’t good enough. I was someone to be kept in a corner, hidden in a closet, or wrapped by so many suffocating cloaks that no one could ever find me, less they knew I existed at all.

I tend not to re-read previously written pieces — they are what they are, and what they are is how they’re supposed to be. Without reading them (which I suspect I will do in the next coming days), I know that I cheated on you because you made me feel inferior, yet I knew I was of value.

After nearly seven years of bad luck, innumerable tears, and a significant weight gain, I knew what it felt like to be as amazing I could be and still be in the worst relationship I could imagine.  Three and a half years after I sat across from you, eating my peas and carrots, I still remember how I felt when I left that metaphorical dinner table and consulted my keyboard for help.  I honestly had no idea how long it’s been since that conversation took place until right now; it resonates with me as though it was last week.

That was then.

Allow me to remind you that our official breakup took place four days shy of my two weeks’ resignation.  That was the day on which you decided to have someone who had worked for the company for two months walk me out, without notice, in front of my entire team of people.


You shamed me.

While you sat behind your closed office doors.

All of you.

I never said goodbye or had the opportunity to thank you.

So I will do it now.

Thank you.

Thank you for teaching me how to treat people.  Because anything I can do that’s not what you did makes me a better person.

Thank you for teaching me the industry.  Because without you, I wouldn’t have you on my resume, and I wouldn’t have been found by another of your exes.

Thank you for the professional PTSD.  Because since my time with you, I have learned to acknowledge the flags, and walk away quickly.  Unfortunately, you’re more common than you are rare.

Thank you for empowering me with the understanding that, even when I’m being spit and shit on, kicked and punched, covered and suffocated, I am still wonderful.

And you’re welcome.

You’re welcome for all that I gave you for all of those years.

You’re welcome for my phenomenal resistance to your hateful nature and my constant strive to want to be a better person, despite your hideous downfalls.

You’re welcome for taking everything that you’ve taught me, mostly through opposition and the desire to be nothing like you.

You’re welcome for accepting a position with a company that will fight for the people you fuck over on a daily basis.

In my observation, you. are. welcome.


In my observation, they’re worse than bed bugs, mosquitoes, and spiders.

Those self-esteemons.

Those demons of self-esteems.

Those haters of confidence and eaters of all things comfortable.

Those deniers and dwellers, those criers and past lovers, those things you wish you could do better, and those things you wish you hadn’t done at all.

And those things you wish you could do a million more times over.

All in the same “emon”.

Those self-esteemons.

Those demons.

If you only understood how beautiful you are.

How amazing.
How frustrating.
How perfect.
How stubborn.
How wonderful.
How irritating.
How incredible.

How incomparably much I love you.

Your consideration is immense. You put me before yourself — before anyone. You love me.

It’s so nice to be loved.

I cannot understand how I can be so lovable, and yet, I am so incredibly undesirable.

It’s those self-esteemons.

They’re not pets; they’re pests. They creep into my life, stowing themselves away on a piece of luggage or an old pair of shoes. Finding their way from the floor to my heart and wandering into my soul without invitation.

They’re an infestation, those self-esteemons.

I struggle.

I struggle with the fact that I am loved and protected so fiercely that I know you and I will always be fine.

And yet, I am nothing.

But I am incredible.

I am finally at a place where I love me.
Where I appreciate me.
Where I am grateful everyday that I am me, and I wish others could experience the kindness that is me.

But still, I am infested.

I am infested with these self-esteemons, who, after nearly a year, cannot let go of the fact that I am undesirable. They aren’t willing to unlatch their clutches and let me go. They’re not willing to allow the beautiful person I see in the mirror be touched again.

Because I do not know why.

I don’t know why I’m not good enough.

I don’t know if I’m not pretty enough. Thin enough. Smart enough. Funny enough. Naive enough. Bitch enough.

I just don’t know.

Those fucking self-esteemons.

Those demons.

I have the most beautiful, amazing best friend I could ask for. You protect my feelings like I am a princess, and my heart lives in a fort within our castle.

I have the most wonderful guardian. You want the best for me and nothing less.

I live in turbulence because when you ask me if I will have company tonight, I want to cry.

I do not want company. I already have the company that I want.

I do not want to be touched by another. Because your touch was the last I had, and it’s the last I want.

And it’s been a day less than eternity since I’ve been touched.

So, please — do not ask me if I will have company.

I would love to have the company of you tonight, as I would love to every night, but I will not have the “company” of any man tonight — or any night in the foreseeable future.

Because I am infested

With self-esteemons.

And I would, at this point, not understand who I am without them.

Rush Hour

In my observation, you’ve probably forgotten why you’re in such a hurry.

Broadway is an amazing place to stand during rush hour. So many people with so many busy lives.

All rushing right past me.

You’re talking on your phone. You’re texting sexy messages to your mistress that you’ll delete long before you pull into your driveway.  You’re fighting. You’re flirting. You’re working. You’re worrying.  You’re doing a million things simultaneously as you hurry up to stop.

You’re eating. You’re singing.  You’re deep in thought and busy being completely thoughtless.

Why are you rushing?  What’s waiting for you at the end of your commute rainbow?

Do you have someone rushing home to be with you?  Are you the person that someone is rushing home to be near?

Do you even realize you’re the recipient of a lover yet to be loved?

In this hour of chaos and streetside strategizing, as you navigate the unexpected with the sudden turns and stops that appear before your very eyes, are you capable of acknowledging the challenges? 

I rush home every night to a place where my heart is happy and my head is … I don’t know what it is.  I think I won’t know.

I wonder what people think of me when I’m  driving past them as they stand on the sidewalk during rush hour.  Do they see the smile of contentment as my eyes scan the horizon looking for the while in traffic that will deliver me to my happy place as quickly as possible?  Do they see the co fusion as I contemplate what I’ve done to pigeonhole myself into the position I’m in?  Do they see the blank stare of contemplation as I try to rule out the consumption of time that occurs daily during this long drive?

If you catch me driving past during rush hour, i’d love to know:  which me do you see?

Concrete Walls

In my observation, there’s a discrepancy between safety and shutting down.

This morning, my house caught on fire. Okay, not ***my*** house (I don’t actually have a house; I have a condo). And it wasn’t ***my*** unit, but rather a neighbors.

I live in a building that was built in 1959. They did things a lot differently back then. They built sturdy buildings with walls made of concrete and structures that were meant to last the long haul and endure the ages.

Were it not for my concrete walls, I wouldn’t have a home right now.

Lately, I’ve been struggling — trying to understand how I’ve finally become the person who I’ve always strived to be — a person with the characteristics and traits that I’ve always admired in others — a person I love dearly …

… and yet, I’m still desperately vulnerable and capable of breaking at the drop of a hat.

Lately, I’ve been on fire.

I live in a fiery inferno — One in which I’m confused about who I am, yet incredibly confident that I’m exactly who I want to be. I wonder what makes me an amazing best friend, yet never someone who is good enough to be an intimate companion.

I think my walls are plaster.

They’re thin. They’re breakable. And, they’re incredibly flammable.

My fire is on the inside. I beat at the walls, screaming for someone to hear me — begging for someone walking by to help … to open the door and carry me to the other side of the street… to safety.

Am I looking for a beautiful fireman, clad from head to toe in protective gear, strength, and power? One who is saving me as part of his daily duties? Or am I awaiting a neighbor who knows me and wants to ensure my safety? One who seeks my rescue to ensure that the good person I’ve become continues to make the day brighter with the smiles and kind gestures that I deliver?

As I reflect on this morning’s events, I’ve decided that my concrete walls, while they may not have saved my life, did sustain my livelihood. Perhaps it’s time that I change this person I’ve strove to become — for no other reason than to acknowledge that life is a constantly evolving, living thing. If I choose to accept who I am at this time, at this moment, then perhaps I’m leaving out the evolution that was meant to be.

And so it is that, from this point forward, I will begin to build concrete walls — not in any nature intended to keep others out — but rather to keep myself safe from the fire and fury which has recently begun to rage in the basement of my boiler room.

Sentence Fragment

In my observation, this single phrase is analogous to one writer’s life.

In the world of written words, things can go unspoken because you don’t figure out how to arrange letters together such that they communicate what they need to. You have a mere twenty six options, from which to make the most shallow or profound statements. The possibilities can be endless, or they can cease before they even begin.

There are times, perhaps more often than not, when words are strung together carelessly. Is this truly because the author didn’t pay attention to detail? Or is it because, amidst the punctuation and possibilities, perfecting the piece was simply too overwhelming to compose properly?

A sentence fragment can occur for many reasons —

Two thoughts can come together in such a quickness and rapid-fire fury that neither has a chance to begin or end without the other merging into its existence.

The author is overcome by thoughts greater than the initial prose, thus leaving that sentence hanging loosely bound by a jumble of the alphabet for all of eternity.

The wrong words and punctuation marks are inserted into the sentence, thus making it awkward, uncomfortable, and unnatural.

To me, the question herein becomes this: Can a fragmented sentence be edited to flow smoothly, as it was originally intended? Or is it possible, that once the fragments have been made public, the shattered structure shall forever lay in infamy?

As humans, we possess the unique ability, different from every other mammal, to select items of the alphabet and turn them into beautiful, flowing works of art. With this, we write our own stories. Each story, of course, is comprised of many characters — there are villains and heroes, costumes and makeup, clouds of suspicion and intimate scenes.

Viewer discretion is advised.

I’ve spent the last several months on Cloud Nine. I had an exclamation point at the end of my sentence, and all of my words seemed to fit more naturally than they ever had.

However, as it always seems to go, the editing process has begun to take a toll on my soul.

It seems that I’ve put my sentences together so incorrectly that none of the words make any sense. They don’t tell a story; they don’t even complete a thought.

They’re confused.

They’re broken.

They’re unwanted.

They’re unwarranted.

They’re indifferent.

My words find themselves full of self-doubt, trying with fruitless effort to produce the thoughts, those of which spin in my head a million miles an hour all day and night.

Why aren’t they good enough?

In this, I can’t help but wonder, how many broken sentences must I compose until I’m able to create a story that is worth telling?

Friend or Foe?

In my observation, this is a conversation that needs to happen in the mirror.

I assume that you assume this narrative is a conversation happening between myself and someone else. In some ways, this is true. However, allow me to assure you in advance that these two entities, separate but equally powerful in their own rights, reside in one single dwelling.

It’s cramped and congested.

It’s welcoming and cold.

It’s fun and friendly.

It’s horrible and homey.

It’s a perfect dichotomy of pieces that fit perfectly together in shatters and shambles and smiles.

It’s an absolute description of me, myself, and I.

Another birthday is upon me, and as I look back at my 32 — my Year of Learning — I am satisfied that I did what I set out to do. I drank too much, slept to excess, made more friends-for-a-minute than I could count, had money, went broke, and found a million ways to really fuck some shit up.

So, here we are.

My Dearest December: You always shed a blanket of mystery and anticipation upon my anxious soul.

And so it is for you, my Dearest December, that I write these words.

Until recently, I knew I was a wounded bird. I understood that I didn’t know how to speak. I realized that my ways of dealing with conflict aren’t up to par with those of the typical American adult.

What I did not realize, is how much turbulence truly does live in my heart and mind, body and soul.

Then one day… so suddenly… so unexpectedly…

I met a man that made me remember what it was like to have my heart sing. In the last two months, I’ve felt the most amazing and significant love. I think it’s always been in me… somewhere… hiding…

Perhaps I didn’t want to let it out. Perhaps it took someone special to hold the key.

I don’t know. I think I never will know. Or maybe I’ve known all along?

In any case, I’ve been tasked with the terrible duty of figuring out why I keep fucking up. After all, who wants to admit that being “this guy” is part of your genetic makeup?

For clarity, I struggle between the conflict of nature versus nurture. I believe that two halves make a whole. I subscribe to the fact that experiences make you you. I know that my history has made me me.

What I don’t understand is how to reconcile my internal conflicts. I don’t know if I’m facing a friend or a foe, and I don’t know how to distinguish the difference.

Through deaths and rape, through smiles and milestones, through the good and the bad, I’ve put up enough walls to keep out some debris while letting trash flood corners of my existence. The amazing and beautiful things in my life — my friends, family, and fond memories — they all have their place. They put on their superhero capes when I’m falling off of a ledge, and they use their invincible powers to keep me in a safe place.

I didn’t realize the structure of my walls was all fucked up until recently. It wasn’t until I laughed harder and longer than I had since high school — until I had butterflies in my stomach that would make the Botanic Gardens jealous — until I got excited to come home just so I could be near him —

It wasn’t until then that I realized that I have no idea how to just be. Clearly, it’s time for me to get back on my yoga mat.

The internal conflict inside my being is turbulent. It’s terrible. It’s nothing anybody should ever have to endure. While my heart flutters and flies, my mind and emotions play tricks, and each one lies. I don’t know which way is down and which is up. I have no idea how to turn my dial down, and I think my sound button is broken.

I am mute.

That sentence speaks volumes.

For whatever reason, perhaps those which I’ll never know, he forgives me. I’ve been downgraded, don’t get me wrong. I crave the closeness — the skin-to-skin — the masculine arms that make me feel safe and protected. I yearn for the moments when I’m encapsulated in his presence, surrounded by nothingness and content in the moment that captured me in the beginning.

But I’ve really fucked up.

For whatever reason, he let’s me be around. It’s a blessing, and I know he doesn’t know the gravity of his gift. He also doesn’t know the pain that I endure when I try to act as any normal adult female should.

It hurts my feelings… my soul… my heart…. my being… that I can’t be what would be amazing for him. I want so badly to be that “beautiful” woman that he fell in like with when we met. I can’t remember the last time someone told me I look nice or said, “Good morning, beautiful” so softly and gently as the sun shone into my windows. I also can’t remember the last time that I had such a miserably hard time letting someone appreciate being around me.

I just keep wanting more.

Is that human nature?

Is that selfish?

Is selfish human nature?

I know that one day soon, I’ll come home, and he’ll be gone. I can’t blame him. Why would he stay? Do you hear the turbulence with which he lives? He doesn’t know if he’s living with a friend or foe.

Neither do I.

I’ve built parachutes and pillows around my friends, and I try my damnedest to always be there if they fall. They’re always there for me, too. In this equation, one thing is missing.

I’ve either forgotten to build in my own protective device… or I’ve installed a piece of equipment that malfunctions at the most inopportune times.

Listen, Self:

It’s me and you. We need to figure this out. We’re leaving 32. Going forward, are you going to be friend? Or are you choosing to remain foe?

Dear Doctor Jekyll

In my observation, you really do exist.

Or are you Mr. Hyde today?

I never know.

I’ve written this letter a million times in my head.  I was angry.  I was sad.  I was lonely.  I was elated to talk to you again.  And then it started over.  My words have circulated so many times in my mind that I couldn’t find a beginning or an end.

After your recent conversation, the end was finally achieved.  And with that, I gratefully saw the beginning, too.  Gratefully because the beginning was so beautiful.

I have so many things to say to you.  Among the most important, I’d like to express my anger.  Beyond anything, I’m angry with you that you have spent months teaching me how to talk about my feelings — how to discuss things on my mind — how to be okay with not being okay, and addressing that with the people that need to hear it from me.  You taught me that I matter.  You told me that I’m worth being heard.  You helped me to understand that my words and feelings matter.

So, yes, it hurts me more than anything in the world that you refuse to hear me speak.

I asked you to talk to me.  I asked you to call.  I asked you, if I wrote you an email, would you read it or delete it.

I was sick.

You made me sick.

Not in the way that it may at first sound.  I was literally sick.  Between tears that I couldn’t control, I got so sick that I couldn’t eat.  I didn’t sleep.  I didn’t leave my house.

I cried.

And you were responsible for it.

Your perception of my love for you is skewed, and for that, I am truly sorry.  I am not sorry for the way I love you; rather, I am sorry that this is a foreign thing to you.  My friends love me.  They love me from the earth to the clouds, and I love them the same.  You will never understand my love.  It has nothing to do with looks or chemistry.  It simply has to do with you.  You’re a beautiful person, and as my friend, it was my job to love you.  It was my duty, and I take that duty seriously.  To be honest, even with my significant lack of self-esteem, I can look myself dead in the eyes in the mirror when I think about the value of my friendship to the people that I hold dear.

What I want for you is happiness and peace.  You’re beautiful.  Despite your shadows and dark clouds, you’re beautiful.  I hope you find someone that is ready to drop their life on a dime to come to you to make sure you’re okay when you’re hurting.  I hope you find someone that you can share your secrets with, even though you’re scared.  I hope you learn what love is in terms of friendship, regardless of what other love that life may bring.  I hope you understand one day that my friendship is invaluable — that I loved you (and always will) as my best friend and nothing more.

I also hope that one day, if you’re afforded a friendship as beautiful as ours, that you’re willing to let go.  You gave me so much of you.  Our conversations were beautiful.  Our friendship was beautiful.  I’m hurt.  I’m confused.  And I’m angry.  Beyond anything else, I’m upset that you don’t care.

Why don’t you care??

I’d like you to know that you gave me the most perfect insult ever.  After I laid my soul on the line and begged you to talk to me as adults, you informed me that I am the most self-involved thoughtful person that you’ve ever come across — that I’m thoughtful with expectations.  I want to thank you for that.  You are absolutely correct.  I AM the most thoughtful person you will ever come across, and I do have one expectation: that the people to whom I devote my heart will be my friends in the end.  In the grand scheme of things, asking for a shoulder to cry on every once in a while or needing a soothing voice to calm me down every few months is well worth the weight in gold that I put into my friendships.  I’ve thought about this statement a lot.  In all honesty, I can’t imagine a more beautiful condemnation.  If you’re looking for an apology, here it is:  I’m sorry that I am the most thoughtful person you’ve ever met, and I’m sorry that the only thing that I ask in return is to be treated a fraction as well as I treat you.  My friendship is quite a gift.  And I feel so blessed to be given the gift of giving.  I love me for that.  My friends do, too.

As a human being, I deserved to know what I did and why you’re angry.  As your friend, I deserved resolution and communication.  As someone that loved you more than I’ve loved anyone for a long time, just as friends, I deserved better than all of this.

Please remember, this began when I dropped everything to come to you to make sure you were okay when you were hurting so, so badly.

You denied me.

You inflicted far more hurt upon me than you could possibly imagine.

And for that, I thank you for reminding me that all good things must come to an end.

I have begged you to talk to me.  I have been on hands and knees asking for kindness… communication… best friendship.

You know I love you when I tell you this:  I will always be here for you.  If you need me, let me know.  I don’t remove people that I love and am grateful for.  I treasure them.  And just because you’ve chosen to walk away, it doesn’t mean that I won’t be here for you when you need me.

Whether it’s ten days or ten years, I hold the answers to a lot of the questions that others can’t answer.

I appreciate what you’ve given me.  The friendship and the incredible pain — they both make me me.  And my friends love me for me.  I do, too.  I guess I just needed reminded about how invaluable my friendship is.  I’m not disposable.  I’m invaluable.  Not to be mistaken with unvaluable.


All the love in the world,

Your (Former) Best Friend