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

The First Breath

In my observation, I now understand what it felt like to take that first breath 32 years ago.

Each mother that gives birth waits for that moment.  They wait for their newborn baby to cry.  To inhale.  To let out that first exhale.

It’s a sign of life.  It means things will be okay.  It will be a long road ahead of them, but there was a breath.  An inhale.  A tear (or a few)

It means a beginning.  While we’ll never know what it was like to have the whole room stop and wait for that big cry, any mother that’s given birth, and any father that’s been nearby, can surely relate to the anxiety that comes with awaiting that first breath.  For me, after the recent events in my life, after the ups and downs and turbulent conversations — after trusting that the people with whom I’ve entrusted my life, my emotions and my soul — have proven not up for the task, at least I can say that I truly know how to breathe.

I’ve spent the last week and a few days running through my mind.  I’ve run marathons.  I stopped breathing.  I stopped waking up.  I stopped living.  It’s okay.  It’s something that I’ve done for 32 years.  But this time was different.  This time I gave all of myself to my friends.  I have nothing left to give.  I try to set my expectations at a reasonable level.  In saying that, I think 50/50 is ridiculous.  It isn’t something that is attainable in real life.  And, although I live in the world of emotional sensitivity, I’m still a realist.  It’s not negative, and it’s not to be mistaken as such.  It’s simply the way it is.  So, in an attempt to be realistic with expecting a certain amount of reciprocity (my favorite word), I alter the scale by which I weigh my expectations.  I think 70/30 is reasonable.  And its by this ratio that I guide my expectations.

Having said that, I recently met my grave.  I entered into a darkness, that which I have not felt in a long time.  I was lost.  It was cold, and dark, and lonely.  I sought the people that I value most to give me a guiding light.  What became of this situation was honestly nothing I ever expected.

I refuse to call it “tough love”.  For clarity, at this age and in a group of friends, I don’t believe in tough love.  At this age and with my friends, I just believe in love.  I believe in being there for the people that need me, even when they don’t realize that’s the case.  In the end, the appreciation far exceeds any prior frustrations relative to the issue.

This was different.  Now that I have taken my first breath and cried, now that I have stepped away, now that I have given myself the forgiveness of knowing that it doesn’t always have to be my fault, that I am an amazing friend, that I am worth my weight in salt — now that I am breathing, I realize that my first breath brought me into a place of mourning, as well.

Although it’s in my nature to apologize, to hide from conflict, to run from confrontation — although it’s in my nature to fix what’s broken, regardless of fault — it was with this first breath that I have been afforded the new light by which to guide my principles.  And it is with this new light that I understand, as hard as it may be for me, that my enormous heart is well suited for the people that will let me in and let me love them.  While I don’t ask to be met halfway, I ask to be met — somewhere.  It may seem like I put a lot of effort into my friendships, but that’s not necessarily the case.  I put a lot of love into my friendships.  The work is the easy part.  The love comes with trials and tribulations that I’m not always willing or able to absorb at the time.

This time, my learning didn’t take a decade.  It didn’t even take a week.  It maybe took a day or two.

After the dust has cleared and the tears have dried, you’re there or you’re not.  I will guide you to my heart when I need you.  I never expect anyone to just “know”.  But when I’ve given you the keys and the map, do me a favor, and be my friend.  For the 364 days a year that I will stand by you no matter what, do me a favor, and pencil me in one the one day that I need you.  I’ll write you directions if you’ll just show up.

After all, watching someone take their first breath is an amazing miracle.  Why wouldn’t you want to be there to experience it?




In my observation, tomorrow always brings a new day.

And I promise, tomorrow, I will do my best to be better tomorrow.  Of all of the friendships (and enemyships) that I have made, I have taken a taste of each of them, and I promise tomorrow, that I will do my very best to be better tomorrow.

Can you say the same?

Maybe you can; maybe you can’t.

Recently, I’ve found a little bit of a voice.  I hear that I’ve found much more of a voice than I thought I had.  Those that love me, love me for the words that I am finally able to speak.  There have been so many times when I was silent — because I had to be.  I was silent because I didn’t know how to make words into a coherent, adult conversation.  And if you know me, you know that I still don’t.  But those that love me love me for the effort that I put in while I try to learn.

Just as we learn to walk and learn to speak as young children, we learn to walk our paths and speak our minds as adults.  For me, I’m not sure if I’ve been slower at the process, or just different;  I haven’t yet decided.  One thing of which I AM absolutely certain is that the people in my life, each and every one of them, has made me me.  I love them for it, even when I’m angrier than I knew I could be.

I hate anger.  I hate animosity.  I hate confrontation.  But in the end, I love what these things have brought to me.  I have a renewed understanding of what friendship and love really are.  I have an enormous respect for those that put up with me, and I promise that tomorrow, I will try harder to be a better me.

I promise to take what you’ve said to heart.  I promise to put your feedback into the person that I am today, and I promise to wake up trying to be better tomorrow.

Friendship is a funny word.  For some, it can mean the same as love: an indefinite appreciation of the person with whom the word or activities are shared.  For others, it’s a very finite line; doing something great and being in an amazing place makes you a great friend, otherwise, you’re only worthy of being walked away from.

Friends, to me, are family.  They’re there for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer.  They’re intimately connected to me, and they can never do anything wrong.  As humans, they do questionable things at times, as do I.  It’s not only okay; it’s perfect.  The imperfection of humanity is what makes each of us perfect in our own ways.  The beauty of being human is being able to fuck up, and the beauty of true friendship is being able to know that your people will always be there for you when it’s over — much more definitively, knowing they’ll be there when you’re going through shit.

I’ve been in an interesting ‘today’ for a little while.  When I needed someone to be there, I had a lot of Favorite People step up and make sure they had me.  There have been others that bowed out, letting me know they had to wait for the storm to pass before they would be willing to come back.

I can’t imagine walking away when someone needed me.  For me, it’s amazing if you’re doing amazing today, but many of us are not.  So many of us are working toward being better tomorrow, myself included.

Not too long ago, when I thought about who loved me, I thought about the people that loved me yesterday.  Now, when I think about people that love me, I think about the people that loved me yesterday, but they also love me today and tomorrow.

In this thing that is called “life”, I think it’s unfair to think that anyone could do it alone.  I think there is something so sexy about friends that are willing to set themselves aside and be who they’re supposed to be for the people that love them.  Sometimes, it should be a friend, sometimes it may be a lover, and sometimes, it may be a smile in passing at the grocery store.

Tomorrow, I promise to try to be a better person, friend, and lover than I was today and yesterday.  But if you haven’t afforded me to struggle today, I am not sure what tomorrow can bring.

The Unattainable


In my observation, this is a great debate for Nature versus Nurture.

After all, when do you think that children in the grocery store were taught to throw temper tantrums at the check-out line?  The overwhelming answer would be never.  You see, as soon as the check-out line becomes unattainable, whether it’s pronounced with words or caused by some form of body language that readily dictates intent to all parties involved, it becomes a sexy object of desire — a challenge.

So what is it about being told ‘no’ that makes humans, at all ages, spend infinite amounts of energy plotting ways to overcome a challenge that is intended to be anything but?

As babies, we spend unquantifiable amounts of time plotting ways to push the boundaries and figure out just how far we can push the lines.  As children, we throw tantrums when we can’t get our way.  As teenagers, being told we can’t do something immediately means plotting, sneaking around, and getting creative.  And as adults, The Unattainable is often a phrase rooted in relation to the opposite sex.

It seems that for many of us, chasing The Unattainable is much more a lifelong pursuit than that of happiness.  And only the latter was promised to by our forefathers.

When did the pursuit of happiness become convoluted in a muddled, emotional, and unattainable mess?  Was it always this way?  Think about presidents in the old days and their plantation lovers.  Socially unacceptable and forbidden bodies thrust together, some by choice, some by chance.  Think about all of the women who marry convicts that are behind bars for life.  These are often people that have never met — never spent a night together — and never will.  These are men that are proven to be bad people, and overall degenerates to society.  And yet?  Women flock to prisons to meet their mates.

There seems to be an innate drive to seek that which we cannot have.  While I’ll opt away from the animalistic hunter instinct idea, the thought certainly did cross my mind that, throughout evolution, we were hunters.  And perhaps there is a part of our makeup that still needs to find and meet the challenge of hunting a type of prey.

For clarity, The Unattainable come in many forms.  If physical attraction isn’t met by both parties — if the fire and sexual passion that makes living without each other an impossibility — someone is Unattainable.  Maybe they’re overweight; maybe that have a face that only a mother could love.    If relationships are in place, either with significant others or children or family or friends inhibit the sultry burning that should exist between two people, the Unattainable has surfaced.  Sometimes our own demons step in and refuse to allow us to be free.  They are members of The Unattainable.  If friendship trumps the opportunity for greater possibilities, The Unattainable has entered.

Recently, Self and I have had a lot of discussions.  Enough to make one of us crazy, and I’m not sure which one of us is going to come out of this alive.  The day I turned thirty two, I promised that this would be a year of honesty, both with myself as well as others around me, particularly those that I love.  While I’ve never been a liar, I’m quickly learning that experiencing unbridled honesty is much more dramatic than simply “not lying”.

It seems, as luck would have it, that The Unattainable are forcing me to learn more about me in thirty two than I have in the three plus decades prior.  My heart was tender before, and it was often worn on my sleeve.  It wasn’t until I looked in the mirror, and decided that my vulnerability is sexy, that I began to experience the raw honesty that I promised to seek out this year.  It’s not only part of me; it is me.

We all have demons.  Some of us struggle with our own.  And some of us are forced to face the demons of others.  Most of us are stretched across the spectrum.  We must deal with our own insecurities and vulnerabilities; the things we’ve done that we’re not proud of; the things that would feel better if we just got them out, but they’re meant to be left unsaid.  And in our roles in other peoples’ lives, as parents, friends, children, or siblings, we shoulder others’ demons as well.

A combination of confidence and insecurity.. a combination of ego and introspection… A combination of untouched and still inside of me… a combination of being a lover and being unlovable… Unattainable.

Isn’t it funny that one person’s Unattainable simultaneously seeks their own Unattainable?  The naked vulnerability runs on parallel tracks, sometimes even meeting at the station at the same time, and just as quickly as they arrived, The Unattainable pull out, and go about their own directions in life.  Until concessions are made, and the path on which the tracks run is diverted, via work and will, the tracks of The Unattainable may never become one.


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