Single Infertile Female: Now What?

It Turns Out; I’m a Blond (And Other Fun Fertility News)

2012-02-27T19:15:00.002-09:00

So earlier today, when I set up an auto post to announce my participation in the 2012 Fertility Focus Telesummit? Um, yeah, I might have given you all the wrong link. Completely. Because I’m special like that.

This is the correct link. And I would still really love for you to join in on this free event. There are a few different presentations I’m looking forward to listening in on, and I am pretty confident that there is probably something of interest for everyone who has ever dealt with infertility. So check it out! Using the correct link that I have now decided to provide for you of course! Get signed up and pick out the speakers you’re most interested in listening to. It’s all free… so you really can’t lose!

Now, on to even more exciting news! I just received an e-mail this afternoon about some amazing women in Anchorage setting up a RESOLVE group! For those of you dealing with infertility in Alaska, you know that there is nothing like this up here. When I was really at the peak of my heartbreak, I would have given just about anything for a group like this. As it is, I still can’t wait to go for the first meeting and meet some women here in my town facing this struggle. If you are anywhere near Anchorage, the details are that the meeting will be taking place on the 4th Saturday of every month from 3-4pm on the 7th floor of AK Regional in the Physician’s Conference Room. I am assuming that the first meeting will be on March 24th, but I haven’t been involved in setting this up (although I can’t wait to thank the amazing women who were!) so I can’t give you any more information at this time, but there is an e-mail address to contact (anchorageresolve@gmail.com) if you have any questions. And I will share further information here as I get it.

If you’re planning on going to that first meeting, I would love to hear from you so I know to look for you there! Feel free to e-mail me at singleinfertilefemale@yahoo.com if you would like to meet up at that time!

This really is a big deal for Alaska, and I am beyond excited to see a group starting up here. There are so many women in this state dealing with infertility and all the additional challenges of not having any RE’s nearby, and we need all the extra support we can get.

I can’t wait to meet some of you there!

Fertility Focus Telesummit 2012

2012-02-27T11:39:00.003-09:00

I have some exciting news to share! A few weeks ago, I was asked to be one of three infertility bloggers to take part in the Fertility Focus Telesummit 2012. This is an amazing “virtual event” that you can actually listen in on for free. Last year, there were over 4000 people from around the world tuning in to what all the speakers had to share!

Beginning March 12th, there will be a week’s worth of speakers with varied medical backgrounds (both Eastern and Western) talking about infertility. Hitting on some of the advancements that have been made and options that are available to women and couples struggling to conceive today.

I gave my interview for the telesummit this weekend, and I’m excited about how it came out. But I’m even more excited to see what some of the fertility experts from around the world have to share once the Telesummit kicks off. There are some amazing speakers from all different disciplines lined up to give their thoughts on treating infertility, as well as those two other bloggers I mentioned who will also be sharing their personal stories – the women behind Too Many Fish To Fry and Hannah Wept, Sarah Laughed.

I really think it’s going to be a great event, and I am honored to have been asked to be a part of it. The site is live as of today, so check it out and get registered to attend. Just click here to read all about the Fertility Focus Telesummit 2012, including details on all of the expert presentations, each covering a different aspect of infertility and all offering great advice, ideas and solutions to help you move further towards becoming a parent.

Remember that it’s all starting on March 12th, so get yourself registered now to ensure you have a spot for all the presentations you are most interested in listening in on. Just visit this link, and sign up now.

I can't wait to "see" you all there!

Half Way There

2012-02-26T15:31:00.003-09:00

As of today, I am able to cross off the 6th week milestone on my 12 week plan to finish a book.

Which (for those of you who aren’t so great with the math may not realize) means that I am officially half way there to having a completed first draft.

I wish I could say that completing the first draft was all that was involved in the process and that I would have a published book by May, but of course – we all know that isn’t the case. There will be a few months of editing after the fact (turns out I have issues with fragmented sentences and the occasional grammatical error – who knew?!?) and then a long road to travel in terms of trying to actually get it in print. None of this will be especially quick or easy, but I am still excited. And extremely passionate about what I’m putting together. I want more than anything to eventually see it bound and printed and sitting on bookshelves all around the world, but until that day… I need to decide on the best method for going about making that happen.

Two months ago, I can honestly say that I really thought there was only one way to publish a book. Through blood, sweat, and tears you would query agent after agent until finally (sometimes years down the line) you would convince one that your book was good enough to approach big publishers with. I have to admit that the idea of traveling that road is one of the things that has held me back from taking this leap for so long. I am terrified of a long, drawn-out process where I face so much rejection that eventually, I may just give up. I don’t handle failure so well… we’ve covered that already, correct?

I’ve been doing a lot of reading though, and have been blessed to get some advice and information from some who have been down this road themselves. It is opening my eyes up to a whole other world of possibilities, and while I am still trying to decide what the best route for me to take in getting published will be – I am starting to believe more and more that the agent and big publisher’s destination may not be the right road for me.

You see, I would love to write for a living. More than anything, I would love to make this my career. I don’t need to ever get rich off of it, but if I could pay my bills and put food on my table through writing – I would happily live out my life with my laptop pumping out book after book after book.

But this first book? I don’t need it to be a best seller. I don’t even need it to be the one that makes writing a career for me. I just need it to be the piece that shows me I can do this. I need it to be the book I can put on my shelf and look at with pride as I move forward on all the other projects I have in mind. I need to know that there are people in this world who have spent money on it and loved it, but I don’t need it to be world renowned or the piece bound to make me famous.

I just need to be able to say I’ve written a book, and that it’s meant something to someone else (anyone else). I need it to hopefully be my foot in the door, giving me the confidence to start pursuing some of these other ideas banging around in my head.

Years and years of rejection and fighting an uphill battle for this first book just doesn’t really appeal as much to me now that I know there are other options.

I think I have a plan in mind for how I’m going to go about this once I have a finished product, but I would love to know if any of you have any firsthand experience in this world as well. Agents or publishers you would recommend querying, or tips on self publishing. Or if you have any friends or family members who have managed to get books on the shelves themselves, what have you learned from them? What tips and advice do you have for a first time author? And what path would you take if you had something you yourself wanted to get published?

I can honestly say that 2 months ago, I would have scoffed at the idea of self publishing. It seemed like the path people would take who didn’t have something good enough to get published professionally. I’m still not entirely sold on it, and I don’t like the idea of needing to make an upfront investment myself, but… the options have me thinking.

And now, I want to know what you think. What you know. What you have experienced or seen for yourself.

There is a conversation over on the community that I would love for you to participate in if you have any thoughts or ideas. Please hop on over to join in on the discussion, even if it’s just to throw in your two cents on what you think I should do once I have a finished product in hand.

But in the meantime… I am half way there.

And knowing I am going to have a completed first draft by my 29th birthday, is a pretty incredible feeling indeed!

Getting it in print by 30, would just be the icing on the cake.

3500 Miles Too Far

2012-02-22T20:04:00.002-09:00

There are a lot of things I love about living in Alaska.

The midnight sun in the summer time.

The hiking.

The moose.

The men with beards.

Even the snow.

I love Alaska.

And the truth of the matter is, there are only a very few things about living in this state that I don’t love.

Number one on that list being that it is 3500 miles too far from the people I care about most in this world.

My dad has been getting sick a lot in the last few months. He kept calling it the stomach flu, and I kept telling him that it wasn’t normal at all to get the stomach flu that often. That he needed to see a doctor, and get some tests done, because… something was wrong.

I may have even joked a few times that his new wife was probably poisoning him. I mean, let’s get real – mysterious stomach issues cropping up so soon after my goofy looking old man marries a gorgeous woman? I love her, but as I explained to him… we would have to remain open to all the possibilities. I told him he really should get into the doctor soon, if only to be tested for arsenic.

What can I say? I have mommy issues.

The problem is, my dad is stubborn. In case you ever wondered where I get that lovely trait from – it was him. And that man will avoid going to the doctor at all costs, always convinced that he’s fine. Even when he’s not. Even when he’s not at all.

I got a phone call yesterday morning from my dad. My dad who was in the hospital, and preparing for emergency surgery after waking up that morning in excruciating pain.

They found out pretty quickly that it was his gallbladder, and knowing that – there was no reason to be overly concerned. But for a split second there, I was in panic mode. Thinking that it would take me at least 10 hours of flying to be there, and that would only be once I actually managed to get on a plane. Who knew how long finding a flight would take.

As soon as I knew he was OK, I calmed myself down. Went about my day, and didn’t think about it too much more after that besides calling to check in on him a few hundred times once he was out of surgery.

But last night – I had a panic attack that rivaled anything I have experienced in a long time.

All of a sudden, all I could think about was what I would do if something really happened to my dad. If something really went wrong, and I was so many hours away. As it is, something happening to my dad is probably one of my biggest fears. But knowing the distance is there as well – it hurts my heart to think about.

When I was still living in San Diego, I had a friend from up here visiting me when her mom got incredibly sick and landed in the hospital. When she first got the call, they weren’t sure her mom would still be alive by the time she got home. We rushed to get her on a plane as soon as possible, and I wound up leaving the very next day for Alaska (two weeks ahead of originally scheduled). All I remember thinking was how awful it was going to be if her mom didn’t make it. How much I wanted to be there for my friend if the worst case scenario happened.

Her mom did end up pulling through, but it was close there for a while. And even then, all I could think was that I never wanted to get a phone call like that.

I still don’t ever want to get a phone call like that.

It was just his gallbladder. We were joking back and forth by the afternoon, and my stepmom is already asking for a public apology for all the times I’ve suggested in the last few months that she was slipping poison into his food. I told her that I’m all public apologied out as of late – but she knows I love her. And I never really believed she would poison him. (no, not me, I would never ever think something like that)

He is fine, and already on the mend. In the grand scheme of things, this really was no big deal.

But there I was last night, having a complete and total melt down over all the darker possibilities I never actually want to have to contemplate. It was not a normal reaction at all, but in my defense… I am 3500 miles too far away if something worse ever does actually happen.

I called the devirginator this afternoon, and made him repeat a promise to me that I’ve forced him to make 100 times before. If anything major ever happens at home – he’ll be there to hold me together by the time I get off the plane. Because if there ever is something really traumatic to face, I’m pretty sure he is the only one who could.

He promised, but still… I found myself looking at homes in Oregon all the same.

I love Alaska. I really don’t think I’ll be leaving anytime soon.

But sometimes…

It just seems like 3500 miles too far.

It's Personal

2012-02-20T19:02:00.014-09:00

That was the title of a post I wrote over a year ago now. I was looking through some of my blog archives this weekend, and I happened upon it just by chance. I couldn’t help but find the irony in this excerpt though:

There is never a “right” answer in the eyes of everyone else. If you adopt, someone wants to know why you didn’t utilize fertility treatments. If you do utilize fertility treatments, someone wants to know why you didn’t adopt. If you adopt internationally, there are questions as to why you didn’t adopt domestically. If you do adopt domestically, someone will undoubtedly ask why you didn’t choose to adopt an older child. Or one within your race. Or even a child with disabilities.

Everyone has an opinion. An expectation for you to make the same choices they would if they were in your shoes.

Even though they’ve never actually been in your shoes.

And for some reason, it seems that so many of us within the infertility community feel the need to answer. To defend our decisions. To explain ourselves, when in reality; no explanation should be necessary.

Because it’s personal. This entire thing is personal. And it shouldn’t become our responsibility to make sure everyone else understands that.

At the time, I was writing about the opinions of outsiders. The fact that everyone in your life will have thoughts about the choices you choose to make in this journey. And some of them (more than others) will even believe they know what you should be doing instead of whatever it is you're actually doing. They will judge based on their own personal experiences, and you will in turn immediately jump into defense mode. Because you have thought this out, and you do know what you are doing. The choices you have made are your own, and you will defend them with everything you have got in you.

Here’s the ironic part – I wrote that post talking about outsiders, without at the time realizing how quickly that same judgment could come from right within our own ranks.

Two week's ago, I wrote a post about why I do not ever see myself pursuing IVF again. I wrote it from the heart, and every single word detailed some of the very real issues surrounding my decisions. I said more than once that I was giving only my own version of the truth, as it pertained to my life and my experiences. I went out of my way to make it clear that I held no judgment for anyone making different choices. I repeated over and over again the fact that I was talking about me, at the place I am in my life now, based on the things I personally had seen, experienced, and learned.

Initially, the only response I got to that post was positive. On both Facebook and Twitter, the reactions were almost nothing but complete support. And within 48 hours, my e-mail inbox was flooded with women thanking me for putting words to their own thoughts and feelings. Every single one mentioned that they too were now at the point I am, after their own rocky foray into fertility treatments. After their own heartbreak. After realizing they had reached their own line.

These weren’t short e-mails. They were pages upon pages of women detailing their own stories to me. Explaining how they too had reached a point of saying “enough”. Describing their own personal journeys of reevaluation, and eventually – determining that any further treatments would be going too far. For them. For their lives. Based on what they personally had seen, experienced, and learned.

I was touched. Unbelievably touched. I had written that post with so much fear that I was the only one who felt this way. So much apprehension that I would be viewed as a quitter for recognizing the fact that I had come up against my own line. These women, in reaching out, were giving me a gift I don’t think they realized. They were letting me know that I wasn’t alone. And that just because I had reached this point didn’t mean that anyone believed I wanted a baby any less. It just meant that I had come to recognize that going any further with no guarantees at all wasn’t right for me. And that was OK. Because eventually… we will all either take home a baby, or reach the point of needing to back away ourselves. We all have a line. A point past which would be going too far for us. And while half of us will get our baby in the end, the other half will hit that line. I realized in receiving these e-mails how important it was to acknowledge that group of women too. The ones who don’t get the happy ending we all go into this hoping and praying for. The one's whose stories for some reason are so very rarely ever heard.

It was almost a week later before I realized there had been any negative reaction at all to my post. Call me naïve, but I really believed that my words had been read as I intended them to be – as reflections of the place I am in my life and infertility journey, and nothing more. But then I happened upon a post of a blogger I read regularly who only mentioned in passing what I had written. She didn’t go into details, and didn’t give her opinion one way or another on it. She just mentioned it. And when I scrolled down to the comments on her post, I damn near threw up.

It was the first time I realized that there were some who had greatly misread my words. Some who had walked away from reading it with hurt feelings and even anger that they were still holding on to… now a week later.

I worried on that all night long. Sick to my stomach over anyone reading judgment into my words that simply wasn’t there. I read and re-read my post, looking for where I had gone wrong. Wondering how I could explain to those I had hurt that my intention had never in a million years been to judge. That I had simply been trying my best to explain where I am now, and why.

The next day I sent an e-mail to a friend letting her know what I had seen and asking for her honest opinion about what I had written. We had spoken in the days since my original post, and everything had seemed perfectly fine. She had not once brought up the post in our conversations, and I had not once thought to bring the subject up myself. Until now.

Her response had me in tears before I even made it half way through her e-mail. Because for the first time, she was telling me that she too had been hurt by my words. That she too had read judgment in what I said that I had never intended to put across. She explained that our friendship was still solid, and that she still loved me and knew me well enough to know where my heart had been when I had written the post in the first place, which was why she hadn’t broached the subject with me herself. But since I was asking her about it now, it was fair for me to know that I had hurt her too with my words. Intentionally or unintentionally, I had hurt her.

It should be noted that my friendship with Lindsey is fine. It has always been fine. There was never a point in any of this when we weren't talking to each other. She did wait a few days to let me know that I had hurt her, and I did (and still do) feel absolutely terrible for having done so, but... you did not witness the public fall-out of two real life bloggy friends last week. If things had been anywhere near that dire, I can pretty much guarantee you that neither of us would have brought it into the public arena for commentary. We both had some things we needed to say, but we also both feel pretty strongly that blogs are an amazing place to be able to express yourself on some of these touchier subjects. We have talked about this topic ad nauseum between us though, and... we are good. I will still be at her baby shower with bells on later this week, and I will still be the most doting auntie you have ever met when her little one makes his way into this world. I love that girl with all my heart, and am thankful every single day to have a friend like her in my life.

But after she and I talked the whole thing through, I found more and more posts coming up across the web referencing what I had written. I’ve seen at least 5 of them now, and in each one it has been the comments that have followed which have torn me up the most. The posts themselves were all fair depictions of the bloggers own personal point in this journey, and I haven't read one that has left me feeling slighted or hurt. But the comments... the comments are a different story entirely.

I am someone who has a guilty conscience like you wouldn't believe. I will rat myself out when I've done something wrong long before I ever actually get caught for it. My dad will be the first to tell you that often I error on the side of being too honest, out of fear of ever being perceived as anything but. And when I hurt someone - I mourn that more than I ever mourn being hurt myself. This dates back to childhood for me. I was always the kid who only ever needed a stern look before I would be bursting into tears and promising to never do whatever it was I had just done again. I like to think that as an adult, I am pretty good at recognizing when I truly mess up and doing whatever I need to do in order to fix it. Apologies are important to me.

So I do genuinely apologize to those I hurt. With all my heart. I never intended to make anyone feel as though I believed the words I was saying as they pertain to me should in turn pertain to everyone else as well. Which is why I repeatedly mentioned that I was talking about myself. In the place in life I am now. But the simple fact that there were so many currently in the trenches (or holding their babies after battle) who read my words as a judgment against them and their choices makes it obvious to me that perhaps I didn't make that point as clear as I should have. And for that, I don't know if I can ever apologize enough.

Still... I can't help but feel that for some, it wouldn't have mattered how many more times I said I was only talking about myself - they still would have read my words as a judgment. They still would have taken it as a reason for indignation.

And I have got to say right here and now: that is not on me.

I have to wonder how different the reaction would have been if I had said everything else I said in that post, word for word, but had ended it instead by saying that for me, for the place I am now, IVF felt like it was going too far; but that I didn't care and I was going to ignore that feeling in my gut and push forward anyway. What if I had said all that I did, but then finished it by saying that I was willing to do whatever it took to get my baby and I was going to start trying again this year? Would the reaction have been different then? Because I've got to admit, I think it would have been. I think those now questioning my character online and me as a person would instead be throwing me all the support they had. Rooting me on and wishing me luck as I stepped back into the ring. And I have to say that in thinking that, I am realizing the flaw is not in what I said, but rather in how some chose to take it as a judgment against them when it was nothing of the sort.

And that is not on me.

I have seen a lot of the comments out there angry about my mention of progesterone. In reading them I’ve been confused, because I didn’t remember making progesterone a big part of my piece at all. So I went back to my post, and I re-read it. I then did a word search, just to make sure my suspicions were accurate. And sure enough, the word “progesterone” came up one time. Out of the 2400+ words in that post, progesterone was mentioned once. Yet the inclusion of that word seemed to incite a firestorm about my spreading inaccurate information. I only even mentioned progesterone by name (rather than referring to all of the drugs as a whole) because it was in finding a warning inside the box of progesterone injections during my second cycle that I first began to question what these drugs could do not only to me, but also to my baby. That was the first time I found myself questioning how far I personally was willing to go.

The irony is, that when I first discovered that insert I actually wrote an entire post about progesterone. An entire post about nothing else besides this drug, the warning I had found, and how terrified I was about what that warning meant. I actually titled the post “How Is This OK?”, and printed the terrifying warning word for word before expanding on my own fears and the questions I had about whether or not this was all taking too many risks. But in the end, I acknowledged that I was still willing to take those risks. No matter how much they terrified me, I was still willing to move forward. That post was far more strongly worded in terms of Progesterone use, and was centered entirely around that drug and nothing else. Do you know what the overwhelming response to that post was then? Complete and total support. Not a single person chastised me for vocalizing those fears or putting that warning and those words out there into the internet ether. Not one. All I received was encouragement and acknowledgment from so many others that they too had experienced these same fears, but that we all had to do whatever was necessary in order to get our babies. Now that I mention that drug one time though, as being a tiny piece of the extremely large puzzle in my decision that is nothing if not complicated; I have suddenly committed an egregious act.

The funny thing is that if I were to get pregnant naturally and the doctors determined I wasn’t producing enough progesterone to sustain the pregnancy, in a heartbeat I would be giving myself those shots in the ass again. Without even thinking twice. In no way, shape, or form is the warning inside a box of progesterone the defining point of my decision not to pursue IVF again or the sole reason I have feared that this was going too far for me. It just so happened to be the first time I really found myself questioning what I was doing and why, which is the only reason it warranted any mention in that post at all. Why was it OK though, for me to express those fears and thoughts and concerns then, but not now? Was it because then I was able to say "These are the risks and they scare the hell out of me but I'm pushing forward anyway" and now I'm saying "These are the risks and they scare the hell out of me and I've decided they just aren't worth it for me anymore"? Is it acceptable for me to express these fears as long as I am still willing to trudge forward and accept the risks, but not when I'm not? Is that really the kind of community we've built?

I've been thinking also about the posts I have written in the past about adoption. The times when I have expressed my many fears surrounding that, and the reasons why I personally chose to pursue fertility treatments first and think about adoption later. In each of those posts, I expressed very real possibilities and fears. Things that happen every single day, and that really do make me uneasy about adoption and my very likely future in pursuing that path. Never once has anyone chastised me for sharing those fears though. Never once has anyone in this community read judgment in my words then. In fact, more than once in regards to those posts I have received “thank you’s” from women who said they were going to forward my words to friends and family so that there could be a better understanding of the choices they too had made. So I have to ask now, why was it always acceptable for me to express my very real and valid fears surrounding adoption, but it is not acceptable for me to do the same in terms of IVF?

Don't I deserve the same support in saying that this is where I am now as I did when I was willing to go the distance? Haven't I earned that? I read one comment somewhere that questioned whether the reaction to my post would have been different if I had tried and failed 8 times instead of 2. I've actually wondered the same thing. Which honestly hurts my heart. How far should I have had to push myself (physically, mentally, and financially) before being granted the right to acknowledge the reasons I can push no more?

Because let's not forget that I have actually done this 4 times now. Twice for myself, and twice when I donated my eggs to other infertile couples. I have seen what these drugs do to me and my body 4 times. I actually had no issues with endometriosis at all before I donated my eggs, and my problems started (and drastically escalated) within a year of my last donation. Do I believe that these drugs caused endometriosis for me? No, I don't. I believe that it was likely always an underlying condition that would have become an issue at some point or another no matter what. But I do think these drugs exacerbated the condition for me and contributed to my case being as aggressive as it was. I even believe that the drugs involved caused the endometriosis to flare so badly for me during my cycles that my body almost became too toxic for a baby to be able to thrive. Think about it: all that inflamed and diseased tissue inside my body, where those embryos of mine were then expected to be introduced and choose to stick around? I honestly don't even think it was possible with the way the drugs affected me personally. They caused such massive flare ups that I don't believe those embryos ever had a chance. Not in my body anyway. Because with each cycle, I found myself far worse off in terms of endometriosis than I had been just a few weeks prior to starting the drugs. I had surgery, went on Lupron, and then went straight into IVF and still... those drugs had me miserable within weeks. I truly do not believe I could ever get pregnant with endo flaring that badly inside of me.

I am not naive or stupid when it comes to what is involved in this process though. I am not some fear monger who has not done her own research. I am someone who has been there, in the trenches, 4 different times. Obviously the emotional toll was far greater for me during my own 2 cycles, but still... I have been in this world for 4 years now if you count those donations. And in creating this blog, I have become exposed to even more information than I ever would have had access to otherwise. I have consulted with top doctors all over the world, some who have actually contacted me personally with various questions about patient experiences or to ask me to write content for their websites. I have also been contacted by women who have been taken to the brink by infertility, as well as women who have found their happy endings specifically because of the treatments available. I am not ignorant to the possibilities available or the heartbreak that can await some. I am not some outsider who simply doesn't get it. I have been there, in the middle of it, and I have seen exactly how these drugs affect my body. I have seen women go through outcomes in all of this that I know personally I could never handle. I have watched as some within our community have had their marriages and lives ripped apart by the drive to create a baby, only to still come up empty handed in the end. And I have witnessed the miracle as the lucky few have actually made it to the other side with their baby in their arms. I have seen it all, done my research, and come to the conclusions that are right for me. That does not for one second mean that I believe everyone else should in turn come to my same conclusions. That does not mean I am judging those who don't, or am waiting for a chance to convert them to my way of thinking. Because I'm not. I still get 3-5 e-mails a week from women in varying stages of this journey, and I still do my best to help each and every one of them in terms of the decisions they have made for themselves. Never once have I tried to talk anyone out of pursuing the path they have picked. And more often than not, I am there pointing them in the direction of doctors, clinics, and research I have learned about that can help them with the path they have chosen. So in all that support I have given to everyone else, and all the celebrating I have done for those who have found their happy ending; when am I allowed to be honest about where I personally am in this journey now and why?

I don't believe my truth is everyone's truth, but I do believe I have earned a right to feel the way I feel. And even more - I have earned a right to feel that way, and to be open and honest about it here.

Because at some point in this journey, we will all face a fork in the road. Either we will walk away with our baby and it all will have been worth the sacrifice and struggle, or we will hit our wall and have to decide it is no longer worth it to keep pushing forward in fertility treatments. At which point, we will face another fork of adoption or living child free; an entirely different set of painful and difficult choices that are completely individualized to one's own experiences and truth. But one way or another in terms of treatments, we all quit eventually. Either with or without a baby. And at least in terms of the statistics, it would seem that more end up having to come to terms with the fact that IVF is no longer worth the toll for them, then those that end up with the happy ending. We can't keep trying forever though. There is a line for all of us when eventually, we have to stop. And those on the other side of that line deserve to have a voice as well. They deserve to have the same support and understanding that those still trying and those with the happy ending deserve. Because by a simple twist of fate, any one of us could have found ourselves sitting on the other side. And that deserves to be acknowledged.

Just because you are stepping away does not mean the hurt suddenly heals. It does not mean your body has suddenly stopped disappointing you or your womb has stopped aching to be filled. It does not mean you no longer need any support as you venture on to whatever comes next.

I read one comment mentioning that the main flaw in my original post was that I explained too much. I can acknowledge that as a possibility. I mean, look at what I have done just here, in this post. When I have something to say – there is no holding me back. I keep going until I feel like I have exposed every raw feeling I have on the subject, because writing is my therapy and that is exactly what I use it for. I literally wrote an entire novel about my ex boyfriend and the hurt he put me through. So no one should be overly surprised that I would go too far in attempting to explain how my thoughts and feelings about IVF have changed.

But this one time, I actually had a reason for going too far. I have been saying for the last 6 months that I did not see myself ever pursuing IVF again. In varying degrees and to varying levels, I have been saying that I am done. Both in real life, and here. Yet I have continually heard even still from the people who love me the most that they cannot wait for me to try again. As if they can't hear me, or think I'm incapable of making this decision. As if they think they know what is best for me. So I truly felt that the only way to make it clear that this is the decision I have come to and that it is right for me, was to outline the reasons behind that decision. To be honest about what has led me there. Not because I think those details and fears and risks should then also influence everyone else in their own decision, but because... I need there to be an understanding that these are the conclusions I have come to and they are the right conclusions for me. I have been there. I have traveled this road. I have injected my body with these drugs now 4 different times. I have given completely of myself to women who couldn't have conceived without my help. I have seen firsthand how these drugs affect me and my body personally. I have seen the worst case scenarios play out more times than I can count within this community. And I have watched helplessly as my fertility has been stripped away from me in a relatively short period of time. I have come to the conclusion that the less than a coin toss odds that I will be able to bring a baby home in the end are not worth the risks. Again, ALL of the risks - not just those detailed on one handout in a progesterone box. I have come to this decision for me, based on my own personal experiences, knowledge, and understanding of my limits. And I needed there to be understanding, respect, and support for that both in my real life, and in my blog life. Because I can’t keep hearing about how I’ll try again one day from people who can’t possibly understand how sure I am that I won’t. I can’t keep having that waved in front of me as though it’s the Holy Grail. As though I won’t ever really be able to find happiness until I do. Because I am here to tell you that one way or another – I am determined to live a happy life. Even more; I am determined to be a mother. And I don’t need anyone having pity for me or coming to the conclusion that my life is incomplete and will be so until I go down the path of IVF again. Especially when I truly do not believe that is the right answer for me anymore.

Even in saying all that though, I mentioned that I was open to the fact that one day – my mind may be changed. I learned a long time ago to never say never, because life will inevitably have you eating your own words. For me, I know that I am done. But I can’t say for sure how I will feel when Mr. Right comes along. Not because I think he will suddenly be the salve for all my discomfort surrounding IVF, but because I can’t imagine looking into the eyes of someone I love and telling them they can never have this because of me. Because I am broken and refuse to go any further. My hope is that whoever that man is, he will be a man who will be open to filling our home with children by whatever means possible – including adoption. But until I meet him, I can’t be sure that I am absolutely done. I can only say that for me, for where I am now, based on what I have seen, experienced, and learned; I don’t believe I will ever go down that path again.

And I need that to be understood, respected, and supported.

I can honestly say that coming to this conclusion for myself was not an easy one. It took time, healing, distance, and a deep reflection on all that is involved and what it is I really want in the end. Coming to this conclusion for me, has taken a great deal of strength. Just as much (if not more) strength as it took for me to pursue treatments on my own in the first place. Being a mother is the only thing I have ever really wanted. Carrying a child and protecting and providing for them from the start has always been a dream of mine. Long before it was something I ever assumed would be taken away. This is not something that is easy for me to walk away from. It is not something that is easy for me to admit I am done with. But I am making the absolute best decision for myself. Based on what I know, what I have seen, and what I personally have experienced. And I am not the only woman who has reached this point.

In the last week, I have gotten so many e-mails on this topic that it isn't even funny. Initially, I asked a few of the women writing me if I could quote them in a follow up post. I felt it was important to include their voices, and to show how plentiful these women actually are within our community – still silently supporting you, even if you don’t realize it. But in writing this, I realized that I shouldn’t have to use their words to back up my own. In your hearts, you all know they’re out there. What was saddest though, were the varied reactions I received to these requests. Some were eager to be included, sending me even more of their thoughts and granting me permission to link to their blogs. But most, were anxious. Giving me permission, but asking me to leave out any details that might lead others to realize who they were. Or saying they would rather not be included at all. Not because they didn’t want their voices to be heard, or because they didn’t stand behind their own decisions – but because they were afraid of how they may be labeled in this community if others realized they had reached a point of being done.

Does that break anyone else’s heart but mine?

I received an e-mail just this morning that I haven’t even had a chance yet to respond to. She was writing to tell me that she isn’t where I am at, but that she still thought I should know she supported me. And that she understood in reading my post that I had never intended any judgment in my words. That I had simply been speaking from the heart, and sharing my own truth, as it pertained to me. She said she understood that, and then she said:

For all the talk about the ALI community being the most supportive community ever, it's really only true so long as you are in the trenches, with your body, mind, heart and bank account all suffering greatly.

I almost cried in reading those words, not wanting them to be true at all. But fearing that after some of what I have read about myself in this last week… it just might be more true than I care to admit.

I am hurt. Beyond hurt. Still hurt. Because while I never intended any judgment at all to be read in my words, I can promise you that there has been plenty of judgment in some of the comments being made about me across this community. I have never judged you or your choices, and I never would.

But can you say the same in return?

Do we still deserve support when we step off this ride, for our own reasons and based on our own experiences? Or is it best for us to simply slink away? Silently supporting, but keeping our own stories to ourselves out of some perverse desire to grant others respect for their choices that we don’t feel we deserve in return?

Do we really want to be a community that segregates our support? Giving it only to those who are exactly where we are at the exact same time? Revoking that support quickly if someone manages to make it to the next stage, or decides to step back?

I have always argued that when one of us manages to find their happy ending, they still deserve to retain the friendships they created here. And they should still be granted the right to use their blog as a platform for telling their own story. Even if that means occasionally highlighting some of the less than pretty sides of pregnancy and parenthood. They deserve that. They have earned that. And true friends, will stand by them in that.

Shouldn’t the same be said for the women who reach their line, and realize that going any further is no longer worth the risks to them?

Don’t they still deserve to have a voice?

To tell their truth?

And to receive support and friendship in sharing their story?

It’s personal. To each and every one of us, it’s personal. And our reasons for making the decisions we make along this path are complicated. But that doesn't mean we have to jump to argue against those making decisions different from our own, determined they are judging us even when they may not be. There is nothing easy about infertility, no matter what choices you make. There is nothing about any of this that is simple or universally right for anyone. Being a mother shouldn't be this hard. Ever. Period. But there is no reason for us to ever find ourselves in a battle against each other. Because no matter what you decide or what route you take: infertility fucking sucks.

For all of us.

What kind of support do you hope to find when you reach your line, or make it to the other side?

I can tell you that I am not going anywhere. I will continue writing, right here, for me, about my experiences and my life and my decisions. Regardless of whether or not there is anyone left here to read. Regardless of what is being said about me and my truth. And regardless of who is still left to support me in the end. This space is not meant to serve as a map for how you, or anyone else, should be living your lives or handling your infertility. These words here are my own, as they pertain to my life, my experiences, and my truth. I have always been clear about that. They are my therapy, and my reality. I will continue writing. For me, and with the determination to be as true to myself as possible. Always.

I never want to hurt anyone. Anyone who knows me, knows that to be true.

But this is my story.

And it still deserves to be told.

P.S. I know there are a few that have been upset that I didn’t have comments available for this series of posts. Unfortunately, that is not going to change. This is still my space, for my truth, my story, and my reality. I won’t apologize for that. I write for me, and no one else - and going comment free has been one of the most liberating things I have done in blogging thus far. But if there is any strong desire to engage with me personally in regards to this post, or the other two it is in reference to – please remember that those options are still plentiful. Feel free to comment on Facebook, Twitter, or to e-mail me personally. I am also starting a topic specifically in regards to this series of posts over at the community. Feel free to head over there if you have something you would like to say and would like to engage in any discussion that may follow.

On a Lighter Note...

2012-02-17T18:19:00.001-09:00

I've got some more thoughts surrounding some the reactions to my IVF post (real shocker there, right? None of you have ever known me to be wordy.) But I've decided to save them for next week. Because you know what? It's Friday. And I'm still feeling a little emotionally raw. And I think we could all use a lighter subject to focus on just for the moment.

So, it's possible you've already seen this. In fact, several of you have sent it to me over the last few weeks - and several of my real life friends as well. I'm glad I've made my love for K Bell so clear that I was the first person so many thought of when seeing this video! But if you haven't seen it, and if you've ever questioned my very real adoration for Kristen Bell, check this amazingness out:

Hilarious right? Here is why I love this girl so much: She is a complete and total spaz, which in and of itself kind of makes her fantastic in my book. But even better than that - she is able to openly admit what a complete and total spaz she is, while also making fun of herself in the process. Pretty much one of my favorite qualities a person could have.

Besides... it really makes me feel a whole lot better about being such a complete and total spaz myself that night we met now over a year ago.

I'm telling you all right now - one day, Kristen Bell and I will be friends.

And when that day comes, I'm totally buying her a sloth.

Or, you know... a really cool book about sloths.

Wouldn't want to one-up Dax after all.

Kicked Out Of The Club

2012-02-14T19:01:00.010-09:00

I hurt someone I care about. A lot. Without meaning to. Without intending to. Obviously without thinking through my own actions or words at all. I hurt someone I care about. A lot. And I’m guessing she is not the only one.

All I can say now is, I’m sorry. For whatever it’s worth. For however far it can go. For whoever is reading these words now. I am so incredibly sorry. I feel like I have no excuse. No words that can really make it right. I was being true to myself; honest in this space here like I have always promised I would be. But I did it all wrong. I fucked it all up. And I am truly sorry. More sorry than I have probably been for anything in a very long time.

I held back on posting how my views on IVF have changed for months, because I was afraid of being kicked out of the club.

Being viewed as a traitor.

A quitter.

Someone who just didn’t want it enough.

When in reality, none of that is true. Or at least, I’ve never believed it to be?

The funny (or ironic) thing is that a year ago, if someone had even thought to suggest to me that perhaps endometriosis and my failed cycles were my bodies way of telling me that it just wasn’t equipped for this – I would have cut them. I’m not saying that to sound tough. I’m saying that because for real – I would have gotten violent. No lie. The entire thing would have ended in blood and handcuffs and tears. The result would have been much the same when I was first starting out on my IVF journey if someone had suggested to me that perhaps the risks involved didn’t line up with what was driving my desire to carry a child. Blood and handcuffs and tears.

I knew that this was right. I knew that it was what I was supposed to do. And I knew that I would go to the ends of the earth and sacrifice everything I had to get my baby. No matter what. I never would have believed that my feelings about IVF would change so drastically. I never would have believed that I would one day really be giving up. The truth, of course, is so much more complicated than that. I am not giving up. Not by a long shot. I am stepping back, but I am not giving up. There is still that very big part of my heart that hopes that maybe someday I will get my miracle. One way or another though, I know that I will one day be a mother. Still… I believed with everything inside of me that I would risk anything to achieve that dream exactly as I pictured it when I started down the IVF path. I believed I would fight to have that baby of mine growing beneath my heart, no matter what it was going to take to make that happen.

So what does it say about me now that I no longer feel the same?

Does it make me a traitor?

A quitter?

Someone who just didn’t want it enough?

I’ve convinced myself that all it says is that I am now a girl who has had her heart completely crushed into a thousand pieces by infertility. A girl who has been immersed in this world long enough to see others hurt even worse; worse than I ever would have believed possible. A girl who has seen too much, fallen too hard, and learned that all too often – the unthinkable can happen. I am a girl who is no longer blind to the pitfalls of this world. And I just… I can’t imagine ever putting myself through it again. I can’t see the risks as worth it for me anymore.

Over the last 6 months I can honestly say that anytime anyone has ever mentioned my trying again, I have cringed. For so many reasons, but mostly because I really and truly feel like if I was healthy enough and strong enough to sustain a pregnancy and provide for my baby from conception as I wanted so desperately to do – it would have worked. I honestly have reached a point where I do not believe that pushing harder would result in anything other than more heartbreak for me now.

But how do you explain that to people? How do you lay it all out there in a way that helps them to believe you’ve really thought this through?

I realized a while back that I needed to be honest with myself about what I believe to be true, even though it hurts. I have needed to examine my own personal reasons for wanting to pursue IVF, and really acknowledge how those reasons then lined up with the risks involved. All of the risks, extending far beyond failure or even birth defects. Because there are worse things than not being able to obtain your BFP. And I have needed to acknowledge that. But in doing so, I have been terrified of what that means. Afraid of how I could ever share the evolution of my thoughts without also making it seem like I believed everyone reading should in turn feel the same. Which isn’t the reality of the situation at all. Everything I said is true for me, but that does not mean I believe it to be the only truth available. I know that everyone has to come to their own truth, based on their own experiences. And that dear friend of mine who I managed to hurt without ever meaning to? She has a truth of her own. And she has every right to that truth. She has earned that truth.

Again, the funny (or ironic) thing is that I actually believe every single word she wrote. And everything she has verbalized to me personally on this subject. Which is what really makes me think that I missed the mark in trying to articulate my own thoughts and feelings and fears surrounding IVF. Because if those are the messages that were taken away, than something was seriously lost in translation between my head and my heart and my keyboard.

I don't for one second think that infertility makes any of us any less deserving. Not even kind of. And I do think that these medical advances are there for a reason. I absolutely believe that pursuing IVF can work out for the best. I have seen it. But I can't help that voice in my head that believes that maybe my cycles failed for a reason. NOT because I'm not deserving, but because my body just wasn't strong enough. For reasons I may not ever fully understand, I now have a nagging voice in my head that is constantly telling me that even if I could get pregnant – I would not be taking a baby home in the end.

I hit "publish" on that post with such apprehension. After months of searching for the right words to explain what I was feeling, I finally shared it despite the anxiety I had over being true to myself. I was almost immediately shocked by the messages of support I received though. Women telling me that they had felt the same way for so long, but hadn’t known how to verbalize their own changes of heart. Women detailing the awful outcomes of their own cycles, and the events that led to them stepping away from fertility treatments for good as well. Women thanking me for letting them know that they weren’t alone in feeling what they felt. When in reality, they had no idea how much their words meant to me. How I breathed a sigh of relief in knowing that I wasn’t alone either. That just because I no longer saw this as the best option for me, did not mean that I no longer belonged in the club.

But then came the words of those I had hurt. Those I had angered. Those I had turned away completely. I couldn’t help but notice that those forming on either side of the fence resembled each other in experience. And suddenly, I realized how differently my words came across to those in the midst of their happy endings compared to those who have long since stepped away in defeat.

Obviously, when you have a happy healthy baby in front of you (or growing inside of you) who was the result of IVF – the risks were absolutely worth it. Even for those in the midst of trying, there is a strong belief that it is going to work. A belief that powers you through. I understand that, because I had the same belief myself. But the ending isn’t always happy. In fact, according to the statistics – there is only a take home baby 50% of the time. And for that other 50%, there are varying degrees of heartbreak. From simply not being able to conceive at all, to being given everything you wanted only to have it taken away as soon as you let your guard down enough to believe you get to keep it. If you know the outcome was good, of course you can look back and know that it was worth it. But there is no guarantee of that. No guarantee that everyone who walks down this road will get their happy ending. Just the promise that some will, and some will not. And while I knew that going into it, I believed with everything I had in me that I would be one of the ones it would work for. And I was wrong.

So I guess I would simply ask those who have been hurt by my words to take a long hard look at the perspective. I didn’t get my happy ending. Not even close. And through circumstances beyond my control, I was forced to step back and regroup. Put the pieces back together on my own, with no supportive spouse there to hold my hand or build me back up. Even when that last cycle failed, I did not feel like I feel now. I was convinced I would one day try again. It was only with time and distance that I was able to gain a different perspective on what that would mean. Had I conceived, I can pretty much guarantee that I never would have stepped back and looked at IVF the way I do now. But I didn’t. There is no baby in my arms, and no more hope in my heart that IVF could give me the ending I so strongly desire. My perspective is different. And that doesn’t mean I think your baby (or babies) never should have been. It doesn’t mean I think you should stop trying now if you are still on this journey. It doesn’t mean anything even along those lines. It just means that my own experiences have led me to the conclusions that are right for me.

It is such a hard subject, and one that honestly breaks my heart to acknowledge. But the very real truth is that for me, I have had to come to terms with the fact that in this life, I will not always get my way. No matter how badly I want it. No matter how much I push. No matter how hard I fight. I can’t always win. And in this case, I really believe that trying to fight any harder would only lead to my own demise.

I just feel like there is a line, for everyone, as to how far we are willing to go. And my line has changed. Not because I didn't want it or because I don't feel like I deserved it, but because... I can't shake the feeling in my gut that if I pushed, I would be one of those bad outcomes. And then, for ignoring my gut, I would have no one but myself to blame for that devastation and heartbreak. My gut tells me that it won’t ever end well for me, so wouldn’t it be insane to even consider trying again? To ignore those risks and voices in my head that keep telling me it would be a bad idea?

I tried to explain that without making it seem like I believed the same to be true for everyone; attempting to be true to myself and my feelings without doing anything that would get me kicked out of the club or injure those I have come to care about along the way. I tried to outline some of my fears and where they come from without making it seem like I believe everyone who pursues this path is setting themselves up for heartbreak in the end. Because I don’t. Like I already said – I know it can work. I know there are happy endings to be found. I was just trying to explain why I don’t believe one is waiting for me along that path. But I failed. And for that - I can’t really express how badly I feel. How many tears I have shed in my own guilt over doing it so wrong.

But I am a good person. And I swear I am a good friend. I never intended to hurt anyone. I just wanted to be honest about what I believe to be true for me. About what my reality is now, even as I watch so many of those around me getting the dream I fought so hard for.

Because I am still that same girl who fought with everything she had for a baby. I am still that same girl who sacrificed so much and believed that it would all be worth it in the end. I am just now also a girl who realizes… that isn’t always the case. Fighting with everything you've got does not always mean a happy ending. Believing in your heart that you are meant to carry a child does not always mean you will. Even getting those two lines does not always mean you get to bring a baby home in the end. And sometimes, taking on all the risks in an attempt to reap the big rewards only lands you facing off with the worst case scenario. The one you thought would never actually happen to you.

And that is what I am afraid of. That is what has caused me to change my line. But now that my line has moved, where is it that I belong? My heart still aches over what's been lost, but I am not trying, and I am not of the belief that I will ever try again. I know that one way or another, I will be a mother. But even that endeavor is currently on hold as I attempt to wait (not-so) patiently for Mr. Right. Leaving me in limbo. Wondering where my place is now.

In attempting to rebuild my life, am I still allowed to acknowledge how much this hurts? In finding happiness in other ways, should I still be able to confess that this is not the life I would have chosen, had I been given a choice? In admitting that I am probably never going to try again, do I still have the right to mourn my infertility?

I think it’s common for the women who make it to the other side and wind up with a baby in their arms to wonder where they fit in once their happy ending has been realized. Those scars still remain, and their battle wounds are still very real – but in taking away the prize we’ve all fought so hard for, they question whether or not they really still belong. I’ve got to admit that over the last year, I have found myself feeling the same way. As my feelings about IVF have changed and I’ve come more to terms with the fact that I will likely never be trying again, I’ve wondered where my place was in this world. And if in being honest about how I was feeling, I would be publically revoking my own membership. Kicking myself out of a club that has provided me with so much support and guidance by admitting that I no longer fit the mold.

As if the fact that I have decided that this is no longer a path I am willing to take on my journey to being a mother, means that I no longer deserve to grieve over what has been lost. Because now I no longer belong, so I can’t possibly understand.

I am still the same girl who was so convinced she was pregnant that she toured a birthing center and didn’t tell a soul about it during her 2 week wait (yes, that happened). The same girl who prayed and sacrificed and risked everything that mattered to make this dream come true. I am still the same girl who continues to give advice on doctors and clinics and endometriosis and infertility and IVF and protocols to anyone who e-mails me with questions. That girl is still me. It's not as if I suddenly can't possibly understand what it's like to be on that journey. Because I was there, and I remember.

I wanted this. I wanted it more than anything I have ever wanted in my entire life. I still want it. And it still kills me that I will probably never have it. It tears me up that my cycles failed. It tears me up that I have never in my life been in a position to "try" with someone I love. It tears me up that I really do not believe I will ever carry a child myself. It tears me up that I have to watch everyone I care about get this amazing gift that I want so badly, and I have to find a way to be happy for them even in knowing that it will never be me. It tears me up that I actually am so happy for them, but that my happiness is now clouded by this mix of emotions it never before would have been.

It's not that I am over this or that it doesn't kill me inside, because I am not and it does. It's just... I have had to come to terms with a few things for my own mental health. For my own ability to move forward. But I am still infertile, and it still breaks my heart. I just can't keep pretending that one day I'm going to do it all again, because I really don't believe I will. I really don't believe that for me, it would be the right decision. And I don't know how else to be honest about that, without making it seem like I'm simply giving up. When really, there is nothing simple about that decision at all.

But I think in my desire to express those feelings as honestly as possible, I went too far. I crossed lines, and I hurt those I care about. Without meaning to. Without intending to. Obviously without thinking through my own actions or words at all. I just wanted to explain how I was feeling without coming off as a quitter. I wanted to be honest and I wanted to be real, without getting kicked out of the club.

I think I fucked it all up.

So here is what it comes down to: I am still infertile.

It’s just that I am having to come to terms with the fact that infertile is not all I am.

It is not the one defining adjective that holds weight above all else.

And it is not the factor that will contribute to my never being able to find happiness in any other facet of life.

I refuse to let it become that.

But I still don’t want to be kicked out of the club.

Or viewed as a traitor.

A quitter.

Or someone who just didn’t want it enough.

Because I did. I wanted it so badly it hurt. And I failed.

And when you know the ending isn’t good, it is suddenly a whole lot easier to look back on the journey and see it for what it was.

A path filled with land mines that only a select few will ever really navigate unscathed.

And for me, trying to navigate that path again just isn’t worth the risks. Not knowing what I know. Not seeing what I’ve seen. Not feeling what I feel.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not still here… praying with everything I’ve got that those of you still traveling that path make it through to the end victorious.

I want for you what I wanted for myself – to be happy.

To be mothers.

To be whole.

And to get your baby in the end.

Reunited, and It Feels So Good

2012-02-13T18:08:00.001-09:00

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and this year I will be celebrating by reuniting with one of my long lost loves.

I didn’t plan it to work out like this, but the timing wound up being pretty serendipitous for us to get together on this day to catch up.

And I have to say, I am ridiculously excited to get back together after far too long apart.

It’s possible things could go poorly and I’ll end up regretting it in the end, but I really don’t think that will be the case. In fact, I’m pretty sure once reunited – we will never again separate.

At least, not if I have anything to say about it.

You see, it really wasn’t my choice for us to split up in the first place. I went along with it, because I was told it was for the best. I accepted that some time apart might be necessary for me to truly assess the effect this past love was having on my life. And I agreed, because I’m eager to please like that. But after spending the requisite 6 weeks apart, I no longer care what my naturopath says. I’ve followed her rules and done my time, and tomorrow:

I am going to reunite with my cheese.

That’s right ladies and gentlemen. I’ve been doing the elimination and reintroduction diet Dr. Naturopath implored me to complete since the first of the year. I have reintroduced gluten and peanuts and walnuts all with no issues at all. Garlic and yeast and soy and citrus however, were all a different story. My lips swelled (seriously), my face broke out in some eczema type reaction (which has never happened before in my life), my joints flared (like a little old lady out in the cold), and it hurt to pee (no joke). After being so sure that I had absolutely no food allergies at all and that this entire test was a joke, I can honestly now say that I was wrong. I have some pretty clear reactions to certain foods.

But with Dairy – I am determined to make it work. Not that I really have any say at all over what I will and will not react to, but I do have a say in whether or not I choose to pay attention to those reactions.

And with Dairy, I’m pretty sure that no matter what – I’m going to choose to ignore.

Garlic and I are going to have a few talks as well, because if I’m being honest – I just can’t see a lifetime of avoiding that old temptress either.

I’m thinking too far ahead though. All that matters is tomorrow. And tomorrow, on the day of love, I am going to be reunited with my cheese.

Don’t be jealous.

It Wasn’t My Fault

2012-02-10T18:27:00.002-09:00

In my defense, it wasn’t my fault. It really wasn’t.

I’ve been talking a lot over the last few months about saving money. Or rather, paying debt down. It’s been a big goal of mine to get debt free by 30. To unburden myself of the debt taken on whilst baby making and move forward with a clean slate.

So to speak.

And I’ve been making some incredible strides. Really. I have been pinching the pennies and paying off more and more every month.

But then, the oven light broke. This little piece that was supposed to connect when the door was closed and turn the light off disconnected, and the light remained eternally on. I tried to superglue it back together (because superglue fixes everything, right?) to no avail. And because the oven was old school, I couldn’t even disconnect the bolts to get the light out. It was just forever on.

Obviously this wasn’t a big dramatic situation, but… it was annoying. And as I looked at my crusty old oven and compared it to the new washer and dryer I realized – the new appliances were making the old ones feel inferior.

Honestly, my refrigerator and oven were long past their prime. Both yellowed with age, and each with their own little “quirks”. The roommate still insists that the refrigerator had its own special smell, and I'm convinced that the oven decided which foods to burn at random.

So one day out of total frustration, I got online and looked at the Lowes website. Planning only to window shop. A little daydreaming about appliances I knew I couldn’t actually afford.

Only when I logged in, I immediately saw that they were having a sale. 10% off all appliances and 0% interest for 18 months.

The sale was ending that day.

It was a little past 5 when I saw the website.

And before I could even think twice – I was grabbing my purse and getting in the car.

An hour later, I had purchased a new oven and refrigerator.

And yesterday, more than a month later, they were delivered.

Out with the old, and in with the new.

(R.I.P.)

But seriously – it wasn’t my fault. The appliances were about to give up anyway, just to prove a point. I’m sure of it. And the allure of this sale was just too much temptation for me to resist. I was like the politician who just couldn't keep it in their pants. I was driven by a force greater than myself.

And now, I have a new oven and refrigerator. For the bargain price of about $50 a month for the next 18 months.

I have issues.

But at least I now also have brand new sparkly appliances to go with those issues.

What Do You Get For The Doctor Who Has Done Everything?

2012-02-08T18:54:00.006-09:00

What a difference a year can make.

I feel like I’ve been finding myself saying that a lot lately. Hitting important milestones, and realizing that the ache in my heart is nowhere near as severe as it was the year before. Finding myself shocked at my own emotional healing – something I really wasn’t sure was even possible after those failed cycles of mine.

But the emotional healing isn’t the only thing I’ve achieved, and today is an important milestone that really did deserve to be recognized.

Because a year ago today, I was having a five hour surgery with Dr. Cook from Vital Health Institute. One of the top specialists in this country when it comes to treating endometriosis, he and his staff bent over backwards to get me there and provide me with the surgery I desperately needed – solely because he was convinced he could help.

I wasn’t so sure. I knew that his method of treating endometriosis was different from any other doctor I had spoken to, and I knew that I loved his enthusiasm and passion for helping women with this disease, but… After 2 previous surgeries which found me back in pain within just a few months each time, and an onslaught of drugs that had only ever left me feeling even more sick; I was having a difficult time holding out much hope that anything would ever help.

Before surgery, I was in persistent pain. The kind of pain that made it difficult for me to get through most days and had me relying on narcotics far more than I was proud of. The kind of pain that made it impossible for me to complete even the simplest of workouts, and had me confined to my bed more often than not.

I would get my period and lose the ability to eat for days on end. My entire stomach clenching up and shutting down in reaction to the endometriosis that had spread everywhere. The pain had started traveling up to my shoulder as a result of the endo that had found its way up to my spleen. Even when I wasn’t on my period, the damage caused by endometriosis left my hips and low back constantly aching. My stomach was in an unrelenting state of bloat, and I was always keenly aware of how tender my ovaries were. Sometimes, it hurt too much simply to move.

I was in rough shape, and had hit a point where I was losing a vast majority of the fight I had in me. No one had ever told me that endometriosis could get this bad. I had always seen it as a disease that led simply to painful periods. I could feel some around me starting to question what I was going through themselves; this disease not easy to explain in its simplest form, but certainly not when it has reached stage IV and is attacking multiple organs throughout the abdominal cavity.

Everything hurt. Always. And the physical pain was a constant reminder of what this disease had taken away from me. I wanted it gone. I wanted to be able to get back to living my life. But, I had started to lose hope. I couldn’t wrap my head around anything ever really making that difference for me at this point.

And then, my doctor in Alaska told me that she wasn’t sure there was anything more she could do for me beyond a hysterectomy – an option I just couldn’t bring myself to consider at all. This was a doctor I trusted though. A doctor I still trust. But she had run through her magic bag of tricks, and nothing had seemed to work. She was at as much of a loss as I was, and could do nothing more than remind me that my case was one of the most extreme she had ever seen.

It was hitting this wall and feeling like no one could help that led to me finding just enough fight in me to keep looking. To keep searching for answers. And to seek out someone in this country who actually specialized in the treatment of this disease.

Because I wasn't ready to give up yet. This wasn't a fate I was ready to accept.

That list was short, and I realized all too quickly that endometriosis was a disease where most doctors treating it had very little training in how to best go about that. Seeing your gynecologist for the treatment of this disease was like seeing your family care provider for the treatment of cancer. In the long run, it made absolutely no sense at all.

But the specialists were few and far between, and most were expensive and booked months in advance. I didn’t know what to do, so I did the only thing I could do – I sent my medical records to the top two I could find and sat back and hoped for answers.

Dr. Cook at Vital Health Institute called me back within days. And during that free phone consultation, I realized quickly that he had experience with treating this disease that far surpassed what my doctor could offer me. I knew almost immediately that I wanted to travel to California to see him, but realized pretty quickly that I just could not afford all that trip would entail. I was devastated. Heartbroken and angry that I wasn’t even in a position to try. I cried for days over my inability to make it all work, and eventually called his office to explain that I just could not afford the surgery. I thanked them for their time, and attempted to get off the phone without letting my own heartbreak shine through.

It wasn't long though before Dr. Cook called me personally. He said he had spoken to his financial office, and he understood my situation. Then he told me that cases like mine were the reason he had gone into the treatment of this disease, and he truly believed he could help me. He wanted to help me. So we sat on the phone, and hammered out different ways to make this work – including how to take on my insurance company to get them to cover as much as possible. In the end, he bent over backwards to ensure I could have this surgery. And once I had the approval, he got me on his schedule in just a few week’s time. He truly went above and beyond what anyone would ever expected a specialist of his caliber to do, for no other reason than because he cared.

When I arrived in California and had my first pre-op appointment with him, I had to fight back the tears as I sat in his office describing what this disease had done to me and all it had taken away. I explained that I just wanted to feel like myself again. That I just wanted to be able to move on with my life feeling as healthy and whole as possible.

He told me he could help.

And a year ago today, he performed miracles.

My dad told me that when Dr. Cook came to speak to him after surgery, he seemed exhausted. And even a little surprised at how bad things had actually been. My uterus and bowel were completely fused together by scar tissue and endometriosis, endometriomas were overtaking my ovaries, and diseased tissue had found its way much higher in my abdominal cavity than would typically be normal.

But, he had gotten it all. For the first time, a doctor was able to confirm that they had gotten it all.

I was officially endometriosis free.

That really is one of the biggest pieces of Dr. Cook’s philosophies. So many doctors open women up and clean them out as best they can, while leaving a good deal of diseased tissue behind because they don’t have the specialized experience to remove it all – especially from vital organs. Each of my previous surgeries had lasted no more than 2 hours before my doctor had closed me up proclaiming she had done the best that she could do. Dr. Cook firmly believes that leaving behind any endometriosis at all though, only encourages future spreading. In his opinion, if you aren’t going to get it all – it’s not worth performing the surgery in the first place.

And he does this all laparoscopically. I actually received a phone call from the surgeon who assisted with my procedure a few days after the fact, and he told me that any other doctor would have taken one look inside of me and opted to open me up completely to do what needed to be done. He said Dr. Cook really was one of the best he had ever witnessed, and that he couldn't believe he had been able to make the progress he had with me laparoscopically. Then he warned me not to let those small incisions fool me, because my body had been put through the ringer to rid it of endometriosis and recovery was going to be rough.

I definitely felt the effects of that more aggressive approach in the days that followed. Unlike my previous two surgeries (which I had recovered from within a few days), this one left me feeling like I had been hit by a truck. Recovery definitely took more time than it had in the past, but I was hopeful that was a good sign. That it was an indication of what a difference this surgery would actually make in the end.

And I was right. One month post-surgery, I was signing up for my first Pilates boot camp. Feeling like I had the strength to commit myself to a workout routine for the first time in years. I cried that first session – something inside of me letting loose that I had been holding on to for far too long.

And from there, I flourished. Today, I am 15 pounds lighter than I was pre-surgery. I am strong, and healthy, and active, and whole. I have started running again, and have found myself so excited to be living my life the way I want to live it. While there are still occasional moments of aches and pain, it is rarely ever anything I need more than an Ibuprofen to treat. And that pain is usually just as quick to retreat as it was to appear. This last visit from Jack was the easiest I have had in years. I never even needed a single ibuprofen to help get me through. I was able to handle it all on my own, while still remaining functional, and active, and… normal.

It brings tears to my eyes right now, just thinking about what a difference a year has made.

What a difference Dr. Cook has made.

All along he has supported my desire to treat this disease naturally, and has reminded me that if he did his job correctly – I shouldn’t need the onslaught of drugs other doctors kept trying to push on me. He has always maintained that if I ever hit that point of pain again, he will go just as far to get me out of it. But for now, I am able to live my life without worrying about that. I take my supplements, I eat right, I workout, and… I don’t find myself obsessed with what my future with endometriosis holds anymore. Because with that pain relieved, I am able to move forward without fear or constant reminders of what’s been lost.

I am able to move forward, focused on how much I still have.

So what do you get for the doctor who has done everything? How do you ever truly thank someone who has made such a difference in your life?

Well, unfortunately – nothing I could ever give would feel like enough. But I did send the office a box of chocolate covered strawberries and a note today. Because I felt like I should do something. Because they’ve already done so much for me.

Just for the record – I’m not under any kind of contract or agreement with Dr. Cook or Vital Health Institute. Everything I have ever said about them has come 100% from the heart. They truly did help to give me my life back, and for that – I will be forever grateful. If you are a woman who has struggled with endometriosis, I strongly encourage you to send your records to them. Dr. Cook conducts all phone consults for free, which means that at the very least – you could get an experts opinion on your case without having to make any kind of commitment at all. You’ve really got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

I know that for me, the day I sent my records over to their office was the turning point.

And today, I am healthy and strong and relatively pain free… because of them.

Which is kind of amazing when you think about it.

The Truth About IVF

2012-02-06T18:11:00.004-09:00

The title of this post is slightly misleading. I just want to point that out right now, before I even get started. I’m not about to reveal to you any top secret or little known information. This isn’t an exposé on the hidden costs of fertility treatments. Your eyes are not about to be opened to a world you didn’t before fully understand.

But I am about to share with you how my views on IVF have changed over the last year. I’ve been promising this post for a while, but have almost been too scared to write it. Because the truth is, I’m fairly sure my change of opinion on IVF is going to be an unpopular one. And even more than that – there are people I care about who are currently pregnant as the result of IVF, or who are about to embark upon another round. I would never in a million years want to make them feel like I now look down on them for pursuing that path.

Because I don’t. Not even a little bit. I understand that drive and desire to have a baby. That willing-to-do-anything mentality. I get it. I’ve been there. And I can’t even fully guarantee that I won’t ever be there again. The decision to pursue fertility treatments is a deeply personal one, and I would never presume to think I know what is best for anyone else.

I just know that for me, right now… I can’t ever see myself going down that path again.

My reasons behind that are expansive, and potentially hurtful to those now considering that road themselves. So I want to apologize up front if anything I’m about to say cuts into anyone reading. Please know that I am speaking now only for myself. Regarding my own feelings about IVF. And I don’t judge anyone else for their feelings about it.

All I can do is speak for me though. Be true to myself in this space here.

And the truth is, I have come a long way in how I view IVF.

I’ve always been one of those women who was convinced she could accomplish anything if she just tried hard enough. Getting pregnant is one of the first things in my entire life I have ever really wanted and failed at. I am strong, and independent, and determined. I get my way. I force my will. I make things happen.

A co-worker the other day called me “driven”. It was funny, because I don’t necessarily consider myself overly driven at my place of business. I get my work done, and I do it well, but… I’m not particularly passionate about the tasks on my to-do list most days. It was an accurate description of how I can be when I am passionate about something though. When I really want something – I can be exceptionally driven.

And when it came to making a baby, I have never been so passionate about anything else in my entire life.

Which is why I looked past the drugs involved. Even as I was turning away from western therapies in many other aspects (embracing acupuncture and natural treatments for endometriosis), I found myself looking at the daily injections of hormones involved in IVF as a means to an end. Turning my nose up at antibiotics and other drugs, but seeing this as a necessity I would have to endure to reach my goal.

A baby in my arms.

I ignored those warnings on the drugs and what they meant to me. The increased risks of cancer, and even what I personally knew they could do to the growth of endometriosis. I ignored them, because I had convinced myself that I was willing to take any risk upon my own body if it meant getting what I wanted in the end.

I was driven.

But the first time I really found myself questioning that drive was the day I happened to glance down at the warning on the side of my progesterone box. A warning that pertained not just to the effects this drug could have on me, but also to the effects it could have on my unborn baby.

I had always maintained that one of the reasons I wanted to get pregnant myself versus adoption was because I wanted to provide and care for my baby-to-be with the best I had to give from the moment of conception. I knew I would never be a mother who did drugs, or drank, or smoke during pregnancy. I knew I would be the one eating an organic diet, and avoiding foods with high sugar or fat contents. I knew I would work out throughout a pregnancy and monitor everything that entered my body to ensure it was healthy for baby. I would have treated my body like a temple, because that is exactly what it would have been – housing the most precious thing in the world to me.

I never questioned my ability to give my baby the best from the very start. But I couldn’t guarantee that with adoption. I couldn’t guarantee how someone else would treat my baby during those months of gestation. So I wanted the control there. The ability to ensure they were getting the very best I had to give.

Of course there was more to it then that. I think the desire to carry a child is innate for most women. I still long to have a baby growing inside of me, almost for no other reason than because that's what my heart yearns for. But I do know that a big part of it comes from this motherly protectiveness I feel for those children that aren't even yet here. I wanted to have them with me, protected to the best of my ability, from the very start.

But there I was, reading the side of this box as it detailed all the birth defects it could lead to when taken in the first 4 months of pregnancy. This drug I needed in order to maintain a pregnancy carried with it side effects I never in a million years would have thought I would be introducing to my unborn child.

I had always believed that when pregnant, I would live a clean and natural lifestyle. I would investigate every little thing I thought to put in my body, to first ensure it was safe for baby.

But with this, I had no choice. If I wanted that baby, I needed to inject myself with this drug in the ass every single night. This drug that detailed right there on the box all the birth defects it could cause.

I wanted to throw up. How was this OK?

That was the first time I really found myself questioning how far I was willing to go to achieve a pregnancy. What risks was I really willing to take upon myself? And what risks was I willing to take upon my baby?

Wasn’t there a point when I should have found myself saying “enough”? How far was I really willing to go?

When that cycle didn’t work, I was left drowning in a tidal wave of emotions. I can honestly say that the few months that followed were some of the most broken of my life. I coped better than I’ve coped with things in the past, because I have plenty of experience with falling apart. But just because I wasn’t cutting myself, or popping pills, or sticking my finger down my throat did not mean that I wasn't crumbling beneath the weight of my own grief.

There was still so much to focus on though. So much that needed to be done. More than a year since my previous surgery, and after 2 rounds of IVF (on drugs that are known to promote endometriosis growth), I was in a great deal of pain. Physical pain that I was able to focus on while attempting to ignore my own emotional pain. I needed to find a doctor willing to treat me. I needed to find my miracle.

And I did find him. Dr. Cook was amazing and performed extensive surgery on my insides. Clearing out endometriosis that had spread throughout my entire abdominal cavity. Un-fusing organs that had been bound together by scar tissue.

He performed a 5 hour surgery that stripped me of a majority of that physical pain.

But as he warned me then… the emotional pain would remain. And would likely become harder to ignore as the weeks after surgery passed.

I had initially scoffed, thinking that all I needed was to be out of pain. The emotional turmoil was in the past, and now I just needed to look forward.

I was wrong. And as those weeks post-surgery went by, I found myself falling harder than I had in the weeks following both of my failed cycles. I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of that depression, and I was on the verge of tears more often than not. Most days it was a struggle just to get out of bed.

But with time, and counseling, I started to find my way out of the haze.

And I began to question once again, how far was I willing to go?

Everyone around me was encouraging me to try again, but I couldn't shake that voice in the back of my head telling me that it wasn't right. That it wasn't worth the risks. Both to myself physically, mentally, and financially, but also... to my baby who hadn't yet come to be.

It no longer felt like something I should be doing. And that part of me that was left still considering it, no longer felt like it was being driven by the right reasons.

I’ve seen a lot in the blogging world. Far more devastation and loss than I think most people realize goes hand and hand with seeking fertility treatments. Spending $20,000 on a cycle does not guarantee success. Seeing two lines on a pee stick does not guarantee a heartbeat. Making it past the first trimester does not guarantee making it past the second. And hitting the point of viability does not guarantee a happy, healthy baby.

I have rejoiced with those I have met in this world as they have found their success, and then felt equally devastated when things didn’t turn out well in the end. I feel like I’ve seen more loss and heartbreak and sadness in this community of women than I have ever actually witnessed in the real world. My friends who get pregnant with ease never think about these milestones. The idea of reaching viability is not one that ever occurs to them. Is it because they are naïve, or is it because these are things they simply have to worry about far less because their babies were conceived “naturally”? I honestly don’t know the answer to that question. But I do know that what I’ve witnessed has made me begin to wonder how far we really should go in our quest to create a baby.

Is there a point past which nature will always find a way to win?

I’ve begun to think that maybe my cycles didn’t work for a reason. I know there are things I simply could not have handled, and some days I’m almost thankful I wasn’t able to get pregnant if the end result would have been something even more devastating than failure. Obviously I have no way of knowing how things would have turned out, but sometimes I wonder… I now know personally 5 women with endometriosis for whom IVF worked on the first try. It should be noted (because it serves to prove the point I'm trying to make) that half of the babies in that group are no longer here with us, but they did all get pregnant that first time. With me though, it failed twice. Why is that? Is there something more wrong with me? Something about my body that just is not equipped to get pregnant? And if I had pushed the envelope further and essentially forced my body to do what I wanted it to do, would I have gotten what I wanted? Or would nature have eventually caught up and devastated me in the end?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, but I do know that they have weighed heavily on my heart over the last year. I currently have 2 very close friends with endometriosis who are a few weeks apart from each other in their pregnancies. They both conceived via IVF. For one, everything since has been smooth sailing. Not a single hiccup or issue along the way at all. For the other, it has seemed as though everything has been a struggle. And while that bun in her oven is still in there cooking nicely, and now (thankfully) past the point of viability – it hasn’t come easily. Or without fear and anxiety.

I look at these two women, and I know it can work. I know that sometimes all the body needs is a little extra help. But I also see two very different experiences in their pregnancies, and I can’t help but wonder… which one would I have been? Would my body have cooperated with ease once I finally convinced it to hold on to one of those embies of mine? Or, would I have been hitting walls every step of the way? Constantly needing more drugs, more interventions, and more force to keep that baby of mine around?

I honestly don’t know. I know that once pregnant, I would have done whatever it took to remain that way. I would have taken on any risk presented to me to keep that baby growing. But I can’t help but wonder… would that really have been what was best for the baby? For me?

Would it really have been providing that extra layer of protection I seemed so determined to provide myself?

At what point do we stop and ask ourselves what we’re really doing this for? For me, a big part of it was wanting to be in control of nurturing and providing for my baby from the very start. I wanted to know I was protecting them from the moment of conception.

But if in providing that protection, I also had to provide that baby with a regular onslaught of drugs proven to cause birth defects – would I really be doing what was best for them anymore?

Or would I simply be enforcing my own will upon my body and my baby, with a reckless disregard for the consequences?

I can’t help but feel like at this point, any further interventions for me to get pregnant would be going too far. Missing the point entirely in my own quest to get what I want.

Without really taking into consideration what was best for that baby anymore.

And thinking that, makes me want to shy far away from fertility treatments in the future.

Again, I can’t guarantee what the future holds. I never would have assumed my opinion on IVF would have changed this much in the first place, so it’s certainly possible it could change again. Certainly possible that when Mr. Right finally does get his shit together and show up, I could be convinced to try once more. I am not one to ever make guarantees on the future.

But what I can say now, for me, in the place I currently am:

The truth about IVF is that I can’t help but feel like it’s maybe going too far.

Pushing the body to do something that it clearly doesn’t want to do, for reasons that may be more complex than what we understand.

The truth about IVF is that the consequences involved now scare me.

Both the consequences to a woman’s body and even more importantly; the consequences to that unborn baby we all want so badly to do the best for.

The truth about IVF is that I don’t see myself ever doing it again.

Even though the truth about me is…

I would still give just about anything to be a mommy.

We're Awesome Like That...

2012-02-05T13:58:00.001-09:00

Yesterday was my anniversary.

You all know what anniversary I'm referring to.

Which means, you should all know that the following conversation took place between me and the DV:

Because we're awesome like that.

12 years ago, I lost my virginity. And it's true - my choices in men have been pretty abysmal ever since. But hey, 30 is quickly approaching. My luck is bound to change eventually, right?

P.S. The comment at the top, where the DV was calling me selfish just a few days ago? He was referring to my "Off The Cock" status, and saying that if I didn't use my lady bits soon... they were going to seal up on me.

He's pretty determined that's how it works. Even though I keep telling him I'm pretty sure he's wrong.

What would I ever do without that man?

Dear Neighbor

2012-02-03T17:01:00.005-09:00

Remember how I was literally just bragging about my new morning workout routine?

The one that has me dragging my ass out of bed bright and early every single morning to get on the treadmill? The one I have stuck to now every single day for almost 4 weeks? The routine that has me feeling like a lean and mean fighting machine once more?

Um, yeah… so it turns out that everyone is not as excited about my newfound commitment to cardio as I am.

Wednesday night, the same night I was doing all that bragging here; I came home to a note on my door.

Taped there with packing tape in a rather ominous fashion.

“Great” I thought to myself. This would either turn out to be something really cool (cute neighbor boy finally going out of his way to introduce himself?) or really uncomfortable (creepy stalker turning up to terrorize me.)

My arms were full and it took me a few minutes to get into the house and settled before I could turn my attention to this note. I was driven both by curiosity, and a gut feeling telling me I should just toss it and pretend I never saw it at all.

When I finally opened the note, this is what it said:

Dear neighbor,

I’m sorry if I’m sounding like a pain, but if there is any way you could move your treadmill it would be greatly appreciated. I hear it start up around 6:30 most mornings. I certainly understand wanting to get that workout in before you start your day as I am a runner myself. Could you push it against the wall that is not connected to the other side of the building? Perhaps in another room? What about the garage? I don’t mean to sound like on of “those” neighbors, it’s just that I’m a light sleeper and I hear it when it starts. I tried sleeping on my couch in the living room so I don’t hear it… but now my back and neck are kinked from sleeping on the couch. :( If you could help your fellow neighbor out that would be awesome!

I sat there for a moment perplexed. I had no idea who these people were. I knew the note had to have come from the people I shared a master bedroom wall with, but I had never actually seen them before. In 3 years of living here, we had never come face to face. There were different entrances and stairways up to our units, so there simply weren’t a lot of instances when we would have met. And since they didn’t sign a name or give me any way to contact them – I was lost as to whether this was even a guy or a girl I was dealing with.

I never would have gotten a treadmill in a million years if I had a downstairs neighbor, but… I don’t. My unit is located directly above the garage. Our condos are basically set up with four units per floor. There are two main walls that are connected to other units (along the master bedroom, and the spare bedroom) and then two main walls that aren’t connected to anything (along the living room and kitchen). I can honestly say that in the 3 years I have lived here, while I have heard my upstairs neighbors many times, and noise from the garage almost every day, I’ve never heard anything from either of those shared walls. Not Televisions or radios or anything. They are pretty sturdy walls.

It had never occurred to me that they would be able to hear and be bothered by my workouts. And realizing that they had been, made me feel awful.

But in that same breath… I didn’t want to be giving up this new habit that was contributing so much to my overall well-being.

I didn’t know what to do. There truly was no other place in the unit to move the treadmill to. These are VERY small units – only 780 square feet – and with a roommate here as well, the common areas are tight already. Besides, the treadmill was a good 5 feet away from the shared wall with a dresser in between as it was.

I couldn’t figure out how they could hear anything at all. Especially when my alarm clock is right up against that wall and goes off every morning for up to half an hour (we’ve covered the fact that I’m not a morning person before, right?) at a pretty loud volume. If anything would be waking them up, you would think it would be that.

The only thing I could come up with was that it wasn’t the noise they were hearing, but more likely vibrations from the actual pounding of feet to the treadmill through the shared floor.

Still… what was I supposed to do? Their suggestion to move it to the garage wasn’t even kind of viable, and was actual borderline ridiculous. It’s a garage that is shared between 8 units. There is absolutely no place that a treadmill could go, short of my parking outside and putting it right there in my space. Which I’m fairly sure would be just about the most awkward place ever to work out. Not to mention, wouldn’t that make the treadmill more or less a free for all?

Like I said, not a viable option.

So, I called my dad. Pretty much the most moral person I know. I wanted to do the right thing, but… I didn’t want to lose the right to workout in my own home in the process.

His immediate suggestion was that I needed to go over there and talk to them face to face. Making sure I apologized first and foremost for any inconvenience they’ve experienced since my morning workouts began. But then working towards compromise if at all possible.

Because the problem with this situation is – there really are valid arguments for both sides. I should be able to work out in my own home. We live in a condo setting, and this is just one of those things you have to deal with when you are piled up on top of each other like that; you will occasionally hear your neighbor’s noises. One of the first things I did when I moved in was buy myself a white noise machine, because I knew if I didn’t that I would be waking up all night every night from both my upstairs neighbors moving around, and the garage beneath me being accessed. My upstairs neighbors actually have a habit of vacuuming at 7 am. On weekends. But you know what - they're totally justified in doing that in their own home. I realized it was my responsibility to do what I could to adjust to those noises. Never once did it ever occur to me to complain about any noises I heard (and trust me – I hear a lot!) As long as someone is using their space in a reasonable manner, I don't feel like I have a right to complain about that. This was what I signed up for. There are many benefits to living in a condo (for instance, I have still never once had to shovel my own snow), and for me – the benefits outweigh the cons. But I had always been cognizant of the fact that those cons existed, and gone out of my way to alleviate any drawbacks as best I could myself. It really would take a neighbor going far and above a reasonable usage of their space before I would complain to them about it.

That said, I could see where this guy (girl? Person? I had no idea who this was) was coming from. I get it. I’m a light sleeper too – hence the white noise machine. Most of the people who know me know that I am not a happy camper if they wake me up before it’s time for me to actually get up. Since Loo moved to Texas, we’ve had to have more than a few discussions about time zones and the fact that it is not acceptable for her to be texting and calling me at 5 am. She finally changed my name in her phone to “Not Before 11am” to remind herself.

I seriously miss that girl!

The point is, I do understand. If you don’t have to be up in the morning, it definitely sucks to have something completely out of your control waking you. I would be annoyed too.

I guess the difference is though; I would have gone out of my way to find a way to resolve the problem myself first. And then if I couldn’t come up with anything, I would have attempted to speak to the person face to face to come up with a compromise that fell somewhere short of asking them to completely stop their otherwise reasonable behavior.

So, that’s what I did. I followed my dad’s advice and walked over to the unit I figured the note must have come from. The light was on and I could hear the television playing in the background. But when I rang the bell, no one answered. So… I tried to knock. And again, no one answered.

Weird.

I went back to my house and contemplated for a while. I got online and started looking at ways to resolve the noise produced by treadmills, and almost immediately found shock absorber pads that could be placed underneath the machine. I grabbed my keys and went to Sports Authority to get one.

When I got back, I went to the neighbor’s home once more. And once more it seemed like someone was there but no one answered.

Weird.

So, I went to my house and wrote them a note of my own:

I’m really hoping that I have the right house in leaving this note! I received a note this evening on my door regarding my use of a treadmill in the mornings, and I want to first start by sincerely apologizing. Not having any downstairs neighbors, it never in a million years occurred to me that someone may hear me working out. The treadmill is actually in the middle of the room, while there are two dressers and a bed against the wall. I am incredibly sorry that it has been waking you up, and I feel awful.

That said, I am hoping there is a happy medium to this situation. Working out in the morning before I have to go to work every day is the only time I can really commit to being able to get a run in, and that’s not something I really want to have to give up in my own home.

Unfortunately, there is no other room I can move the treadmill to. I have a friend living with me, and the two of us have pretty thoroughly filled this space. I tried to think for a moment how I could re-arrange my room to make a difference, but the only thing I can come up with wouldn’t move the treadmill that much further from the wall, and it would wind up putting my television against the wall – which I think in the end would probably be worse.

I went out and purchased a shock absorber pad to put under the treadmill tonight and hope that perhaps that will make a difference in some of what you are hearing. The only reason I’ve never done this in the past is because, like I said, it never occurred to me that anyone would be able to hear or be bothered by these workouts. If that doesn’t help though, I want to offer to buy you a white noise machine to sleep with. I actually had to purchase one when I first bought my home here because the noise from the garage combined with that from my upstairs neighbors is constantly waking me up. I too am a very light sleeper, so I understand. I can say that having one has made a difference for me in terms of adjusting to the noises that come with living in a condo.

Again, I really am hoping that we can find a mutually satisfactory compromise somehow. I don’t want to have to give up working out in my own home, but I don’t want you to have to be sleeping on your couch in yours either. If you don’t notice a difference tomorrow morning, please feel free to call me at some point during the day (my number is XXX-XXXX) and we can discuss solutions further.

Sincerely,

And then I signed it with my name. Trying to take some of the anonymity out of this.

After all – I’m a nice girl! No reason to tip-toe around me when you have a valid complaint. I’m all about compromise!

So yesterday morning, I got up and worked out. Even though Jack had just arrived and for the first time in 4 weeks, I really wanted to stay in bed. I did it, because I wanted to be able to see if it would make any difference at all.

Then all day long, I waited to see if I would hear from them. And I waited. And I waited.

Until my roommate called me at 3:30 to say she had just gotten home, and there was another note on the door.

You’ve got to be effing kidding me.

As she opened it up, she began to read it to me. “Thank you. I didn’t hear anything this morning at all!” she said. Apparently “at all” was underlined.

No signature, no further clue as to who these people were; nothing.

Freaking weirdo’s.

I’m sorry, I just don’t get it. We’re neighbors. Do we really need to be resorting to anonymous notes on doors over something like this?

Again, I am a nice girl! I swear!

Even if I did just call them freaking weirdo’s. But that’s only because… they are freaking weirdo’s!

Either way though, it seems as though the situation is resolved. For now. Hopefully for good.

Because really and truly – I wasn’t giving up my workouts.

I'm not that nice a girl.

Mistakes I Wish I Hadn’t Made

2012-02-01T18:29:00.000-09:00

It hurts to type this.

And I don’t mean that in the psychological way it sometimes hurts me to write about certain things.

No, I mean: it physically hurts me to type right now.

My right arm is incapable of being completely straightened, and my left has been rendered practically useless.

Showering and washing my hair has suddenly become next to impossible.

Seriously, you should have seen me this morning. I’m sure a hidden camera in my shower would have proven to be an instant YouTube hit.

And not just because I would have been naked.

At this point though, I’m starting to wonder if I will ever have use of my arms again.

Not because I’ve endured some horrific accident or suffered from a stroke either.

No, my current condition is completely self-inflicted.

You see, I’ve been feeling pretty damn good this last month. I’ve been dragging my not-a-morning-person butt out of bed at 5:30 every morning (and yes, I mean every morning!) to do half an hour of some kind of cardio (3 days a week, that means actually running in preparation for that half marathon I want to complete this summer). In addition to that, I’ve been keeping up a few week nights of Pilates a week as well. I haven’t dropped a ton of weight exactly, but I can feel my muscles working for me. Growing stronger. Breathing a sigh of relief after years of inactivity driven by endometriosis and infertility.

And as far as the weight is concerned – I’ve actually lost almost 20 pounds in the last year total. All very slowly, but… I really can’t complain. I’m smaller right now than I’ve been in 8 years, and I’m only 4 pounds away from my goal weight. So even if I keep dropping it at a rate of a quarter of a pound a week, I don’t care. I’m pretty pumped with where I’m at right now.

Because, like I said – I’m feeling strong. Healthy. Capable.

It’s a good place to be, and I am remembering every day how much I love feeling like this.

How much working out on a regular basis improves my overall well-being.

So when a friend asked if I wanted to go to a strength class with her on Monday night, I didn’t even have to think twice.

It was something new and exciting – I was in!

Who cares if Pilates is the extent of strength training that I do. I’ve seen my arms trim down and gain tone over the last year of regular reformer work. I could totally handle this!

Yeah, not so much.

I was the weak link in that class to be sure. First, completely thrown by the speed at which everything moved (used to the sedated breathing workouts I get in my Pilates classes). Second, practically paralyzed by my own lack of coordination and inability to keep up with even the simplest of moves. And finally, finding myself blown away by these women who were packing on up to four times the weight I was struggling with, even though as far as I could tell; they didn’t look any more fit than I was.

Let’s just go ahead and say it: the whole experience was humiliating.

A few weeks ago I was talking to my grandmother, and she was complaining about how impossible her new Kindle was to use. I not-so-subtly reminded her that technology had never really been her thing (seriously, the woman once needed me to write out directions for how to operate her cable box.) She began laughing (we are a family of people who do a lot of poking fun at ourselves, and each other) before saying “I know… it’s kind of like you and sports!”

Wow. Rude grandma.

I got off the phone feeling a little slighted. I mean, sure – I had ridden the bench on my high school soccer team almost the entire season long. A soccer team that even without my less than stellar athletic skills, still lost every single game they ever played. So, I was theoretically the worst player on the worst team in the district. And it’s possible that when my dad would sign me up for softball every year, the coaches would secretly argue about who it was that would be stuck with me that summer.

We’ve already acknowledged the fact that I am completely lacking in grace, poise, and coordination.

But damn-it, I was athletic! I was always running. Always swimming. Always biking. Always working out.

Maybe I had never exactly excelled at athletic activities involving balls (get your minds out of the gutter), but I had always been athletic!

And I was becoming athletic again! Physically fit in a way I hadn’t been in a while!

My grandma had no idea what she was talking about.

Except then, there was that strength class.

Where not only did I manage to completely humiliate myself, but I’m also fairly sure I paralyzed the upper half of my body.

For at least the next week.

Whilst using the smallest weights available.

In a room full of women all looking at me like I was the special needs kid who had accidentally wandered into the wrong room.

Which might have had something to do with the fact that when they began quickly rotating in and out of sit-ups and plank position, I instead just laid there.

Rolling around on the floor from my stomach to my back as they alternated, praying that no one would notice I was doing nothing more.

By that point, I had already given up.

Thinking to myself that this was one of those mistakes I wished I hadn’t made.

And resigning myself to the fact that: my grandma was right.

I suck at sports.

Making the score now Grandma: 1 and Me: -2 (since I’m currently out two arms.)

But come June, I’ll show you old lady.

I’m going to run that half marathon, and then you’ll see.

I am good at some sports.

Just so long as I don’t manage to break anything between now and then.

One Month For Every Year

2012-01-30T19:41:00.000-09:00

My periods come, on average, every 32 days.

Sometimes it’s 31, and sometimes it’s 34, but all in all – they fall within a day or two of that 32 day mark.

And they have for almost a year now.

I have regular periods.

Normal periods.

Yeah, they still aren’t a walk in the park, and I still typically plan on being extra lazy when Jack decides to pay a visit, but… they are normal.

And they have been for a year.

Something I couldn't say before, when I never knew exactly when to expect my period. It took 50 days one month, and 20 the next, with no rhyme or reason at all.

Now though, I know.

I know of course, because my handy-dandy period tracker tells me, but even without that – I would know because it’s something Dr. Naturopath has been predicting all along.

Waiting for the point in time when we could see what it was my body would do in its natural state.

It was maybe half a year ago when she explained to me the one month for every year theory.

According to her, it takes one month for every year a woman is on birth control (or any hormone treatments at all for that matter) for her body to bounce back to a truly “normal” state.

Obviously with teenagers, it's a different story. Their bodies are still just figuring it all out, and it could take years from their first period before things settle down into "normal". This process is, all on its own, the way things are supposed to progress. Even though so many are quick to want to put teenagers on birth control to "regulate" them, in theory - they should be doing that on their own with time.

But for grown women who have been on hormone treatments, the one month for every year is the time frame she says it takes once those treatments have stopped for things to settle down to a natural way of functioning.

Add a few extra months for any surgeries on the lady parts, and a few more for any big hormonal surges such as those that are used with IVF.

I’ve had 4 rounds of those hormones (between two egg donations and two of my own IVF cycles) and three surgeries.

And then you’ve got to remember that I was on the pill for 12 years before that.

So, it’s safe to assume it will take up to two years from my last IVF for my body to truly bounce back to "normal".

But here we are, a little over a year later, and my body really is acting pretty damn normal.

I think in the end, my average cycle may end up being closer to 30 days (as the gaps seem to be getting smaller), and I hope to continue the trend of uncomfortable but not unbearable. I’ve got to admit though, I like being regular. Even if I don’t love my period, I like knowing that it’s coming when it’s supposed to.

That my body is finally doing something right.

I started on the pill when I was 13 years old, because my first few periods were pretty heavy and excruciatingly painful. Looking back now, I think that was the first indication that something may have been wrong, but starting on the pill so soon is what kept the endo at bay until my mid twenties.

And for that, I am thankful.

Although, I do wonder what would have happened if we had looked at more natural options from the start. If maybe it never would have flared as bad as it did, if I had started treating with diet and supplements and acupuncture from the beginning instead.

Obviously, you can’t look back like that. The world is full of what-ifs. But now, it’s kind of nice to know that my body is capable of doing what it’s supposed to do all on its own.

I’m treating stage IV endometriosis naturally, and successfully. I’ve been doing so for almost a year now, and I’m still feeling good. Strong. Healthy.

And if the one month for every year theory stands true, I can only hope that the trend will continue over the next year, as my body learns to rely on itself. As my hormones continue to stabilize naturally.

It’s been work. Effort beyond what I think most people are prepared for when they decide they want to treat naturally. But it’s been worth it, because I’m healthy right now. Without the nasty side effects of so many of the drugs thrown at this disease.

I’m healthy in a way that I know surpasses the expectations of many of the medical practitioners I have. Those who were never exactly comfortable with the idea of me doing this naturally.

It's kind of amazing though, just realizing what the body is capable of when we give it the chance to do what it’s supposed to do.

Without bombarding it with drugs and chemicals meant to take over.

I still absolutely believe that western medicine has its place, and that there are times when drugs truly are the best option. Don’t get me wrong – I wouldn’t be the nut trying to treat cancer with fresh squeezed juices. I’m just saying, as a society we have become so reliant on pills. So convinced it’s the only way to treat… everything.

But that isn’t always the case.

And sometimes, all your body really needs to get back to normal is…

One month for every year.

Everything But The Kiss

2012-01-27T18:56:00.005-09:00

It just occurred to me that it’s almost February (seriously – where did this month go?) and I never did give you the full update on my New Years Eve!

I was so caught up in the story of the boy, that I managed to skimp on the details of that night.

To be fair – my memory is pretty foggy on said details.

It’s possible (probable) that I had far too much to drink – although, I continue to maintain that it wasn’t my fault and that I was in fact roofied.

For the record – I’m 99% positive I wasn’t actually roofied. That did happen to me once in my life, and it was a bad, bad situation; so I’m really not trying to make light of something that I do get is actually quite serious. I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened here. I just got WAY more drunk off FAR less booze than I normally would have. Likely because I starved myself for the entire week prior in order to look perfect in my New Year’s Dress.

And so far, the situation I’m describing is just sounding more and more unhealthy… But seriously, that dress hugged every single curve on my body! I did not want any extra bloat or chub going on that night!

I suppose I should start at the beginning…

It was a few weeks before New Year’s when I was with Dee and her husband and another set of friends. We were discussing New Year’s, and what we should plan to do – what with Dee and Lindsey both knocked up (Mrs. King was already planning on being in Hawaii with her family). It wound up turning out that Lindsey and her husband Blue had long-standing plans at her parent’s cabin, but me being single and still looking – that simply wasn't going to do.

I wanted to get hot and dolled up and find myself a man.

I still hadn’t been with anyone since the boy pulled his epic disappearing act months before.

OK, so that’s not entirely true. There was one guy; a man I’d met when I first moved to Alaska who I was ridiculously attracted to, but then never saw again after that initial meeting. I remember him telling me about having lived in Australia, and I had been instantly smitten.

It’s fair to note that he also happens to be one of the most attractive men I’ve ever actually seen in real life. The epitome of tall, dark, and handsome.

So when I went out with some girlfriends in November to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show (such a blast!) and spotted him in a bar after, I walked right up and staked my claim.

Liquid courage contributing to my being far more aggressive than usual.

Let’s just say… I brought him home.

In my defense, I was heartbroken and the boy had left me feeling pretty crappy about myself. Nabbing this gorgeous man was a win I needed!

And to be fair – I stood firm in ensuring that all activities that evening remained above the belt.

The next morning, we went to breakfast and then a movie with some of his friends. He was sweet and attentive and charming the entire day.

I kind of loved it.

A few days later I flew home for Thanksgiving, and when I came back – he had a ton going on. We talked for a couple of weeks, and attempted to make plans (plans that kept falling through) and then… we just kind of stopped.

Nothing came of it, and at this point – I’ve been telling people he died.

So not counting that one very brief dalliance that turned into nothing, there had been no other men in my life.

And I was determined to go out on New Year’s Eve and find myself one.

Dee and her husband both seemed open to going out, and we decided it would be fun to get a big group of people together for dinner that night and then head out to the bars just before midnight.

So, that’s exactly what we did. The three of us:

My roommate and her boyfriend:

And a few other friends as well. There were 9 of us total.

We had a blast. Big dinners like that are pretty much one of my favorite things ever. I love ordering a ton of food and picking off everyone’s plates, laughing and talking and drinking the night away.

But I can for sure say that at least at dinner, I really did not have that much to drink.

Still… I left already tipsy as we found our way to one of my favorite bars in town.

And that is where the fun began.

If you ever see me out in a group sober, you likely won’t notice me. I tend to get uncomfortable around people I don’t know, and blend into crowds as best as possible. I can be shy, and standoffish, and awkward without ever really meaning to be.

But get a few drinks in me, and suddenly – I am the life of the party.

The happiest most loving drunk you have ever met.

I talk to everyone, and always (I mean – always) have an eye out for the next man in my life.

And I have no qualms at all about going up to him myself once I spot him.

Again, something I would never do sober!

This was one of those nights though. I really don’t think I had all that much to drink, but I suppose I must have had a few. I spotted a guy across the bar who seemed marginally cute, but one of the friends we were with said he knew him from high school and that he had a less than desirable STD.

He also told me the guy was only 22.

I immediately began looking elsewhere.

It was maybe 15 minutes later when I got up to get myself another drink, and the next thing I knew – this guy had come up behind me and put his finger in my mouth.

He said he was fish-hooking me.

I was horrified.

And not even because I had just heard what was very likely only speculation about his sexual history.

No, I was horrified because some stranger had just put his finger in my mouth.

That’s disgusting!

I had no idea where that finger had been!

So I expressed to him my revulsion.

And he expressed to me a desire to get my next drink.

Which is when my lack of a filter combined with my less than sober state, and wanting only to get this guy out of my line of sight I blurted out “I heard you have herpes.”

Bad S.I.F.!

He looked at me for a second before saying “Where did you hear that from?”

Which is when I pointed to our table and said “That guy told me so just 15 minutes ago.”

I said it completely matter of factly, like this was normal bar fodder.

BAD S.I.F.!

Somehow (and I’m still not sure how), this managed to not turn into a fight.

But the guy did leave less than 10 minutes later.

And then we spent the rest of the night making fun of him and his fish hooking.

I mean, really; who does that?

I wish I could say that was the worst of my shenanigans that night, but really; it went from bad to worse.

About the time when Dee and her husband took off for the night (making it until almost one, which officially makes Dee a rock star pregnant woman in my book!) I decided to intensify the search for my next boyfriend.

In a bar, while wasted, on New Year’s Eve.

Midnight had already passed, and sadly; no one had kissed me.

But I wasn’t about to let that stop me from my quest.

I’m pretty sure I became that girl.

Wandering around a bar pathetically introducing herself to every available man she could spot.

I swear, I’ve never been that bad before. I just think… there was a lot going on for me. A lot of residual hurt from the boy that I just wanted to shove away with a new guy. And here it was, New Year’s Eve; the night we had met a year before.

He was definitely on my mind.

And I didn’t want him to be.

So, I was looking for his replacement.

In all the wrong places.

And failing desperately.

Likely because by this point, I was pretty damn sloppy.

I wound up running into a girl I’ve met only once (and briefly at that) and immediately declared myself her best friend.

When the roommate and her boyfriend decided it was time to go – I decided I should stay behind with my new friend.

This is something I do. Pretty much any time I have too much to drink. I make friends and insist my real friends leave me behind when they decide it’s time to go.

I’ve been doing this for years.

Like I said, get a few drinks in me and suddenly; I become the life of the party.

Somehow it has always worked out just fine for me. But that still doesn’t mean I think for even one second that it’s safe.

I’m so convincing though. It’s not like my friends are bad friends (they’re not!), it’s that I’m a 28 year old woman, and when I tell them I’m fine and want to stay – what are they going to say?

For the record, I have since told them all that it’s OK to push me to come with them. I know myself, and I would never put up much of a fight. Even drunk. If they said it was time to go, I would go.

Which really is preferable to me continuing to hang out in bars drunk and by myself.

Technically though, in this case, I wasn’t by myself. I did know the girl I had latched on to.

Barely.

But… latching on to her made me the invariable 5th wheel.

She kept saying it was no big deal, but waking up the next morning – I was embarrassed.

Especially because, when it came time to head home, none of us could find cabs.

At all.

We wound up hanging out in the lobby of a local downtown hotel, goofing off and taking pictures:

(Yes, my shoe is unzipped. Also, I’m fairly sure that rather than just

being elegantly posed, I had actually fallen.

Classy-class.)

We stayed there until almost 4 in the morning, when the guys finally opted to buy out an hour of the hotel’s limo service to get us home.

They didn’t make me pay a cent. And when we got to their house, they made sure the driver was good to take me home as well.

So there I was, 4 in the morning on New Year’s, pulling up in front of my house in a limo.

By myself.

Drunk, and sloppy, and… with some sort of nastiness all over the front of my dress.

I swear, it looked like I had hugged a sappy tree.

I joked the next day that if someone had roofied and later attempted to molest me – it was definitely the stain which looked far too much like chew on my dress that stopped them.

Either that, or my Spanx.

Which could possibly be a new motto for Spanx: Slowing down lazy rapists one woman at a time.

Regardless; I was a mess.

I crawled up the steps and needed to bang on the door to get my roommate to let me in, because I couldn’t find my key (it was definitely tucked right into my purse).

I immediately stripped down and crawled into bed, before violently jerking up 15 minutes later when I remembered my list.

The list I had absolutely forgotten to burn at midnight.

It was freezing outside, and I had no intention of getting dressed again (I’m not even sure I could have at this point), so instead I dug the list and a lighter out of my purse and went to the bathroom.

I burned my 14 words over a toilet, so drunk that I was resting my head on the seat as I did it.

Classy-class.

Even then, I was pretty sure that all symbolism in this act was pretty effectively ruined.

Once it was gone, I crawled into bed and… you know the rest.

I began composing a novel for the boy. Until 7 in the morning, when I finally saved it to my drafts and passed out.

Needless to say, it was the next morning (whilst recovering from a pretty horrific hangover) that I declared myself off the cock and booze.

I haven’t had a drink, or a man, since.

I realized that in the months prior, I had been nursing a pretty gnarly heartbreak. And trying with all my might to pretend as though I wasn’t.

Which didn’t exactly seem to be working.

Finding another man wasn’t going to fix this.

And neither was drinking myself into embarrassing stupidity.

So instead, I pledged myself to a few months of taking care of me. To writing my book, and training for a half marathon, and not cluttering my mind with alcohol or boys at all.

Not until my other goals have been reached.

It turned out to be the best thing I ever could have done for myself.

The thing I needed to do in order to finally feel refreshed, and excited, and well taken care of once again.

It just so happens that, I’m the one doing the caring.

For me.

Which for the record: Is something I highly recommend.

And the next time I put that dress on (because yes, I did somehow manage to save that thing after many washes), I vow:

I will not ruin its supreme sexiness with my own supreme sloppiness.

I Don't Remember Asking For a Life Coach...

2012-01-25T18:40:00.001-09:00

Have I mentioned before that I have got some pretty amazing friends?

Like; fantastic, wonderful, unbelievably amazing friends.

I’ve always been pretty lucky this way. No matter where I’ve been, I’ve always managed to find myself surround by incredible friends.

And I’ve got to say, near or far, the same is still true today.

Still, this morning when one of those incredible friends sent me a link to an article that was suspiciously of the self help variety; I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

This is the same friend who has vowed to ride my ass until my book has reached completion. So I immediately fired back to her that I remembered asking for an editor, not a life coach.

I was kidding of course. Ribbing her for sending me such a lame link.

But then, I opened it.

And not only did I immediately know why she had sent it, I also immediately loved her for doing so.

As much as you can possibly love a person who you already feel pretty damn grateful to know.

She highlighted this particular number for me:

Start giving your ideas and dreams a chance. – In life, it’s rarely about getting a chance; it’s about taking a chance. You’ll never be 100% sure it will work, but you can always be 100% sure doing nothing won’t work. Most of the time you just have to go for it! And no matter how it turns out, it always ends up just the way it should be. Either you succeed or you learn something. Win-Win.

Playing up her role as my top encourager in this journey to finish a book.

But you know which ones stood out to me?

This one:

Start spending time with the right people. – These are the people you enjoy, who love and appreciate you, and who encourage you to improve in healthy and exciting ways. They are the ones who make you feel more alive, and not only embrace who you are now, but also embrace and embody who you want to be, unconditionally.

And this one:

Start actively nurturing your most important relationships. – Bring real, honest joy into your life and the lives of those you love by simply telling them how much they mean to you on a regular basis. You can’t be everything to everyone, but you can be everything to a few people. Decide who these people are in your life and treat them like royalty. Remember, you don’t need a certain number of friends, just a number of friends you can be certain of.

Life is short, and I would rather spend every single day focusing on those I can count on, rather than lamenting those I can’t.

Because really, I’m pretty damn lucky.

So I wanted to share the article with you as well.

30 Things to Start Doing For Yourself

I loved almost every single one. Enough that I’m trying to think of a way to print the list up and frame it.

It fits my life right now. The place I’m at. This stage of taking care of me, and pursuing my dreams.

A stage I have to admit, is making me happier than I’ve been in a long time.

I’m finding myself again. Day by day, rediscovering the girl I was once upon a time.

And you know what? I kind of like her.

Almost as much as I like the friends she’s managed to surround herself with.

I don’t remember asking for a life coach.

But, I think I'm pretty glad I got one.

Taking a Leap

2012-01-23T18:21:00.006-09:00

When I was a little girl and my dad would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I always had two answers: An actress and a writer.

I was convinced I could do both. And well.

In grade school I won all the writing awards. I still remember being so proud of a story contest my 7th grade class had where our names were removed from our submissions and the class voted on the best one without knowing who had written what.

Mine was by far the longest (real shocker there) and I was convinced for that fact alone that it wouldn’t win.

But then… it did. Some dramatic tale about a pre-teen who had a falling out with her group of friends and had to face their torment until the day her brother died of cancer.

Morbid, right?

I may or may not have been in the middle of a fight with my circle of friends at the time.

It’s also possible I was wishing cancer upon my brother.

One can’t really be sure.

I was 12 years old after all.

But the point is, there were a lot of things like that. The district wide poetry contest I swept. The first time a magazine published something I had written, and my grandma made me give her the $10 check they sent me so that she could frame it. The teachers who were constantly sending notes home to rave about my creative writing. The time when, upon graduating from 8th grade, I composed a 30 page manifesto for all my friends detailing our friendships from early childhood.

I named it “Friends Forever” and presented it to everyone with all kinds of flourish.

This was something I was good at though. One of the few things that came naturally to me from a young age.

The acting was always there as well. I was involved in all the plays in high school, and nabbed a couple leads for myself before being named most likely to be famous my senior year.

But that was something that quickly faded away once I started college. I had loved acting, but the truth was – I had no interest in being famous.

I wanted kids and a family someday. Not a decade or more of trying to “break-in” to a difficult business, followed by a lifetime of being hounded by the paparazzi and marrying men bound to cheat on me in the end.

Because let’s face it; I was pretty sure I was going to make it. Confident in the future in a way that only a teenager could be.

So yeah, the acting became a dream of the past.

But the writing… well the writing stayed.

And I still dreamed of one day having my name on a published book.

Of making a career out of putting words on paper.

I never had quite as much confidence in this though. I knew I loved writing, and that I could pound out 2000 words on just about any subject in my sleep, but… I wasn’t sure I had what it would take to really make that dream a reality.

And then I started writing this blog. If only because I needed a place to get out all my thoughts and feelings regarding infertility.

And it was safe. Not nearly as scary. Because there is instant gratification that comes from writing a blog post and knowing immediately whether or not it has been well received.

A far cry from committing up to a year of one’s life to completing a book, only to have it go nowhere.

I have honestly had nightmares about putting so much of myself into a book and then not being able to get an agent to read past the first chapter.

Failure has always been a pretty big fear of mine.

In fact, I’ll let you in on a little secret – I don’t do anything unless I know I can do it well. Ever. And if I do try something new and I’m not instantly good at it, I’ve been known to immediately give it up.

I’m pretty sure that’s a giant character flaw on my part.

The truth is though, in my adult life I’ve only ever really had 2 dreams.

To be a mommy, and to write a book.

We all know how well pursuing that first dream turned out.

Which is perhaps why I’ve been so resistant to pursuing the second.

The thought of failing at that too literally makes me sick.

The truth is though, I have more than one partially finished book on my laptop.

I always get to a certain point, and then I give up.

I freak out.

I walk away from whatever I’ve been working on, telling myself it’s just not good enough. That it can’t possibly go anywhere. That no one will want to read it, and I’ll end up feeling like a massive failure in the end.

Let’s face it; a girl can only take so much failure.

But something happened when I started writing about the boy. Or rather, a lot of things happened all at once.

Beginning with a very close friend of mine getting on my ass and pledging to hold me to deadlines along the way if that’s what it would take for me to finish a book. Encouraging me if only because she knew I would never be truly content until I at least tried.

Knowing me well enough to realize... this was the only thing I'd ever been really passionate about.

Her pushing coincided perfectly with the excitement I felt in throwing so much of myself into this story. This overwhelming desire I suddenly had to spend every spare moment writing.

Which culminated in the realization that, I could do this. I mean, I practically composed an entire novel in under a month. Coming up with the words was not an issue for me.

I just needed to have the confidence in myself to try.

And for some reason, writing out the whole story gave me that confidence.

I suppose one day, I may have to thank the boy for being my muse.

Which brings us to where we are now.

I’m going to write a book.

Or rather, finish a book I began working on years ago.

I don’t really want to get into the details just yet, because I’m afraid I’ll talk myself out of it.

But one way or another, I am going to finish a book this year.

I’ve designed a writing calendar for myself that has me completing the entire project in 12 weeks.

I already met the first deadline this weekend.

The goal is to have a completed book (albeit, one likely still in need of revisions and editing) by my birthday – April 11th.

I want to turn 29 being able to say that I’ve written a book.

And in a perfect world, I would turn 30 being able to say that it’s been published.

While my friends are busy pushing out new additions to their families this year, this is going to be my baby.

My big accomplishment.

My leap.

I’m still terrified of failing.

Terrified of putting so much of myself into something, and having to watch as it goes nowhere.

Thinking about the point in time when I’ll have to send this off to agents knots my stomach up like you wouldn't believe.

But I’m going to do it.

I’m going to try.

If for no other reason, than so that I can stop talking about it.

Once and for all.

I’ll know whether or not I have what it takes.

And if I don’t, well… someone better get me a drink.

Because failing at two major lifetime goals in such a short period of time, might just send me over the edge!

The only reason I’m mentioning anything here now though, is because turning my attention towards a book is going to mean turning it away from this space.

For at least a few months anyway.

It was over a year ago when the devirginator told me that I needed to do this. When he pointed out the fact that if I spent as much time working on a book as I did working on my blog, I could have it done in no time.

I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes at him and said he had way too much faith in me.

But he was right. I do a lot of writing here, and if I shift that focus even just a few days a week – it won’t be long before I find myself typing “the end”.

So while I will still be around (updating a few times a week I’m sure) I am going to be more absent than I’ve been in the past.

And I’m guessing the posts I do leave you with will be shorter in length than ever before.

Don’t worry, I won’t keep anything exciting from you.

But I also won’t likely be penning any lengthy dissections of the inner workings of my mind in the near future.

I’ll save that for the point in time when I’m lamenting not hearing back from agents!

I’m hopeful though.

More hopeful than I’ve been in a long time.

Determined to spend these next few months focused on myself.

Focused on my book.

And also, focused on training for a half marathon this summer.

You know – just for good measure.

I figure as long as I’m committed to being “off the cock” (a commitment that I plan on keeping in place until I finish this book of mine - because boys have a way of being distracting), I should probably find a way to channel all that excess energy I typically dedicate to dating.

I’ve gotten up at 5:30 every morning for the last 2 weeks to work out.

This could get interesting.

Either way though, I’m committed right now.

To myself.

To my book.

And to conquering some old fears.

While hopefully making one of my dreams come true.

So be patient with me over the next few months.

I plan on being kind of busy, just working on me.

About a Boy

2012-01-21T18:24:00.000-09:00

If you're looking for the story about the boy... I hope you're ready to sit back and do some reading:

Part 1: In The Beginning

Part 2: Over The River, and Through The Woods

Part 3: The Whore

Part 4: The Text Houdini

Part 5: What Happens In The Woods, Stays In The Woods

Part 6: The 'L' Word

Part 7: Fun Bobby

Part 8: D-Day

Part 9: When In Doubt... Run Away

Part 10: Drunk Dial

Part 11: The Call

Part 12: Going Through The Motions

Part 13: The Fallout

Part 14: The Doctor Is In

Part 15: When Does It Get To Be About Me?

Part 16: Space

Part 17: The Heart Always Wins

Part 18: Jinx

Part 19: The Thin Line between Love and Hate

Part 20: The End

The End

2012-01-20T18:59:00.009-09:00

If you’re just now joining us, I’m telling a story… About a boy. If you want to catch up before jumping in, start here first.

When we got off the phone that night, I was sure it was the last I would hear from him.

So of course, it was only a few hours before I received a text.

Or rather, a series of texts. The contents of which need to be shared, if only so that you can see how truly drunk he must have been in sending them.

Text 1: “You’re right. I am an a”

Text 2: “I am truly sorry for treating u like shit. U were really good to me and I took that for granite. Yes, I am a fucking asshole.”

Text 3: “You didn’t deserve this. I am really really sorry.”

Text 4: “Goodbye.”

They came in one right after another. A little past 2 in the morning, when the bars must have kicked him out.

It was the last one that probably irked me the most.

“Goodbye.”

It just felt so dramatic.

I didn’t respond. I knew he was drunk, and I was sleeping when I got them anyway. And by the following morning, I had other things to worry about.

I figured if he really wanted to apologize, he would call me sober.

The funny thing was that not long after (or before?) he sent those texts, he also forwarded me an e-mail he had sent to his mom earlier in the week. It was full of pictures from a wedding he had just attended in Texas. We had discussed his going when he'd booked the ticket a few months before, so it wasn't something I was completely oblivious about. But the only message to me in the e-mail was “Thought you might like to see these.”

I couldn’t figure it out. Why was he sending me these photos now?

And what on earth made him suddenly think I wanted to see them?

OK, so I did... But that's not really the point.

The point is, it made no sense for him to send them to my whilst also apparently telling me "goodbye".

A snippet from the night before popped into my mind. A moment when (at the height of his defensiveness) he had said to me “You’re the one who chose to get involved with someone who was mentally unstable.”

It was one of those moments when I would have laughed, if I hadn’t already been so angry.

Was he seriously blaming me? For caring about him?

And did he honestly just call himself mentally unstable?

I mean, I couldn’t argue with him. The roller coaster he had put me on was a clear indication that things were not all right in his head. And he was correct; I had entered into this knowing full well that it wouldn’t be easy. That he was broken, and that I may not be enough to heal him.

Even though so many times it felt like he was depending on me to do just that.

I had entered this mess fully aware that it was exactly that - a mess.

But still… I cared about him, and tried to be there for him (to be a friend and support him as best I knew how) and he turns around and basically tells me that I deserved to get hurt because I made the stupid choice to trust him in the first place?

It reminded me a bit of that old fable. The one about the farmer who helps the snake, only to have the snake turn around and bite him as soon as it's gotten what it needs.

The moral of the story being – a snake is still just a snake in the end.

The thing was though; I had never before seen the boy as a snake.

I had seen him as broken, and wounded, and in need of time and patience; but never as a snake.

I had never believed, even for a second, that in the end he would take me and my feelings so monumentally for granted.

I had always believed that no matter what, we would find a way to at least be friends.

I thought he had believed that too.

I never responded to the e-mail either. I mean, what was I supposed to say in response to that? I couldn’t figure out why he had sent it in the first place.

Over the next few weeks though, I began agonizing over what had happened between us. I sifted through the details like an excavator. Searching for what went wrong.

Not because I wanted to fix things, but because... I needed to understand. I needed to know how it was possible that after everything, he could just so casually discard me and walk away.

I was determined to find the answers.

To figure out which man he had been. The one I’d loved and believed loved me back, or the one who had pummeled me with almost no concern for my well-being at all.

I rationalized, and defended.

I grew angry, and indignant.

I turned it all into a joke, poking fun at myself and embracing the fact that I really had only ever been a rebound to him.

(Oh yes, that happened)

But I still couldn’t figure it out.

And as hard as I tried, I still wasn’t over it.

Over what he’d done. How callously he had treated me. And how easily he had walked away.

I couldn’t get him out of my head. His birthday came and went, and I lamented the gift I’d intentionally put so much thought into getting him weeks before. The one that was now sitting in my closet with nowhere to go.

For a split second, I considered throwing it through the window of his truck.

But then I remembered that he drove a company vehicle. And that he wouldn’t suffer the consequences of my justifiable action on that one.

So instead it remained in my closet.

Now a blatant reminder that I had cared so much more for him than he had me.

The weeks continued passing though, and I found myself beginning to wonder if he’d ever actually cared at all.

Had I really just been a rebound?

Had it been so easy for him to fool me into thinking he cared?

So easy for him to leave me?

Which is when I received another e-mail from him. It was early November now, a little after 8 on a Sunday night.

He was forwarding me pictures of a friend’s baby. All the message said was “Thought you’d like these pics. You may have seen them already. Hope you’re doing well.”

The funny thing was, these were friends I had my own connection to. People I was friends with on Facebook and had seen fairly recently as well.

He knew this. Or at least, he knew I had ties to them. I couldn’t figure out why he had felt the need to forward this on to me at all.

Unless he had just been looking for an “in”. A way to see if those doors of communication were still closed.

Which had to mean he was at least thinking of me a little bit, right? That on some level, he had actually cared?

I can’t tell you how much that question haunted me. Not whether or not he had loved me, but whether or not he had cared. At all.

Thinking he hadn’t, tore me up inside.

It ate away at me.

Because at its root, it made me feel stupid.

Used, unwanted, and abandoned.

Still, while this e-mail allowed me a moment of thinking that maybe he had cared, I knew it wasn’t enough.

Not to open up those lines of communication.

Not to even respond back at all.

He couldn’t just sneak back into my life (even as only just a friend), without first giving me what I needed.

An explanation.

An apology.

A sober acknowledgement of what he’d done.

And even with that, I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to forgive.

Except… I knew I wanted to. I wanted this to be past us. I wanted for us to just be able to be friends.

Not because he deserved that from me, but because I hated feeling like I was feeling.

I didn’t want to be angry at him. I didn’t want to have so much confusion and hurt. I just wanted to be over it. To be done and be able to move on.

Partially because, even then I was slipping into moments of worrying about him.

Which I realize is pathetic to admit.

But as the holidays approached, I couldn’t help it. I was worried about how he would fare over the first holiday season without her. Worried about how he was doing. Worried about who he was reaching out to now that he didn’t have me.

I didn't want to keep beating myself up for... caring.

I just wanted it to be over.

I still couldn’t figure any of it out though.

And even as I maintained my distance and didn’t reach out to him in any way, he was constantly on my mind.

What he’d done to me.

And how it didn’t mesh at all with the man I believed him to be.

The whole situation was breaking me apart as I fought to understand it.

And it’s not like I was dealing with some unknown person here. Not like I had zero insight into who he was or what he was doing. His friends had become my friends. Those ties were still there. It was Jay and Mel I spent Halloween with. I get together with Dee and her husband at least a few times a month. His buddy’s girlfriend was just at my house this week borrowing a dress. I'm going to Pilates tomorrow with the wife of one of those core childhood friends of his.

I had insight.

But everyone else was just as confused as I was.

Not that they hadn’t seen the crash coming, because they had. As people who cared about him, they’d realized he was falling apart.

But I don’t think anyone ever anticipated he would end up disregarding me so completely.

In fact, I know most within his circle really thought we were going to work things out in the end.

I tried not to bring him up often. I tried to keep my friendships with these people separate from him. To not bring any further drama or awkwardness than there needed to be.

But everyone knew what happened.

And everyone understood where my hurt had come from.

Unfortunately, no one could give me any further explanation than what I already knew.

There had been no other girl. He hadn’t gone back to his wife (or even spoken to her at all since she’d popped up around the fourth of July). There was nothing from the outside that had come in and caused this.

He’d just gone from missing me and being so sure he was ready for "us", to determining that it wasn’t what he wanted.

Seemingly overnight.

And in making the break, he’d decided that my feelings weren’t worth even attempting to protect.

One thing was for sure though – I went from hearing from almost every one of these people at one time or another how much the boy cared about me, to now hearing that he was definitely over it.

I have no idea what's been said to make them all so sure, but… it’s been a long time since anyone in that group has reassured me of the boy’s feelings for me.

Even in the past tense.

It should be noted that these people are all still friends with the boy as well. Some of his friendships with the men in that group had endured for 20 years. I have never had any intention of destroying that, and don’t think I could even if I tried. My initial gut had been to pull away from everyone, but none of them allowed that to happen. I think they all knew what had gone down, and just hadn’t been as willing to toss me aside as he had. They’ve all been great about staying out of the middle of it, but still being friends to us both.

It really has been kind of incredible.

I still don’t think anyone gets it any more than I do though.

It just… doesn’t add up.

Which is why on New Year’s, after having far too much to drink and burning my list in the toilet (don’t ask), I found myself writing him an e-mail.

An e-mail that I began at 4 in the morning and didn’t stop until sometime after 7.

An e-mail that was over 7000 words and 15 pages long.

An e-mail that I somehow, by the grace of God, saved into my drafts instead of sending.

But when I woke the next day, I looked that e-mail over again.

Most of it didn’t make any sense. It was jumbled and repetitive and there were far more spelling and grammatical errors within than I care to own up to.

But… there was something there.

And I realized in reading it that I had not once taken the time to really let him know what he’d done to me. I’d yelled and screamed and severed ties, but I’d never explained it to him from my heart.

I’d been so concerned about being strong in the end, that I’d forgotten about being honest.

I needed that. That release. That moment where I could say to myself “Well… at least it’s out there.”

So I started writing again. This time keeping my words in check, and trying to get to the root of how he’d made me feel.

Before I sent it to him though, I sent it first to Dee.

I needed to know if I was crazy for contemplating this. Crazy for considering hitting send at all. Crazy for letting him know now, 3 months since we'd last spoken, that I was still hurting over what he'd done.

After Dee read it, she sent me a text. She said that her initial instinct had been to tell me not to send it. Not to contact him at all. But that after reading what I’d written, she thought I should. She thought he needed to hear it from me, to really realize what his actions had done. She said she knew that at his heart, he was a good person. And she hoped that he would take what I’d said and really reflect upon what he’d done. Maybe give me the explanation and apology I so desperately needed.

But she acknowledged that more important than anything else, it would give me some closure. If I never received any response from him at all, at least I would know I had said my part.

And I knew that’s why I needed to do it the most. So that I could wipe my hands of it. Walk away knowing that I’d been true to myself. True to what I was feeling.

I wound up hitting “send” not long after hearing from Dee.

Here are some of the highlights from that e-mail:

“I have to admit that I still find myself going over everything in my head; like it’s a puzzle with some of the pieces missing. I want to understand. I want to get where you were coming from. I really do. I want it to all make sense to me. I feel like we went to bed one night and things were fine, and then we woke up the next morning and you were distant and pulled away and… I couldn’t figure out what had happened. What I had done. And then, you were just gone. No phone call, no explanation, no apology for sucking me back in again when clearly you weren’t capable of fulfilling the promises you had made. Nothing. You were just gone. And I kept thinking I was being strong and keeping my head held high by not saying anything. By not demanding more from you, if only on a friendship level. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have held you more accountable for your own words. For a friendship that I really thought meant more to you than that.

You hurt me. More than I think you will ever realize. And the way you walked away from me still tears me up. Not because I want to be with you, because the truth is – you did a pretty good job of proving to me that you’re not the man I thought you were. But because I really believed that you cared about me, on even the most basic of levels. I really believed that at the end of the day you would have enough respect for me and our friendship, to not toss me away like it was the easiest thing you had ever done.

It kills me that I was so wrong”.

“I find myself now wondering what of it was real, and what was lies. Which guy was telling me the truth about how he felt about me – the one who told me how much he cared and swore he wanted a future with me, all while being so adamant that he wasn’t content with us simply being friends, or the one who walked away from me like I was nothing after proving to himself one last time that he could have me if he wanted me.

Was that really all it came down to? Was it a game to you? Because I can’t for the life of me figure out why you would fight so hard for another chance, if that’s how it was all going to end. You just disappeared. You didn’t think I deserved a sober phone call or explanation. At the end of the day, you treated me like some slut you had picked up in a bar for a one night stand. One who wasn’t even worthy of the extra effort to break it off. Not like someone who had been there for you for 6 months, and who had never been anything but open and honest and real with you.”

“I asked you to leave me alone. To let me go, so I could move on and get over everything and eventually – we could be friends. I asked you to care about me enough to give me some space. But instead, you came back begging for another chance. Claiming you couldn’t stop thinking about me. Pushing to see me when I told you I still needed time. You swore that I was what you wanted. That you were sure this time. Were you really so selfish that you would say those things, and act that way, if you weren't sure that you actually meant it? If you weren't sure that at the very least, you could do what you needed to do to protect me and my feelings? Did you never think about me at all in any of this?

I fully accept responsibility for my part. I knew better. I knew what you had been through, and I knew better than to believe the things you said to me. I was the one who should have been strong enough to keep those boundaries clear. But, I wasn’t. And for that, I do have regrets. For that, I truly am sorry. I never pursued you, but I never held you back when I should have either.

But now, I can’t help but find myself wondering – do you ever think about me? Do I ever cross your mind in even the most innocent of ways? Do you ever feel bad about what you did? About how you treated me? Does it ever occur to you that it didn’t have to be that way? Do you ever just miss having me in your life?

Or was it easy? To throw me away. Like I was nothing. Not even your friend.”

“I guess the point is, I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. But I hope you got whatever it was you needed out of us.

I just wish you had been able to get whatever that was, without treating me with so little care in the process.

Because at the end of the day, I really do wish we could have been friends. That you had cared about me enough to try even just a little to preserve that.”

I sent it to him almost 3 weeks ago. He still hasn’t responded. At this point, I don't believe he ever will.

But Dee was right. Sending it lifted a weight off my shoulders.

The weight of words left unsaid.

Sending it helped me to let go.

Well, sending it, and writing this.

I remember a few years ago, the devirginator was up here visiting me and we went to see 500 Days of Summer together.

We both walked out of that movie feeling like we had just been dumped.

It was awful. This sadness in the pit of my stomach that I couldn't even explain, because it wasn't real. It was a movie. And even if it had been real, it wasn't my reality.

Still, I couldn't figure out why anyone would ever make a movie like that. Why anyone would ever pay $10 to sit in a theater and be made to feel like that.

I wanted my happy ending damn-it!

So, I'm sorry if I just did that same thing to some of you.

I needed to write this story out. I needed to revisit the entire relationship from beginning to end. To stop shuffling through the pieces in my head, and instead look at it in its entirety.

I was beating myself up and tearing it apart and I still couldn't figure out what happened.

I needed to get it all out of me and onto my laptop.

Because that’s who I am. It’s how I process.

How I let go.

I never anticipated that it to would turn out so big. I never intended committing so much of my time to it.

It never even occurred to me that people would become as invested in our relationship as I had been.

But once I got started, I realized that there was so much there I needed to get out.

If only so that I could gain some perspective on it.

But if in doing so I made you feel as though it was happening to you as well; I’m sorry.

I'm sorry if you now have that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

I'm sorry that there was no happy ending.

But, let's face it... in real life, there are no happy endings.

Not really anyway.

And I don't say that to be a cynic, I swear. I still believe in love and happiness and the whole big shebang.

It's just that, there's always something after the happy ending. It's not like a movie where the lights go up and you leave the theater believing that the couple on the screen moved forward in life never again having to face another hurtle. In real life, there is always another hurtle. Another kick in the gut. Another moment of sadness.

Because in real life, nothing ever works out quite the way you expect it to.

No matter how much you wanted the ending you wound up with.

Trust me, I really did want us to end up together.

I really did want him to be the one.

But as much as I wish I could fabricate a happy ending for you now, I can't.

This is what happened.

It's real life.

And real life doesn't work like that. People break up. Hearts get broken. And sometimes, the guy you thought had the potential to be your someone special, just ends up letting you down in the end.

I still have no idea what happened that morning. What caused the shift to occur so quickly. How it was even possible that he could go from fighting so hard for another chance to completely disappearing in the matter of a week.

I've gone over the entire thing in my head so many times. Come up with so many scenario's, without ever really feeling like I've found the answer.

I still don’t know which guy he was.

But I’m starting to think it’s not as simple as one or the other.

I saw a shrink years ago, during the period of time when my dad and I weren't speaking at all.

I was having a really hard time forgiving him for staying with my stepmother, after all she had done. I'd gone into therapy specifically because I knew I needed to let this go, but I couldn't wrap my head around how. I had these two visions in my head of who my dad was. One of him as the amazing father I knew him to be - the one who loved me and protected me and had always been there for me. The other of the man his staying with her had made me start to envision him as - the one who was weak, and flawed, and incapable of loving me enough.

The therapist pointed out then that these images of my father painted him as either my hero (perfect and infallible) or a failure (the broken man who had let me down the most). I couldn't reconcile the images of him in my head, because they were on such opposite ends of the spectrum. I couldn't figure out which man my dad was, because he was both. And he was neither. She said I needed to learn to see him as the man somewhere in the middle. The one with qualities from both men I was trying to paint him to be. And then I needed to determine if I could forgive that man. If I could forge a relationship with him.

I still remember feeling like she had just gifted me with some supreme knowledge that had somehow evaded me up to this point. She was right - my dad was both of those men I was painting him to be. Both, and neither. The man he was actually existed somewhere there in between.

And letting myself believe that, to accept it, was really the first step in us healing our relationship.

I know I've done the same thing with the boy. That in my eternal quest to figure this all out, I've painted two different pictures of him. One as the man who I loved and who loved me back - a man who was good and strong and loyal and true. And then the other as the man who broke me down - one who lied and manipulated and abandoned.

The truth is, I don't believe either image is entirely correct. I know the man he is resides somewhere in between.

What he did to me wasn’t right, but… I don’t believe it’s the definition of who he is.

Because none of us is exactly the same person we are at our best or our worst.

We all lie somewhere in between.

It's not always as black and white as we want it to be. People are more complicated than that.

And while the heart may always win, sometimes… it’s wrong.

But that doesn’t mean we should stop holding out for the day when it’s right.

I can say that from what I know, the boy is doing well. He's drinking a great deal less now, and has been spending more time working out and rebuilding his life. After months of us talking about it, he finally booked that trip to New Zealand and is leaving in two weeks. He and one of his best friends will be fishing and exploring and I'm sure having an amazing time.

By all accounts though, he's doing better every day.

I also know that for the last month or so, he's been seeing someone new.

I don't know how serious it is. How serious it will become.

Perhaps she's just the rebound chick he should have found himself from the beginning, and perhaps she's something more.

Perhaps she's the one.

I'm not sure it really matters at this point.

In fact, I've been shocked by how little the news has effected me.

I would be lying to say that there has been no jealousy there on my end, because of course there has been.

I have found myself wondering if she's prettier than me. Smarter than me. Funnier than me.

Wondering if they share the same connection I was so sure he and I had.

Even wondering if she's getting a better version of him than I did.

I'm ashamed to admit that in moments of liquid courage, I've actually asked some of these questions of those who have met her.

Mutual friends who have all assured me that - I win.

Which is such a petty thing to need to hear, but...

I win.

When everything is said and done though, I think I'm happy for him.

As strange as that may sound, I am.

I hate what he did to me.

What he did to us.

I hate him for hurting me as deeply as he did.

I hate him for taking me and my feelings so for granted.

I hate him for being so selfish. So recklessly and irrevocably selfish.

I hate him for still leaving me with no answers, explanations, or sober apologies.

But in both my head and heart, I know that he is not the villain I sometimes want to believe him to be.

He's just... damaged.

And aren't we all? To some extent?

After writing it all out, I know that there was good and bad to him.

That I never would have fallen so hard for someone who was all bad.

That I couldn't possibly have made the good all up.

I know it.

I know there is good there.

I wish that the good had won out. I wish that he had embraced it even just enough to prevent the fallout he caused.

To protect me, if only a little.

I wish he had cared about me enough to try to preserve some of the good between us.

If only on a friendship level.

But how little he did or did not care about me is irrelevant at this point.

Because it doesn't change how I felt about him.

It doesn't change the fact that I did love him.

And that even now, I hope for the best for him.

It’s still hard sometimes for me to not get caught up believing in the fate of it all. To not dwell on how we met, and how the pieces fell together after we started. There is still a part of me that wants to believe that it was all meant to be.

And the truth is, I guess it was. Just not for the same reasons I wanted it to be.

I do believe that everything happens for a reason. I believe that good can always come out of bad. And I believe that the boy and I were meant to be together.

Even if only for a short time.

I know I helped him. I know I supported him and was there for him and if nothing else - became one of his closest friends during a time when he was falling apart and needed all the help he could get. I know that, and I refuse to believe it wasn't true.

In so many ways though, I guess he helped me too. I was still struggling a lot with my own stuff when the boy and I met. I was making strides towards being better every day, but I had a lot of heartache built up. I was still at a point where just thinking about infertility would bring me to my knees. The boy helped me to shift my focus. To look outside myself. To turn my attention on someone else for a while.

Which, was kind of something I needed at the time.

Above and beyond that, I walked away with some amazing friends. Dee and I have said more than once that if the only thing to come out of my relationship with the boy was our friendship, it was worth it. I feel like I was meant to know that girl. The bond I share with both she and Lindsey is something I wouldn't trade for anything. To now have women in my day to day life who have such a real understanding of what I've experienced with endometriosis and infertility is priceless to me. But the fact that they are both also women I would have chosen as my friends without those shared experiences is truly incredible.

And I can't ever deny that I grew closer to them both, through my relationship with the boy. Dee more directly than Lindsey, but even with Lindsey... it was learning that we both had ties to this same group of people that really did initially drive our friendship forward.

There's a part of me that I suppose will always be a little bit grateful to him for being a catalyst to those relationships.

I think there were lessons I needed to learn here as well. With the ex, I left too quickly. I bailed too soon. And the lesson I learned there was that if I wasn't willing to fight for a relationship, I may end up losing someone I loved. With the boy, I know that thought was always in the back of my head; almost causing me to over-correct in some ways when it came to him. This relationship was so out of the realm of normal for me. I put up with so much more than I ever before would have. I made excuses, and I rationalized behavior, and I allowed myself to be hurt. Because I didn't want to be stuck thinking at the end of the day that I hadn't fought hard enough.

So now, the ex has taught me not to bail, but the boy has taught me that there comes a point when - you just have to.

I loved them both. I know that.

And they both taught me lessons I needed to learn.

As painful as learning them may have been.

I can only hope that those lessons stay with me the next time I find myself falling in love.

Which just for the record – will not be anytime soon.

Because I am doing myself a favor the boy probably could have benefited from as well.

Currently taking a dating hiatus.

Pursuing other adventures (more on that to come) until my heart feels healed enough to try again.

“Off the cock”, as I’ve been telling my nearest and dearest.

But when I’m ready, I’ll give it another go.

Give my heart another chance to win.

And hopefully this time, to be right.

The End

(the song that says in 4 minutes what it just took me 5000+ words to explain):

The Thin Line between Love and Hate

2012-01-19T18:22:00.005-09:00

If you’re just now joining us, I’m telling a story… About a boy. If you want to catch up before jumping in, start here first.

I was shocked at how easy it was to block him.

For some reason I had pictured this drawn out, pain in the butt process.

But... it was simple.

For $5 a month, AT&T set me up with a program that would allow me to block up to 20 people at a time. I could manage it all myself online.

Which of course led to a friend and I testing what happened when someone who was blocked called or texted.

I blocked her, and she called.

The message made it pretty clear that I wasn’t accepting calls from that number.

She texted, and the same thing happened. She immediately received a text back saying I wasn’t accepting texts from her number.

Perfect.

The best part about the whole thing was that it blocked me from being able to call or text him as well.

Not that I thought I was going to make that mistake again, but it was nice knowing that if I tried – it would take a whole other level of steps before I would be able to.

Steps that I was fairly sure would slow me down and likely stop me in the process if I found myself suffering from a bout of momentary insanity.

At this point though, I have to admit that I still wasn’t convinced we were completely over.

But I told myself that this was the best way to enforce that space I had been saying we needed for months now.

Ever since the first time he’d really pushed – the night after his divorce.

This was the best way to keep him from getting in touch with me when he was drunk and lonely, and the best way to keep me from caving if and when he came crawling back full of excuses.

Because I was sure he would. By this point I recognized the pattern.

I was sure it would only be a matter of time.

In so many ways, this had become the cycle of abuse. I had a degree in psychology for goodness sake. I knew this. I knew how it worked.

He hurts me. Then he turns on the charm and begs for forgiveness. Then he hurts me again.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

And all I knew was that we were cycling faster and faster as time went on.

The good times becoming more abbreviated as the bad increased.

No, he had never once physically harmed me. I would never in a million years try to imply that he had.

But, I knew enough to know that this wasn’t healthy.

To know that what he was doing to me wasn’t acceptable.

Never in my life had anyone ever given me the run-around like he had. Never in my life had anyone ever put me on such a roller coaster.

And never in my life had I ever believed anyone to be so capable of completing me and breaking me apart all at once.

I wasn’t ready to say we were done. In the back of my mind, I still believed that eventually he would make this up to me.

That somewhere down the line (be it 3 months, 6 months, or even a year) he would pull his head out of his ass and go above and beyond to repair what we’d had.

But I knew we needed time.

I knew we both needed time.

And this was the only way I could think of to make that point crystal clear.

I was fairly sure he would try to call me that night, a Friday. That he’d go out drinking with his buddies, knock a few back, and suddenly decide he missed me.

I wasn’t about to let that happen. To let him open the door once more because of alcohol.

This really was the best decision.

And I knew that when he did try to get in touch with me, he would know.

Right away, he would know.

While I was aware of the fact that he obviously knew how to get ahold of me otherwise, I didn’t anticipate hearing from him once he figured out what I’d done.

I knew he would know that this time, it was for real.

So the weeks passed, and we didn’t speak.

No contact at all.

I remained confident in my belief that this was for the best.

That it was something I needed to do.

Something he needed to realize I was capable of doing.

But over the weeks, the guilt started to creep in.

I envisioned him calling, night after night, to see if I had unblocked him yet.

I pictured him hurt, and alone. Knowing of course that he had caused this, but still… suddenly feeling even more lost and abandoned in not having me to reach out to.

I knew that I had been there for him over the months in a way that wouldn’t be easy for him to do without. I knew that he had relied on me more than anyone else.

I knew that the silence between us must be painful for him.

And I started to feel guilty.

Both for having severed those ties, and for having done so with no explanation at all.

I knew he would understand. That as soon as he realized what I’d done, he would know it was because he had broken those promises to me.

But that over-communicative side of me still lamented the fact that I hadn’t given him an explanation.

Or a heads up.

Or the opportunity to at least explain himself before I shut the door.

I hadn’t given him any of that.

And I began to wonder if how I’d dealt with things had really been the right way, or if it was instead… the coward’s way.

As the weeks went by I grew stronger in my resolve that we couldn’t be together. That right now, there was nothing good that could come from us crossing those lines.

And as I grew stronger in that, I began to wonder if maybe I could be his friend.

If maybe I could still be there for him, without acting upon anything else.

I cared about him, and with us not talking… I found myself worrying about him more.

Wondering how he was doing, and hating that I wasn’t there to support him.

But I didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t act on those worries.

I just… worried.

Less and less about myself every day.

It was 3 weeks after I had blocked his number when Mel sent me an e-mail to let me know that she and Jay would be in town the following night. They were going on the beer train (something that happens here once a year) and then would be heading out downtown after. She said they’d love to see me, and wanted to know if I would be up for meeting them out.

I immediately responded with a resounding “yes”. I loved these two. I loved hanging out with them. But I hadn’t been sure where my place was with the boy and I now not speaking, so I hadn’t wanted to initiate us spending time together myself.

Not long after I responded though, she sent me a text.

“Just a heads up that the boy will be with us too.”

It’s worth noting that she actually did call him “the boy”.

And that upon seeing that, my stomach flew up into my chest.

For a myriad of reasons of course, but one of them being that I caught myself wondering if she had read my blog.

I don’t keep this space a secret. There are plenty of people in my real life who read here, and I have nothing I'm trying to hide. Even those who know me only casually know that I do a lot of writing on the side.

The blog is not a secret.

But… I was 99% positive that I had never mentioned it to Mel myself.

Had the boy?

He did know about the blog, but he’d never really asked any questions about it.

I wasn’t sure if it was something he himself had ever even looked at, so I really couldn’t picture him mentioning it to others.

Especially since at the time, I had barely written about our relationship at all.

I couldn’t bring myself to ask her though, and I have to admit that I still don’t know.

Had she been reading here, or was it just a fluke?

That’s probably something I could ask now, but the truth is – I’d forgotten all about it until going back through the texts to write this.

I’d forgotten about it, because as much as it jolted me at the time, the more pressing issue still obviously remained that she was suggesting putting the boy and I in the same place at the same time the following evening.

It had been almost a month since we’d seen each other. Almost a month since we’d spoken.

And while I was feeling stronger in my resolve every day, I still wasn’t sure this was a good idea.

But… there was that part of me that wanted to. That part of me that good or bad, wanted to see him.

To know he was doing OK.

I responded back that I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea, and that I would have to think about it.

If anyone understood, it was Mel. She had been through this mess with Jay years before.

She got it.

She even offered to ditch him once they got downtown, just so that she and Jay could see me.

I told her she didn’t have to do that though, and to just call me when they were heading out. I was having dinner with a friend, but told her I would definitely think about it. .

And I did think about it. I thought about it a lot.

Which is probably why for some reason, that night, I decided to unblock his number.

I was just feeling so much guilt over having blocked him at all.

And I didn’t feel like I needed it anymore. I didn’t feel like I needed that barrier there to keep us apart.

Even at the prospect of seeing him, I felt strong in my resolve to keep distance between us.

To not cross that line.

I didn’t do anything after unblocking him. I didn’t call, or text. I had no intention of doing either. And I assumed that even if he had been calling to see if I’d removed the block before, he had probably given up by now. I didn’t anticipate hearing from him any time soon.

In truth, it was a fairly meaningless act. I’m not sure what I expected to get out of it.

But I felt better, just knowing that those lines were open again.

It was a little before 9 the next night when Mel let me know they were heading out.

I was still at dinner, but told her I would text her as soon as I was done. As an aside, I asked if they were still with him.

She said they had actually gotten split up when getting off the train. She wasn’t sure where he was, but said they still might meet up with him later.

I actually thought this was perfect. I could go see them for a bit, and then if he showed – make some excuse up and head home. I didn’t have to stay hanging out with him all night though. I didn’t have to invest that much of myself into it. I could see him, know he was OK, and then leave.

Perfect.

As I was leaving the restaurant though, I sent her a text saying I was on my way, and she immediately responded by telling me he was now there.

I started to question myself.

I asked her if she thought this was a horrible idea, but then as soon as I hit “send” I felt like I had my answer.

So I replied again that I was thinking I should probably just head home.

She sent me a series of texts after that. First asking if she should ask him. And then saying that Jay wanted me to come. And then replying that the boy said he was fine with it, he just didn’t want to give me any false impressions. And finally saying that she wanted me to come so that she could see my beautiful face.

Hold up. Wait a minute.

Back the ‘F’ up.

He’d said what?

He didn’t want to give me any false impressions?

That was what he was telling them?

Like I was some sad little puppy dog who had been following him around and just couldn’t get the hint?

I almost threw up.

But I maintained my cool. Jay started texting me that they really wanted to see me. That I should just come out, and it would be a fun night for all.

Meanwhile, I was fuming.

Literally, fuming.

I responded with grace though. All smiley faces and exclamation points. Saying I just thought it was a bad idea, but I would love to see them if they wanted to grab breakfast in the morning.

I was keeping my cool.

He responded again to say that the boy was totally good with my coming and that it would be fun, but before I could reply back… I got a text from the boy.

All it said was “Come out and meet us you dork! I won’t bite!”

He didn't know when he sent that text what it would signify, but for me… it was the breaking point.

Because it was in that moment, with that text, that I realized he had no idea I had blocked his number.

Which meant, he hadn’t tried to contact me.

At all.

It had been almost 4 weeks since the night he’d declined coming over to my house, citing depression.

4 weeks

He hadn’t called.

He hadn’t texted.

He hadn’t e-mailed.

He hadn't sent carrier pigeons.

He hadn’t shown up at my house.

So presumably, he hadn’t been thinking of me at all.

After fighting so hard to get another chance.

After never once before being able to go more than a week without contacting me; even when I asked him to.

After all the promises. All the “I love you’s”. All the assurances that I was what he wanted.

That he could do this.

He hadn’t attempted to contact me even once in 4 weeks to tell me that he couldn’t.

And now, he was telling Jay and Mel that he didn’t want to give me false impressions.

Making me look (and feel) like an idiot.

Even though he had never bothered to give me the right impression.

Suddenly, the barrier broke.

I texted both Mel and Jay back that while the boy may have been totally good with my coming, I had suddenly realized that I wasn’t. I let all maturity fall away when I wrote “I kind of want to punch him in his stupid asshole face.”

I knew it probably made no sense to them. Up to this point, I had at least been entertaining the idea. I knew my dramatic shift would likely catch them totally off guard.

But I didn’t care. I was finally pissed.

Really pissed.

Not 10 minutes later, I received another text from the boy.

“Thanks for calling me an asshole” he said.

I couldn’t contain myself “You are a fucking asshole.” I replied. “If you don’t know that already, you’re a fucking idiot too.”

It was so unlike me. So out of the realm of normal for how I would typically have reacted.

But I suddenly felt more clarity than I had felt in months.

He responded with “Wow!! Not the girl I know. Take care.”

It only pissed me off more.

It felt so manipulative.

So contrived.

So calculating.

It felt like him telling me I wasn’t allowed to have feelings about this. That just because I had treated him with compassion and sympathy up to this point, I wasn’t allowed to be angry that he had so royally screwed me now.

Not without tainting the image he had of me in his head.

I didn’t respond.

I had no intention of responding.

I just sat there in my car, shaking.

Trying only to calm down enough to drive home.

It was as I was pulling into my garage that he called.

I didn’t answer initially; parking without crashing taking all of my concentration in this moment.

I was literally having a difficult time seeing straight.

He texted me immediately after that “Answer your phone.”

It felt like an order now, coming from him. And I was in no mood for orders.

But I also had more than a few things I was busting at the seams to say to him. .

So when he called again, I answered.

“What the hell is going on?” He asked. Sounding genuinely confused, which I just did not get.

At all.

Was he fucking kidding me?

I launched into an expletive filled account of “what the hell” was going on.

The main point being… “You disappeared. You sucked me back in when I was doing just fine without you. You made me all kinds of promises, and then you disappeared.”

What kind of a soulless fuck would do that?

His main argument against this rant?

“Well… it’s not like you called me either.”

At this point, he still had no idea I’d blocked his number. No clue at all, because he had never bothered to call.

All those weeks I’d spent worrying about him. Feeling guilty. Questioning my own moves.

All those weeks…. And he had never once thought to pick up the phone and call me.

But he was right. The phone lines worked both ways.

As I explained to him though, what the hell was I supposed to do? I mean, really? When he pulled away, seemingly without explanation, it had only been a week since he had begged for my forgiveness. Since he had pleaded for another chance. Since he had sworn he was ready, and that he wouldn’t hurt me again.

A week.

Was I really supposed to chase him down at that point? To call him when he wasn’t calling me?

Was I really supposed to be that sad little puppy dog who couldn’t get a hint that he was already apparently portraying me to be?

It had never in a million years occurred to me that he wouldn’t have called me in all that time.

That he wouldn’t have tried, even once, to make contact.

But the fact that he hadn’t… it made it pretty clear that no good would have come from my contacting him even if I had.

I was suddenly infinitely grateful that I had been oblivious to this fact. That blocking his number had kept me from waiting night after night for a call that never would have come.

Because I have no doubt that if I had been waiting for that call, I eventually would have caved and called him myself. The absence of communication would eventually have made me crazy enough to reach out, if only to ask what was going on.

It turned out; blocking his number had been the best thing I ever could have done for myself.

Even if he had never realized I’d done it.

But that didn’t stop me from yelling now. From calling him out on every misstep he’d ever made with me.

From seething with a rage he had never before witnessed rising out of me.

He had been right. In this moment, I wasn't the girl he knew.

But that was his fault. He had broken that girl. And I was intent upon making him see that.

Intent upon using my words to show him exactly what he’d done.

This wasn't who I was. Not anymore. I had wasted years of my life being angry. I had once upon a time spewed venom in every direction, including towards those I cared about the most.

Just ask my dad about some of the hateful things he's heard from me.

I had a gift for conjuring up the words that could cut the deepest. But I had worked hard to suppress that side of myself. To put people and their feelings ahead of my need to make others hurt as much as I did.

Here I was though. That girl fighting to get through. Begging for just 30 seconds with the boy.

Just 30 seconds to make him bleed the way he had me.

There were so many things I could have said. So many words on the tip of my tongue that could have pummeled him.

But I held her back; that assassin inside of me. Succumbing only to the yelling. The fierce coldness with which I addressed he and his excuses. The assassin there, just at the edge, but never fully breaking through.

It had been years since she had come so close to the surface. I had worked to send her away. To let go of my anger and hurt. I had worked to live my life with compassion and understanding.

To live my life without her.

And after years of thinking she was gone, he had managed to bring her back to the surface in only a matter of months.

For that, I almost hated him the most.

He began throwing out the now tired and used line that he was just “so messed up” right now. That he had no idea what it was he wanted.

In fact, at one point I'm fairly sure he even shouted that back at me.

“Do you really think I know what I want? Do you really think I know what I need?”

I didn’t care anymore though.

I no longer felt sorry for him.

Not in the slightest.

“Do you think you’re the only person in the world who has ever been hurt?” I shouted. “Do you think you're the only one who has ever felt this pain? Because you’re wrong. You’re dead wrong! I’ve been hurt! I’ve been hurt by the people in my life who were supposed to protect me the most! I’ve been hurt by life! I’ve been hurt by you! But you don’t see me using that as an excuse to hurt other people! You don’t see me using my past as a reason to take others down!”

One of the things I had always admired about the boy was that while he could be selfish and insensitive, he was always very open to what I had to say when I called him on it. Always quick to apologize and attempt to rectify the situation.

Typically something he hadn’t even been aware he’d done or said until I pointed it out.

He was good about this. Good about dropping all defenses and trying to understand where I was coming from when I was upset.

Good at looking himself in the mirror when directly confronted with his own misdeeds.

Not now though. Now, he was fighting back.

Defensive right out the gate. Barely listening to a word I was saying.

Even as I shouted those words for all to hear.

I can’t say I blamed him. Gone were the days of my being rational and sensitive to his feelings. Gone were the times when I carefully picked my words before approaching him.

Now, with her fighting in the background to be released; I was attacking.

With almost everything I had.

It made sense that this would push him into defense mode.

So when I said that, his immediate response was to yell back. “You have no idea what I’ve been through!" he proclaimed. "You have no idea how it’s made me feel! You may have been through plenty yourself, but that doesn’t mean you understand what this is! What it means to love someone and to plan on spending the rest of your life with them, only to have them walk out on you! You have no idea!”

I knew I wasn’t getting through to him. That I would need to tone it down, even just an little, if I was going to make the impression I needed to make.

So, I took a deep breath and dialed back the volume.

Locking my jaw as I spoke, in an attempt to keep the words from coming out as daggers.

“I never said you didn’t have a right to feel the way you feel. I never said I was judging what you’re going through. You’re right – I have no idea what it is she really did to you. But I have been compassionate, and understanding, and there for you every step of the way. I have spent entire nights listening to you. I have never once blocked you out or told you that you didn’t have a right to feel what you were feeling. I have worried about you, and cared about you, and supported you with everything I've got. I know you’re hurting, and I get that. I hate her for what she did to you. All I’m saying, is that nothing she did gives you an excuse to turn around and do the same to me.”

Suddenly, it was like a light bulb went off for him.

A moment of clarity against the madness.

“You’re right.” He said. “I’m so sorry. You’re right.”

Another moment passed, before he continued “I… I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

I didn’t even have to think about my response.

I’d made my point.

I’d forced him to see.

And that was all I cared about in that moment.

“You just keep doing whatever it is you’ve been doing” I replied. “It’s obvious you haven’t been wasting a whole lot of time thinking about me, so you might as well keep that up. I really don’t care what you do anymore though… I’m done.”

Which is when I told him “goodbye”, before promptly hanging up.

Still shaking. Still seething. Still boiling red with hatred.

I focused only on my last words to him.

“I’m done.”

And for the first time, I knew…

I meant it.

(to be continued…)

Jinx

2012-01-18T19:41:00.026-09:00

If you’re just now joining us, I’m telling a story… About a boy. If you want to catch up before jumping in, start here first.

I woke up the next morning, instantly nervous.

It had been too easy.

We'd had too much fun.

I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Terrified that once he had gotten what he wanted, he wouldn’t want it anymore.

That now that he knew there was a chance for us to make this work, it would no longer be worth the effort for him.

He texted me mid-day though. Just to check in, and see how I was.

And then he called again that night. Just to talk.

It was too soon to let myself breathe, but… I was starting to exhale.

The following night I had plans to go see a concert with friends. I had mentioned it to him the night before, but intentionally hadn’t thrown out an invite.

Even though they all knew I was talking to him again, I wasn’t sure I could cope with the embarrassment of actually bringing him around.

Not after the tears I’d shed over what he’d said.

But as the day wore on, I started to feel guilty.

I can’t really explain why, but I just did. He was trying, and I felt like maybe I should be too.

So I invited him.

He asked what time we were going, but eventually declined. He didn’t say what he was doing instead, and I didn’t ask. We shared a few texts that night, but he was shorter with me than he had been.

Those fears started to creep in. Had he already started to regret asking for another chance?

Was he already over it?

It was silly. He hadn’t really done anything to make me think he was pulling away.

But he also hadn’t done anything that day to make me think he was still invested.

In a normal relationship, without so much of the previous roller coaster in its wake, I never would have thought twice about the interactions (or lack thereof) we shared that day.

I've never been a needy girl.

But under the circumstances… I spent most of that night worried.

Insecurity getting the best of me.

The voices in my head telling me “I told you so…” even as my heart tried to battle them down.

By the time I went to bed, I had convinced myself we were already done.

But then he called the next morning. Just to check in on me. To see how my night had been, and to go over plans for the weekend.

It was Labor Day. The last big holiday weekend in Alaska.

Things hadn’t been good between us for long enough where I felt comfortable planning to spend the entire weekend together. So he made plans to go fishing that day and the next, and I made plans to spend time with Loo before she left for Texas. The fair was in town, and he and I talked about going there together on Sunday for a concert, but we made no plans beyond that.

He said he would call me Saturday night when he got home.

And about two hours later, Loo informed me that her out of state fiancé had managed to book a last minute ticket to come up and surprise her for the weekend.

So any plans I did have up to that point, promptly went bust.

It was fine though. I could have driven to meet other friends a few hours outside of town, but decided instead to stick around close to home getting things done and being productive. I was totally content with spending my Labor Day weekend taking care of things around the house.

Yeah… Even I’m not buying that.

Which is why when he texted me the next night to let me know he was back in town and to ask if I wanted to meet he and some friends for dinner, I rapid fired back with 3 different texts.

All addressing 3 different subjects.

One, right after the other, right after the other.

I might have been a wee bit excited.

He immediately called me laughing. “You must have missed me, huh?” He said.

We talked for a few minutes and came up with a plan. He was just getting home and wanted to take a shower and do a few other things first. I’d just gotten out of the shower myself and still needed to get ready. They had decided on a restaurant out by him, so we agreed I would just drive out there to meet them. We set a time, and then each went about getting ready.

We had fun at dinner; the four of us drinking and eating and catching up. And when the bill came, we all decided to head back to the boys house to continue the evening sitting out by the fire pit.

My head told me I should pass. We would be drinking, and I knew I wouldn’t want to drive myself home after that. His buddy’s girlfriend was already proposing we pick the two of us up a bottle of wine before heading that way, and I knew this was going to end with me spending the night there.

Which I knew wasn’t a good idea.

Not yet.

Not so soon.

And not with both of us drinking.

But I was having fun. I liked spending time with these people. I liked being with the boy. And I didn’t want to be the stick in the mud who started interjecting “rules” upon what otherwise would have been a completely normal evening for the four of us.

It wasn’t like they were oblivious to the fact that the boy and I had spent a few weeks apart. They were both pretty versed in what had gone down between us. I think they would have understood if I’d simply passed and driven myself home instead.

But still… I couldn’t bring myself to say “no”.

Probably because I didn’t want to.

No matter what my head was saying.

So we went to his house. And the four of us sat around the fire drinking and talking for hours. Laughing over horror stories from all of our dating pasts. Telling stupid jokes. Discussing our plans for the following day.

At one point, I went inside to pour myself a little more wine, and the boys buddy followed me. We’d hung out a handful of times by now, and I had grown to really like his girlfriend. We wound up standing there in the kitchen discussing their relationship, which inevitably turned into us discussing my relationship with the boy.

He told me he knew that things had been rocky, but that he also knew that the boy really cared about me. I mentioned the comment the boy had made, and my underlying fears that he really wasn’t attracted to me. His immediate response was “It’s not that. I know it’s not that. I don’t know why he ever would have said that, but I know he’s definitely attracted to you.”

He went on to tell me that the boy was just going to need some time though. That he was an over-thinker who wouldn’t be over what she had done to him until he either understood it, or decided to actually let it go.

He didn’t think either would happen any time soon.

I knew this. I understood it too, because… it’s how I am as well.

But it was nice to have his buddy looking out for me a bit. Wanting to make sure I knew what I was getting into.

He assured me that he did know the boy cared about me though. And that above and beyond all else, he didn’t want to hurt me.

We headed back out to the fire, but it wasn't long after that before his girlfriend and I realized that both guys had tipped over into being drunk. We were laughing and wondering aloud how and when they had surpassed us (as both she and I were still doing relatively well), but it probably had something to do with the fact that we were sharing a bottle of wine, while they were kicking back whiskey and cokes.

Easy on the coke.

We decided to get them both to bed, and said “goodnight” with the plan on the table that we would head out to explore Alaska a bit the next day.

When we got upstairs, I was immediately frustrated when I realized I hadn’t packed a bag.

I hadn’t been planning on spending the night, so it had never occurred to me to pack my toothbrush.

The boy was quick on the draw though, pulling out a new one just for me.

I had spent the night there on more than a few occasions without a toothbrush.

This was the first time he had ever supplied one for me. The first time he had ever pointed out where I should keep it for the future.

Such a simple gesture, that somehow still meant so much.

When we crawled into bed though, I still had every intention of keeping things PG.

We still hadn’t kissed. Still hadn’t had any physical contact at all in over a month.

I wasn’t ready for us to jump off that bridge back into too much too fast.

But I also knew how difficult it could be to draw a line that had never really been there before.

And when he leaned over to kiss me, it suddenly became even more difficult.

I resisted though. I held strong. Despite the wine I’d consumed. Despite how passionately he was kissing me. And despite the many attempts he made over the next several hours to get me to go further.

I resisted.

And yes, I did say the next several hours.

The two of us did not get much sleep that night.

I only knew that I wasn’t ready for this though. That we weren’t ready for this.

And that more than anything, when and if we did cross that line; I did not want it to be something he could later blame on alcohol.

So, I held firm. Strong in my stance that we weren’t going to go there.

For once, my head was finally winning out.

Until the next morning that is. When he was sober, yet still so sweet. So attentive. So cuddly and cute and… into me.

I’ll spare you the details of what went down on the bathroom sink, but suffice it to say…

My heart won out.

Or maybe it's fair to say that bit had far more to do with parts of me other than my heart.

Because the truth is, even as it was happening – I couldn’t get into it.

I was terrified.

My head was screaming at me.

Calling me stupid, and naïve, and a masochist.

And when it was done, even my heart was scolding me.

Because I certainly hadn’t just done my best to protect it.

As he was showering after, I sat silently on the bed freaking out. When he was done, he must have noticed my panic.

“Do you regret it?” He asked.

“Do you?” I countered.

He assured me he didn’t though. That for probably the first time, this had been exactly what he wanted. That the voices in his head making him feel guilty and unsure hadn’t been there at all.

He was smiling. And being reassuring. Still adamant that this was all what he wanted.

And I wanted so badly to believe him.

But that voice in my head just kept getting louder.

Once we finished getting ready, the 4 of us went to breakfast before heading out for a drive.

I’d never been through Hatchers Pass before, and the boy thought it was time I see it for myself.

Plus, Dee and her husband were camping out there, so the goal was to find their campsite and stop in to say “hi”.

It was a beautiful drive, and another gorgeous day in Alaska.

We were all tired after getting next to zero sleep the night before, but we were having a good time and it wasn’t long before we did happen upon Dee and their group.

Dee and I almost immediately escaped down by the river to discuss how things were going. She'd told me 1000 times before that the boy really was a good guy, but I knew at this point she was hesitant about us spending time together. Worried about me, and his ability to protect me while still sorting through his own mess.

When I gave her an update on the weekend thus far, we were both cautiously optimistic. Weeks before when the boy had let both she and her husband know that he was missing me, she had urged him to stay away. To give it time. To let us both heal before trying again.

But obviously, he hadn’t taken that advice.

Dee and I had engaged in this conversation more than a few times now.

She believed we definitely had it in us to be great together.

But she also worried that the boy was nowhere near ready for great.

That he would destroy us before we ever had a chance.

She wasn’t alone in those worries.

He was being good that day though. Tired, yes, but still attentive. Still himself. Still there, with me.

After we left their campsite, we wound up heading to his buddy's family cabin. While sitting around the campfire, his mom mentioned that there was a lot of firewood that needed to be moved across the property. Before I knew it, the boy was standing up to volunteer both he and his friend to take care of it.

His buddy was shooting him death glares from his seat across the fire, realizing almost instantly that the boy had just signed him up for manual labor.

On his holiday weekend.

When he was hung-over and tired.

The boy didn’t think twice though. He went right to work, and kept at it until all of the wood was moved. Almost two hours later.

I’ve got to admit, that was it for me. The point when I finally told my head to shut the hell up.

This was the boy I had fallen for. The one who was sweet, and good, and kind. For all the fears that had been running through my head, this was a glimpse of the man I wanted.

The man I loved.

When they finished up, I had a hard time keeping my hands off of him.

Not in a sexual way, but just in a… I wanted to be connected to him way.

I wanted to be touching his knee, or holding his hand.

After feeling so held back with my affection towards him over not just the last week, but the last few months, I suddenly wanted to be showering him with it.

I am definitely someone who shows (and feels) love through physical affection, and it was clear to me that this change signaled that I was starting to let myself trust him again.

To let myself see the man beneath all the hurt.

But recognizing that this shift had come upon me quickly and unexpectedly, I tried to hold myself back.

I only put my hands on him a few times – I swear.

I was starting to relax in this though.

In us.

When we left, I mentioned Lindsey’s family lake house, which wasn’t too far away from where we were.

I knew that she and her husband were there with friends, and that they had just arrived back from her IVF cycle a few days before.

I really wanted to see her, and had brought it up earlier in the day as well.

But for some reason, the boy didn’t seem to want to go. When I’d broached the subject in the morning, he had pretty quickly shut it down. Saying that by the time we were heading back we would all already be too tired. And that he didn’t want to get stuck out there all night after the lack of sleep we’d had the night before.

All valid points, but still… I brought it up again.

I really wanted to see her.

And again, he shut the idea down. Citing all the same reasons and proclaiming that he just didn’t want to.

I let it go. Figured I would drive there myself in the morning. I wasn’t exactly upset. I was tired too, and I understood (to an extent) why he didn’t want to go.

But still… it would have been nice if he'd done it if only because he knew I wanted to.

The funny thing is, it was just as I was thinking this that he suddenly pulled down the road heading in their direction.

Without a word. Without ever saying he had changed his mind.

He drove the four of us there.

I was through the moon. Again, something so small that had meant so much to me.

Forcing those voices in my head to quiet down even more.

I found out after the fact that his buddy had later told his girlfriend that the boy must really be in love with me, because he’d never before seen him do anything he hadn’t wanted to.

It was true, the boy could be stubborn. And set in his ways. And sometimes, even incredibly selfish.

Without ever really meaning to.

I always kind of blamed it on his being an only child.

But he’d turned down that street. Even though he hadn’t wanted to.

Solely because he knew I did.

I didn’t realize his friends had caught on to the significance of that act, but I had.

My head shut up entirely.

And my heart was doing a victory dance.

We spent a few hours there before heading back to the boy’s house. On the drive, my eyes started to droop and I caught myself falling asleep more than once. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this tired. I’d even had coffee with breakfast that morning – something I hadn’t done in over a year. The boy had immediately reacted with shock when I’d ordered it, knowing that I usually avoided caffeine completely because of how bad it was for endometriosis.

But I hadn’t been able to shake that exhaustion.

As soon as we arrived back at his place I jumped into the shower and then threw on one of his t-shirts before going to bed. He and his buddy proceeded to watch Rambo, but I was passed out before they were even 15 minutes in. I never heard them again, and didn’t wake at all when he curled up in bed himself.

Which is totally out of the realm of normal for me – a notoriously light sleeper.

The next morning I know he said something to me upon waking up, and I know I said something back, but I have no idea what. I was deliriously tired. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the start of that mysterious illness I came down with last fall.

Like mono, except without the sore throat.

All I know is that I’d been irritated with him for waking me, and had rolled away from him before falling right back asleep.

When I woke again, he was in the shower. Even though I felt like I could still sleep for another few hours, I forced myself up and into the bathroom.

I popped my head in the shower to tell him good morning, but he barely looked at me when he said it back. I asked him a few questions, and he responded with only one word answers.

Still avoiding eye contact with me at all costs.

My heart immediately sank.

My first instinct was to get out of there. I had overstayed my welcome, or he was freaking out, or something, but… All I knew was I needed to leave.

Before he had a chance to over think it any more.

I quickly packed up my things and changed. I shouted in the bathroom that I was leaving, and all he said was “OK”.

I was in my car before he was even out of his towel.

My head was starting to chime in again.

Telling my heart it had celebrated too soon.

But my heart kept saying he would come around. That I’d hear from him in a few hours.

As soon as whatever this was passed.

I got home and crawled into bed. Falling asleep again, and waking hours later. Sure that I would hear from him any minute.

Only, I didn’t.

He never called.

The next day passed, and I kept waiting for him to text. As I completed my work tasks throughout the day, I kept telling myself I would hear from him.

Only, I didn’t.

As I was leaving work, my head and my heart started battling again.

My heart telling me I shouldn’t be playing games. That if I wanted to talk to him, I should just reach out.

My head was telling me not to be an idiot though. Reminding me that it had only been a week since he was fighting so hard just to see me.

If he was blowing me off already, this was not a good sign of things to come.

But of course, my heart won out.

I sent him a text a little before 6 asking if he wanted to come over that night.

He responded almost immediately.

“I’m going to stay here tonight. I got really depressed yesterday and didn’t sleep at all last night.”

I wasn’t sure what to do with that. Was he asking for me to comfort him, or telling me to keep my distance?

“Yeah…” I started. “I noticed a shift yesterday morning. Wasn’t sure if I should stick around and try to get you to talk to me, or take off fast in case it was me you were annoyed with. If it’s any consolation – I had a pretty rough day yesterday too. Try to get some sleep tonight. I’m sorry you’re hurting…”

He never responded.

I thought for sure he would call me that night.

But he didn’t.

And I didn’t hear from him at all the next day either.

By Thursday, I was starting to fall apart.

Had I jinxed this by letting myself believe, even if only for a second, that it could work?

He had promised me.

Sworn this was what he wanted.

That he was ready.

That he wouldn’t hurt me again.

He'd begged for another chance.

A chance to prove to me he could do this.

He knew how scared I was.

How hard it had been for me to put any trust in him at all.

He knew.

He had promised.

Sworn, begged, and pleaded.

Saying everything I had needed to hear, and more.

He had promised.

And it had only lasted a week.

He was pushing me away again. Shutting me out. Putting walls up, and closing the door.

I was half tempted to call him. To tell him he wasn’t allowed to do this to me again. To vocalize my frustration and hold him accountable for his actions.

Hold him accountable for me.

But my pride wouldn’t let me do it.

My head was finally winning. Telling me that if he really cared, he would call.

If he was really worth all this heartache, he would try to make it right.

He would reach out, even if only just to tell me he needed time.

Only, he didn’t.

The next morning I got up and showered. Put on my makeup, and made a breakfast smoothie. Followed my routine to a ‘T’, without ever once faltering in my steps.

And then, as soon as I got a chance, I called AT&T.

I blocked his number from being able to call or text me again.

His cell, his home, and his office.

The only way I could really think of to say “goodbye”.

And to make it stick.

My head finally winning.

And my heart accepting defeat.

(to be continued…)

The Heart Always Wins

2012-01-17T18:18:00.014-09:00

If you’re just now joining us, I’m telling a story… About a boy. If you want to catch up before jumping in, start here first.

I sat there, stunned.

I had anticipated him coming around eventually, but I figured it would be months before that happened.

Not weeks.

Crap.

I wasn’t over this. My hurt hadn’t yet been dispelled. I didn’t trust him. Not to protect me, and not even to have healed enough himself to be able to stand by those words.

But what he was saying was exactly what I'd been hoping to hear.

Crap.

And the length? What was that? It wasn't like I had ever before questioned his ability to communicate (I hadn't). And he had always fared pretty well when it came to me and my own verbosity. But seriously… had he just out-texted me?

Crap.

My head was spinning. He just had to add in that last bit, didn't he?

The part about his listening to my CD every day.

The one I had made very intentionally. Picking every song with care.

The one that had been created specifically to remind him of us.

He had picked up on that. Without my ever saying a word.

And he was listening to it every day.

CRAP!

When I didn’t respond right away, he followed up by saying the conversation had just turned far too serious, and he thought I should know he had gone out and purchased his own box of Blueberry Clusters (the cereal he poured himself a bowl of almost every time he was at my house – day or night). He ended that one by simply saying “goodnight”.

So rather than attempt to form a response to the words I knew he was waiting for me to respond to, I instead wrote back only “Get some sleep…”

That’s right. I didn’t comment on his soul baring text at all. Me. The queen of over-communication.

I couldn’t figure out how to respond, so I just pretended it wasn’t there.

But we all know that’s not me. That ignoring it was never going to last long.

Especially when you consider the fact that I was not able to sleep that night.

At all.

My head was spinning, and I couldn’t shut it off.

I only knew… I wasn’t ready for this yet.

And I was pretty sure he wasn’t either.

So the next morning, I penned him an e-mail. First forwarding along his horoscope, which had struck me as ridiculously relevant when I'd looked at it earlier in the week while checking my own.

Then continuing on to the actual topic at hand:

I need some time to wrap my head around some of what you said last night. I appreciated it, and I do miss you. More than I really care to own up to. I just can't meet up with you right now. I'm still hurt, and confused. I swear that when you and I started hanging out, I was this strong, confident girl who was great about knowing what she wanted and what she deserved. Somehow over the last few months though, all of the back and forth with you has left me insecure and confused and unsure of myself. That's not who I want to be.

I think we both still need some space. I need you to know what you want from me. From her. From all of it. I just need you to be in a place where you're secure in whatever that is. I think it's obvious you need time to figure all that out. And I need time to let go of how badly so much of this has hurt me.

Just know that I am still here though. Worrying about you, wondering what you're up to, and hoping that you're OK.

And occasionally, intentionally looking up YOUR fucking horoscope.

Like such a freaking girl.

That was it. No long winded diatribes or page after page of analyzing my own inner dialogue.

It was quite possibly the first time in my life I had said what I needed to say, without saying too much.

I didn’t expect to hear back from him after that. Not right away anyway. He had said his piece, and I had said mine. The door was still open. I hadn’t slammed it shut. But I'd been clear. I needed time. We both needed time.

I hoped he would be able to see that.

Because the truth of the matter was… I knew already that I wasn’t strong enough to resist if he started putting in the hard sell.

As much as I hated admitting that to myself, I knew I wouldn't be able to hold my ground if he pushed.

So I was hoping he wouldn't.

When I didn’t hear back from him that day, I let myself believe that he did get it. A realization that filled me with a strange mix of relief and sadness. But mostly relief.

I did miss him. And I didn’t like not having him in my life. But I truly thought this was for the best. I truly believed we needed some time away from each other. That if we were going to stand any chance at all, we would both need to heal first.

And I knew myself well enough to know that as much as there was part of me that wanted him fighting for my forgiveness right now, I wouldn’t be able to stand my ground for long if he did. No matter what my head was telling me.

The heart always wins.

Which is why when he texted me a few nights later, I again was filled with that strange mix of relief and sadness.

Once more though, mostly relief. Although, for entirely different reasons.

It was a little after 10 on a Sunday night, and all he said was “When you told me you loved me, I believed you. I don’t know why I acted like I didn’t.”

I wasn’t sure what to do with that. How to respond.

So, I just didn’t. Holding my ground as best I knew how.

An hour later, he texted again.

“I want to take you to my parent’s house and re-introduce you to them. Let me know if you would ever be up for that."

What. The. Hell.

I mean, seriously, what the hell?!?

I had met both of his parents that very first night at his BBQ. His mom and I had instantly hit it off, sneaking inside to chat for over an hour while everyone else was out by the fire.

I had immediately adored her. She was so open and warm and genuine with me, which I knew couldn’t have been easy. She was definitely hurting over the divorce. She and his ex had been very close, and I knew she was mourning the loss of her daughter in law. The actions that she just couldn’t wrap her head around. But still, she had gone out of her way to get to know me. To be kind to me. And to make sure I felt welcomed and comfortable. She hadn’t spoken to his ex since everything had gone down, and I knew she still had so many questions herself. The fact that she found a way in the middle of her own confusion and grief to be so kind to the potential new girl in her son’s life had been incredible to me.

But ever since that night, the boy had managed to keep the two of us separate. Almost intentionally so, as if it was his way of drawing that line between friends and something more.

I knew he talked to her about me though, and to me about her. Both with regularity. Whenever he was on the phone with her and I was around, she would tell him to say "hi to the whore" for her. It was a joke that continued from the very start.

I had never once pushed, or even asked, for him to bring me around his parents again. I knew why he hadn't mentioned it himself, and I assumed that he would open that door up again when he was ready.

Had he really just opened that door all on his own though? Without my ever having mentioned that it was something I was waiting on?

Crap.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Because yes, I am that weak.

So, I picked up the phone and called him.

But as soon as he answered, the first words out of my mouth were “You’ve got to stop this. I asked for space. I need you to give it to me.”

I was trying so hard to be strong. To sound strong.

But he instantly saw right through me.

Letting out a laugh before saying “I’m so glad you called.”

I wish I could say that I got off the phone immediately after that. That I held my ground and kept my distance.

I even wish I could say that in talking to him, it never dawned on me that he had consumed at least a few drinks that night. That it never occurred to me that while he wasn't drunk, he also wasn't sober.

But I can’t, because it’s not true.

The truth is, we spent the next two hours talking. Just talking.

About us. About where we stood. About what he wanted. About what I wanted.

About what we both needed.

About everything.

In the end, he asked me to give him another chance. He swore he was ready. That he had spent the last two weeks thinking about me and only me. That as soon as we had gotten off the phone that night he had realized what an idiot he was, but he couldn’t figure out how to fix it. He said my CD hadn’t left his truck since I'd given it to him. I could hear it playing in the background (for the record – he was in his yard sitting at the fire pit using his truck as a stereo, not drinking and driving). He said he had been thinking about everything, and realizing how well we fit together. How much he missed not being able to share even the stupidest pieces of his day with me. How “right” we were. He even told me that in comparing me to her, he was starting to see the ways in which I filled up holes for him that she never had.

He said it all.

And when I continued my push for space, he countered by asking me to give him a chance. He begged me to just let him prove it. That he was ready. That I was what he wanted. That we could make this work out exactly the way it was supposed to.

“I can’t make you any promises.” He said. “Because I know I’ve already lost your trust. But please, just let me show you. Let me spend the next however long it takes making it up to you. I will never do that to you again. Just please, let me prove it to you.”

He didn’t know it, but once upon a time I had spoken almost those same exact words to the ex.

And it had broken my heart when he couldn’t give me what I'd asked for.

Another chance.

A chance to prove to him I was ready for what we could have.

Because I had been. And there is a part of me that has always lamented the fact that he wasn’t willing to try. To give me that opportunity to spend the rest of our lives making it up to him.

That thought was running through my head as the boy continued. I had spoken these same words before myself. I had wished with all my heart that the person I was saying them to would give me that chance. I had ached for the opportunity to fix what I had broken.

I couldn’t help it; my resolve was softening if only because… I felt like I knew exactly where the boy was standing now.

And when I had been in his shoes, I knew with everything inside of me that if given the chance, I would get it right his time.

I told him that he needed to be sure. That all I knew was that we didn't have many chances left. That if he hurt me again, I probably wouldn't ever be able to forgive him.

I believed that. I knew it to be true. If he said these things now, and then couldn't live up to them in the end... I couldn't see how there would be any going back from that. My pride had already taken too many hits. I was already embarrassed that I was even considering this.

Embarrassed, and terrified.

But he promised he was sure.

We talked for so long that before I knew it, I was laughing. My walls crumbling with so much less effort than I had ever believed it would take.

But I remained firm on the fact that I didn’t want to see him. I said we could talk, but that I wasn’t ready to meet with him face to face. I knew I would cave completely if he said these things in front of me, and I couldn’t let that happen.

Not yet anyway.

When it was time for us to both head off to bed, he asked if he could call me the following night.

And I told him he could.

But he didn’t even wait until the following night. He was texting me a little after 8 the next morning. Keeping it up throughout the entire day. Finally asking me as work was getting out if I would meet up with him.

I reminded him that I wasn't ready for that.

He responded with “Fair enough”, and then called me that night. And again, we talked for hours.

The next night he tried again. Sending me a text a little before 5 asking if I would go to dinner with him.

I responded by saying “I can’t figure out if you’re being charmingly persistent, or just willfully determined to get your way.”

He replied simply with “Neither, I just want to see you.”

I caved.

But not before being clear on the fact that he would not be spending the night once dinner was over.

He agreed to those terms and that night, a little before 7, he picked me up and took me out to eat at one of my favorite restaurants in town.

I was incredibly nervous. More nervous than I had probably ever been around him. My head and my heart involved in such an epic battle, I wasn’t entirely sure which end was up anymore.

He caught on to that fact not too long after we were seated, interrupting an uncommon lull in conversation between us to say “You look sad tonight.”

I took a deep breath before responding. Thinking through my words carefully; wanting to be true to myself but not wanting to ruin what was otherwise promising to be a good evening.

“I am kind of sad.” I said. “It scares me to be here. To be with you. And I feel like at this point, if you hurt me again, I have no one to blame but myself. That makes me a little sad. I don’t want to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to do it again.” He promised. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

And I wanted so badly to believe him.

That was the extent of discussing “us” that night though. We both almost immediately agreed that we didn’t want to focus on the past. That right now, in this moment, we just wanted to have fun.

And we did. We talked and laughed all throughout dinner, and when it was done… I wasn’t ready to say “goodbye”.

So I was the one to suggest we go get frozen yogurt. At Yogurtland – which just so happens to be at the airport.

I refuse to be ashamed of my addiction to Yogurtland and the lengths I go to in order to get it!

We randomly ended up parking right next to Jay’s truck. He was out of town on a work trip, and the boy happened to know where he hid the keys when he left.

So we dug through my car for something to leave him, attaching with it a silly stalker note sure to give us away. Breaking into his truck and setting it on his dash where we knew he would spot it immediately.

We were both laughing so hard we were practically crying.

It was so stupid. Such a kid prank.

But this felt good. It felt right. It felt like “us”.

We got our yogurt and decided to take it back to my place to eat. We watched some mindless reality TV, and then I kicked him out.

But not before making fun of him over something he was trying to (wrongly) explain to me about our iPhones. As soon as I started mocking him, he looked at me for a moment with a grin on his face and then tackled me. Pinning my arms down with one hand and tickling me with the other. I was squirming and wrestling with all my might, and we were both laughing so hard.

Again… this felt right.

When he stopped tickling and I stopped struggling, we both got quiet and didn’t move. For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. But at the last possible moment, he stood up instead.

I was kind of glad he had. If only because I wasn't sure I would be able to contain myself if we started kissing.

I walked him to the door where we said “goodbye”.

And I went to bed thinking to myself that if we could just take this slow, it might be alright.

It might not end with my heart broken in pieces.

It might not end at all.

I wanted to believe it to be possible.

I wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, my head had it all wrong.

The heart always wins.

But that doesn't mean it's always right.

(to be continued…)

Space

2012-01-16T18:38:00.003-09:00

If you’re just now joining us, I’m telling a story… About a boy. If you want to catch up before jumping in, start here first.

He said he would stay away.

He promised.

But not 15 minutes later, he was calling.

Still a mess, and knowing only that he had caused this; I didn't answer.

Which is when he texted "Please call me back. I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have let this happen."

I didn't respond. He called again, and I didn't answer. So again, he texted "Will you please answer so I can explain myself to you."

I couldn’t figure out what there was to explain.

Hadn’t he already said it all?

I wiped the tears away for long enough to pen my response "I really can't talk right now. I'm sorry. I'm not mad, I promise. I'm just hurt, and confused, and embarrassed, and sad. You listening to me cry on the phone is not going to help that. I know you never meant to hurt me. I just need some space."

And then, I turned off my phone.

The truth is, I really wasn’t mad. Not at him anyway. I was definitely hurt, but not mad. Regardless of what he had meant by that comment, I knew he had never intended to hurt me. That he likely hadn’t thought at all before he spoke. This was who he was after all. I knew who he was.

So if I had anyone to be angry at, it was myself.

I had known going into this that it wouldn’t be easy. I had entered this relationship fully aware that it would be a roller coaster. I had made my choices.

And I had let myself fall in love with him.

Which in this moment, I couldn’t quite explain.

All I knew was that I felt so unwanted and discarded that I couldn’t breathe.

I was literally having a hard time coming up out of my grief and heartache for air.

How had I let this happen? How had I allowed myself to become so caught up in someone who could so easily take my feelings for granted?

I’ll tell you how – everything else was right.

The way we laughed together. The hours we could spend talking about nothing. Or more importantly, the hours we could spend talking about everything. The things we had in common. The futures we wanted. The way we had eased right into each other's lives.

It all fit. In so many ways, he was the man I had been waiting for.

Wasn’t he?

Had I been crazy to imagine he felt the same for me as I did him?

Or just stupid?

It didn’t matter now though. In my heart, I knew that.

He’d crossed a line. We wouldn’t be going back anytime soon.

We couldn't.

I woke up the next morning resigned to that fact. And thankful that in just two days, I would be getting on a plane and leaving town. Going to visit Arizona, and LA, and San Diego. Spending time with my family and closest friends.

Regrouping in a way I knew I could only do there.

The timing of this trip could not have been any better.

But before I could leave, I had to put a final nail in the coffin of our relationship. I had to close the door.

So, I wrote about it here. I broke my silence on the boy, and I shared the story of our demise. The abbreviated version of course, but still... I accepted defeat.

I declared our relationship over.

And when I left Alaska, I did so determined to leave him behind as well.

That trip turned out to be exactly what I needed. First submerging myself in family for the wedding, I had no choice but to turn my focus on that. I wasn’t able to waste time thinking about him.

It was perfect.

As soon as the wedding was over, I hopped in a car with an old friend for a road trip to see some of my nearest and dearest. And yes, we definitely dished a bit about the boy and what had been said, but mostly we just caught up. Laughed. Drank. And then came back to the house to waste the night away playing board games.

Again, exactly what I had needed.

From there, I flew to LA to spend some time with the devirginator.

Who, it should be noted, was ready to fly to Alaska and take the boy out himself.

The DV had never been all that fond of the guys I dated (most of whom were meaningless wastes of time that I myself never had any real desire to keep around), but… I’d never seen him have so much hatred for any of them either.

It was kind of nice. Knowing there was someone out there who wanted to protect me. A man from my past who never in a million years would have dreamed to speak the same words to me the boy had.

We spent our days together eating, and going to Disneyland, and watching random episodes of 1001 ways to die. We didn’t talk much about the boy. Mostly because I knew the DV was already heated, and there was this strange part of me that still felt the need to protect the boy. I didn’t want anyone hating him. But I also didn’t know how to explain his actions either.

So instead, I just focused my attention on spending this time with the DV. Getting back to myself in a way I only could with him. Finding my “normal” again.

If we're being honest about history though, it's fair to acknowledge that once upon a time the DV hurt me too. Sure, we were only kids. And he has made those years we stupidly tried to be more than friends up to me 1000 times over in the kind of friend he has been since. But, that is only because I forgave him. Or because... we forgave each other.

Our friendship is what it is today because once upon a time – we both let go of the past.

And that fact was not lost on me as I healed in his presence.

I wasn’t sure what the future held for the boy and I, but I was sure that I hadn’t heard the last of him.

Even then, I couldn’t shake the confidence I still had in his feelings for me.

Yes, he had crossed a line. And yes, he had taken me and my feelings monumentally for granted.

And even more than either of those, he had directly told me that he had no feelings for me beyond friendship.

Twice now.

But, I didn’t believe it. I still didn’t believe it. Not entirely anyway. Even after all of that, I believed in my heart that the boy loved me. I had seen the way he looked at me. I knew the bond we shared. I trusted in the things he said about me when I wasn’t around. And the things he said to me when he let those walls break down.

I believed he loved me.

And in time, I believed he would come around again.

At which point, it would be up to me to decide what direction, if any, we headed in from there.

I thought it would be a while though. Hadn’t I predicted this all along after all? Hadn’t I always been so sure that our relationship would have to first crumble to pieces before he could come to terms with the fact that it really was what he wanted?

I hadn’t anticipated it being nearly so painful, but I had seen this coming.

And now, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it would just be a matter of time.

I just hoped it would be enough time... for both of us. For him to heal from her, and for me to heal from him.

Because at this point, I still didn’t know what my choice would be when that time came.

When I said goodbye to the DV, I was already feeling refreshed and more like myself. San Diego was the perfect last stop for me. I was able to spend some time with some of my favorite girl friend’s; one of whom happened to be dealing with a brutal and unexpected breakup from her boyfriend of 3 years, who up until a week prior she had been planning on moving states with in the following month.

We definitely had a few nights spent doing nothing more than man bashing.

Like I said, perfect.

It wasn’t until my second to last night there that I really started to miss him. We were in the car driving somewhere, and all of a sudden I felt like I was fighting back tears again.

I tried to explain to my friends what I was feeling, but I couldn’t quite put it into words. I knew he didn’t deserve these tears of mine. I knew he didn’t deserve anything from me.

But I was having a hard time letting go of what I had believed could be.

And I was starting to dread going home. After spending more than a week with the people I loved, distracted entirely from his absence in my life, I was starting to dread being back in Alaska.

Without him.

I hadn’t heard from him since that night. He had kept his promise, and I was glad he had.

But there was also this part of me that hated it. I had gone through the previous weekend on edge, sure that a drunk dial from him was eminent. But it hadn’t come. And despite my best efforts not to, I felt slighted.

Even though he was only doing exactly what I had asked… staying away.

I wasn’t proud of my feelings. I wasn’t proud to be missing him, or to secretly be wishing he would call.

But that was the reality.

And by now, I really was starting to wonder if maybe I’d made it all up. If maybe we really didn’t have what I thought we had.

I swear the boy must have had ESP. Because it was that night, as I had just again started to allow these thoughts to seep in, that I heard from him.

He texted me a little after 11 asking how my trip had gone.

It had been 10 days since that night.

The longest we'd ever gone without speaking since we had met.

It was obvious he thought I was already home.

I was with two of my best friends when the text came through, and even though I probably would have anyway – their presence helped me to ignore it.

I didn’t hear from him again.

Not until the next night that is, when at 2:30 in the morning he texted me.

I was actually already awake. My plane was leaving in a few hours, and my friends and I were up in the living room spending the last of the time we had together laughing and talking.

All his text message said was “Are you alive? Yes or No?”

It seemed unfair. He knew I was alive, and he also knew I had a near impossible time ignoring people.

Why wasn’t he just leaving me alone?

Like he had promised?

Annoyed, I responded “Of course I’m alive. Pretty sure you would probably hear about it if I wasn’t.”

As soon as I hit send, he called.

And I hit the bitch button.

Why was he doing this?

I knew he was drunk. That much was assured simply by the hour.

But was that really all this was about?

He sent me a text stating simply “You just screened me!”

And I responded. “Yes I did. I’m in San Diego with my friends. Catching a plane in just a few hours. And you’re giving me space. Remember?”

I shouldn’t have responded at all, but I felt like he was due that reminder.

“Yes, sorry.” He replied. “I miss you. Goodnight.”

Now I was pissed.

Finally I was pissed.

Not at myself, but at him.

He had made me a promise, and now he was breaking it.

As much as I had secretly found myself wishing the day before that I would hear from him, if only so that I would know he cared, it wasn’t acceptable for him to be telling me he missed me.

And so, the crazy girl who lives inside of me took over.

“That’s not fair. After a conversation where you said to me ‘you don’t even want to know what I have to think about to sleep with you’, you don’t get to miss me. You have no idea how much you hurt me. How stupid, and embarrassed, and naïve I felt for letting myself believe anything you had ever told me about wanting to be with me. I care about, I want you to be OK, and I want to be your friend, but not at the expense of me getting trampled on. And not if it means only hearing from you when you’re drunk enough to realize you miss me. I need that space. That time to move on and get over whatever the hell it was we had between us. And you said you cared about me enough to give it to me. So… do it.”

He responded by simply saying “OK.” But 5 minutes later, he responded again.

“I love you, either way. Take care.”

Why! Why was he doing this to me? Why was he using that word now, after basically telling me he hadn’t ever meant it before?

I waited to respond until over an hour later, as we were driving to the airport.

“They’re only words. They don’t really mean a whole lot anymore, coming from you.”

I felt justified in that. It was true. I didn’t throw those words around. I didn’t use them haphazardly and without care.

So why did he get to?

I got on my return flight to Alaska feeling much the same as I had felt in leaving.

Hurt. And confused. And toyed with.

After a few days back home though, I was starting to feel whole again. Returning to the calm I had felt while away. Sliding back into my routine, I felt my strength returning.

I was focusing on him less and less.

So of course, he had to pop up again. On a Thursday night, at a reasonable hour, less than a week since I’d gotten home, I received this text:

"For whatever its worth, I'm sober and I still really miss you. You are a wonderful person and a great friend. You have stood beside me and supported me through one of the toughest times in my life and I don't take that for granted. Take care.

PS I decided not to get Tatalina."

I wasn’t sure what to do with that. Technically, it had been exactly what I’d needed. Confirmation that he did care about me. That I hadn’t made it all up. That I wasn’t crazy.

But... it still wasn’t enough.

I thought for a while before finally responding.

"It is worth something. Thank you. And I miss you too. But... I can't keep putting myself in the middle of this. I can't keep letting myself get hurt. It's not good for you, or for me. You need to deal with all of this, and get your head back on straight. I think it's obvious I wasn't helping you to do that. If anything, I was just confusing you more. Or putting too much pressure on you to be something you couldn't be. I can't be just your friend though. Not right now. Not when we both know I want more. Not when every time you're drunk, you suddenly want more too. It just hurts too bad. It was breaking me. And I'll never really understand how you could have said something so hurtful to me - even if it was true. I just... I don't get it. But I do miss you too. Even though I wish I didn't.

I'm sorry you didn't get Tatalina. I really wanted her for you. I think having her would have been good for you."

It was more than I meant to say, but… this is me we’re talking about. Epic text messages are to be expected when I’m the one doing the texting.

Conciseness has never been my specialty.

But never in a million years did I expect what he sent next:

"I am so sorry for hurting you. You don't deserve any of this. The truth is I am very confused and don't know how to handle things with you, so as a defense mechanism I push you away. The sad part is, I always regret it later and feel like a jackass. I am thankful for the support you have given me, but wish we could have met later when I wasn't so fucked in the head. This is a shitty situation and it breaks my heart not having you in my life. You have done so many nice things for me and been so there for me; there is no way I can ever repay you for that. I only wish I was half as good of a friend as you have been.

There are so many things I would like to say to you in person, so if you would consider meeting me let me know. I am terrified to lose you and it is unfortunate (in some ways) we met at such a shitty time. As a matter of fact, the timing fucking sucked, but the last 5 months of my life would have been miserable without you. Meeting you has been the best thing that's happened to me since the divorce. I miss you. Dammit I wish we could just start over. I hope to see you again. Love always, the boy.

P.S. I have been listening to your CD every day."

The boy had just out-texted me.

And all I could think, after reading all of that, was:

Crap.

(to be continued…)

When Does It Get To Be About Me?

2012-01-15T15:43:00.023-09:00

If you’re just now joining us, I’m telling a story… About a boy. If you want to catch up before jumping in, start here first.

The next morning would have been great, except it wasn’t.

Through no fault of the boys, it should be noted.

No… the next morning Jack decided to pay a visit.

And in grand fashion I might add.

I woke up feeling pretty miserable. Had it been a work day I would have popped an ibuprofen and powered through. But since it wasn’t, all I wanted to do was curl up in bed with my heating pad watching movies.

By myself.

I can’t help it. When I’m on my period, the last thing I want is someone cuddling up with me. I’m crampy and bloated and unhappy and I just want to be left alone.

So, I kicked the boy out.

Literally.

He was practically still sleeping, and I told him he needed to leave.

To his credit, he understood. And he sat there as I called Dee up and canceled on our plans to go hiking later that day as well. He had heard me talk enough about my lady issues to know that the first day of my period is usually the worst, and typically when I need to be left alone the most.

So he got up, got dressed, kissed me goodbye, and walked out the door.

He even called later that night to check in on me.

Or in his words, to make sure I hadn’t “bled out.”

You see what I mean when I say the boy and I have the same disturbing sense of humor, right?

But then… I didn’t hear from him again. Not Monday, not Tuesday, not Wednesday.

I was in no mood to play this game now, so I didn’t call him either. And Thursday night when he finally called to check in, I didn’t spend a great deal of time talking to him. I figured if he was going to keep me at arm’s length, I was going to do the same.

The next night was his 10 year high school reunion, and I have to admit – I really thought he was going to invite me. I knew and had spent time with all his friends. We had been doing whatever it was we were doing for months now. He had invited me to literally everything else up to this point. And we had been talking about his reunion for weeks.

It never even occurred to me that he wouldn’t invite me.

Except… he didn’t.

I spent that night with a friend. Eating dinner, having a glass of wine, and trying not to let myself get bitter over the lack of an invite.

Around 10pm I headed home. Washed my face, put on some comfy clothes, and crawled into bed to do some reading.

Which if we’re being honest – is a pretty decent depiction of my typical Friday nights.

But then after midnight, he called. It was clear he was drunk, and suddenly – he wanted me to come out to meet them.

I was annoyed. I was not a fan of getting the invite only after he was already drunk. Not at all. I told him I was already in bed, and that I had no real intention of getting up and getting ready all over again.

But I told him to be safe, and not to drive.

About 15 minutes later, he called me and said he would rather just be home with me. He asked if I would come get him.

I shouldn’t have done it. I knew I shouldn’t have. But he was only 10 minutes away, and I didn’t like the idea of him out and about drunk anyway, so… I got up and went.

Wearing yoga pants, a tank top, and not an ounce of makeup.

It was clear I had no intention of getting out of the car.

But when I got there and called him, that was what he was pushing for. For me to come in and say “hi” to everyone. For me to hang out. For me to have a drink.

He said everyone really wanted to see me.

I told him I was basically in pajamas, and that if he wanted a ride – he should get his ass out to my car.

OK, we all know I didn’t say it even half as harshly as that. But, the sentiment was the same.

So the next thing I knew, he and two of his best guy friends were walking out to the car.

All drunk. All wanting hugs.

One ran off in the direction of the crowd shortly after saying “hi”, but the other got in the car. In need of a ride and place to crash himself.

Which wasn’t a big deal at all. He was one of the sweeter and calmer of the boy’s friends. I liked the guy. I had no issues helping him out.

The boy got in the backseat with his buddy, but spent the entire drive to my place with his hands on my shoulders. Talking to his friend the whole time about how great I was.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I was so great, why I had barely heard from him at all during the previous week.

But I kept my mouth shut. Not about to start a "situation" in front of his friend.

I took the two drunks to Taco Bell, and then we headed home. I set his buddy up on the couch and the boy and I headed off to bed.

Where he tried hard to get me naked.

And I didn’t budge an inch in terms of keeping my clothes on.

In the end, he threw out one of his now trademark drunken “I love you’s”, before cuddling up with me and passing out.

The next morning was better. My irritation had subsided, and he was still in a good mood.

We were both there in bed, just laughing and joking around.

I finally told him that I felt like he was pulling away from me. That not hearing from him for days on end was hard for me. That I felt like he was pulling a disappearing act.

He just repeated the now standard line that he was really messed up right now. That he didn’t mean to be pulling away, but he also didn’t really know what he was doing or what he wanted.

The truth is that at this point, I had started to suspect he was trying to put distance between us. Not because it was what he wanted necessarily, but because he had convinced himself it was the thing he should be doing.

Which would explain why as soon as he started drinking, all "should’s" would fly out the window and I'd suddenly become the first call he'd make.

After the seriousness of the conversation had faded, he did make a comment about how much he appreciated the ride but that I shouldn’t expect to hear from him until he needed another. He said it with a smirk on his face, like he was trying to turn our serious conversation into a joke, but… I could feel him using the joke as another way to keep me at arm’s length.

When we got up, I handed him a CD I had made for him. This wasn’t a first. It’s kind of what I do – write e-mails, and make CD’s. I’d made him a divorce mix at one point as well, full of songs I thought he could relate to during that time.

This one though… it was filled with music that reminded me of us. Of what we had, and what we could be.

There were actually more than a few songs on that CD I’ve already shared here along with this series.

I knew he would listen to it. That he would put it on in his truck and spend days listening to it.

I knew the boy liked when I gave him music.

And I was pretty sure he would latch on to the meaning behind most of the songs on this one as well. There was definitely a part of me that was hoping maybe that would reach him.

I took he and his buddy to his truck a little while later, and as he was getting out of my car he turned around and said “Well… I’ll call you in August.” I must have given him a look of pure annoyance, because immediately he started laughing and said “What? It’s only 2 days!”

He kept his promise though. I didn’t hear from him again for 2 days. When he called, we talked for about 10 minutes before I made the point of being the one to exit the conversation first. It was a huge difference from the nights we had spent talking for hours on end, but I couldn’t help that part of me that wanted to prove I could hold him at arm’s length too.

I had been fighting this feeling that we were going backwards. It hadn’t been like this in the start, had it? I suddenly felt like we were in the beginning stages of a relationship where contact was somehow meant to be sporadic, instead of further on down the road where I had gotten used to hearing from and seeing him with regularity.

It was like our relationship was suffering from a case of Benjamin Button syndrome.

I didn’t like it at all, but I felt like if I pushed too hard he would pull away. Like I would lose him. I also worried that if I allowed it though, it made me weak. Vulnerable for him to take advantage of.

And I wasn’t that girl. I knew I wasn’t that girl. I never would have let any other man treat me like this. So… why was I letting him?

Why was I making so many excuses for him?

It might have been because I knew it wasn’t just me he was struggling to make a decision about. There were so many other things he just couldn’t get himself to commit to during this time.

His house was one of them. Or rather, what to do with his house. It was a beautiful place. It really was. But he hated it now. Because everything in it reminded him of her. Of the life he had planned with her. He hated being there. And anyway, it really was too much house for just him. Add on to that the fact that paying the mortgage was now a bit more of a struggle on a single income, and it was inevitable that he would eventually start talking about getting rid of it. The problem was, he had been talking about selling it since we met, but had never once called a realtor to even see if it was possible. He always mentioned wanting to move on from that house, but he could never pull the trigger. For a plethora of reasons, both logical and not, he couldn’t make himself take the next step. But he also couldn’t let go of the idea of wanting to. So he was constantly going back and forth instead.

Then there was the dog. Jay and the boy worked for the same company, but Jay had spent the summer working in a different small little town than the one the boy had been at. While he was there, he had unofficially adopted a stray. But bringing the dog home to his already full house just wasn’t an option. So, he had started talking to the boy about taking this dog instead. And the boy really wanted to. He loved being a dog owner. He was always talking about how much he missed his dogs, and the idea of getting a new one had him excited like an 8 year old. From the second she was first mentioned, he talked about her all the time. But then he would hesitate, and start over thinking it. Talking about how much harder it would be for him to take care of a dog by himself. How much more difficult it would be when he had to go out of town for work, or fishing trips. He started talking about how his life couldn’t accommodate a dog now, even though I knew how badly he wanted it. Even though I knew his parents would help him with it in a heartbeat. And even though I myself had offered to do whatever I could to help. He just couldn’t commit to it. He talked about it every day for two weeks, but he couldn’t bring himself to say “yes”.

Which pretty much describes New Zealand as well. He had an opportunity to go on an incredible fishing trip to New Zealand with one of his buddies. More than any of the other decisions he was struggling with, I wanted this the most for him. I remembered the change of perspective I myself had gained when I traveled to Australia. How much that trip had healed me. I believed this trip would be exactly what he would need to start getting his head back on straight. To start rebuilding. And when he talked about it, his eyes would light up. But he was so nervous about the costs and time involved that again… he couldn’t bring himself to make a decision.

Leaving us with me. The final item on a long list of things he couldn’t seem to make his mind up about.

No matter how much I needed for him to.

He was just indecisive during this time. About everything.

And there wasn’t a whole lot I could do to help him with that.

Still, I wanted to believe that if I just gave him space, he would come around eventually. I wasn’t built for the back and forth, and I definitely felt like I deserved more. I just didn’t know where the line was between being patient and giving him the time he needed, while also still protecting and standing up for myself.

The next weekend turned out a lot like the previous had. I didn’t hear from him until almost 11 at night on Friday. When he had already been out for hours. When he was already drunk. Now, suddenly, he wanted me to join.

I wasn’t about to do it though. Even though I wasn’t doing anything at all, I wasn’t about to go running to him now. Now that he had gotten drunk enough to want me around. I told him that as much as I appreciated the late invite, I was going to pass. Then I told him to have fun, and to please be safe.

A little after 2 I heard from him again. This time wanting another ride.

And this time, I put my foot down. Told him I was already in bed asleep, and I wasn’t going to come get him now. I said if he needed a place to sleep he could grab a cab, but I wasn’t going to continue being his taxi.

About 30 minutes later, he showed up at my door.

Initially he went straight for the couch; I think already knowing I was pissed. But when I didn’t say anything and just went back to my room, he joined me less than 5 minutes later. He laid there in my bed for a while without saying anything. He knew I was mad, but I don’t think he knew what to do about it. Finally he just said “I do love you.” Before curling up and cuddling behind me.

I didn’t say anything in return.

The next morning there was no laughing or giggling. No playful flirting or joking.

I was finally done. Annoyed to the point that I didn’t want to let this slide.

So when he gave me my opportunity, I jumped on it.

He thanked me for giving him a place to sleep, and then cracked what I think he thought was a joke. “I figure I’ve only got another few weeks where you’ll let me get away with this before just being done with me, so I might as well take advantage of it while I can!” He was smiling when he said. I really do think he thought he was just teasing me. Trying to lighten the mood in any way he could.

But I paused for a moment, before saying “Actually… I think we’re there.”

This launched a conversation that was far too easy in retrospect. I told him I couldn’t do this anymore. That I couldn’t continue to be his afterthought. That our relationship wasn’t working for me, and we needed to be done with whatever it was we were doing.

I told him we could be friends, but that for now I would need a little space. Just to clear my head and get myself to a good place.

He didn’t argue with me. Not about any of it. He said he understood. That he knew the point would eventually come when I couldn't handle him anymore.

Which is when I said “I think the saddest part is… I really did let myself fall in love with you.”

It was the first time I had said it.

The first time those words had passed my lips.

He had said them to me over 20 times by now. Always drunk, but still… he had said it.

And I’d always remained silent.

Until now. As I was ending things.

But he looked at me then, and said “I just don’t know how to believe you. She said that to me too. I don’t know how to believe it coming from anyone else, if I couldn’t believe it from her.”

I felt like he’d punched me. Here I was, opening up and being honest and finally telling him how I felt about him and what his behavior was doing to me, and… he tells me he can’t believe me.

Not because I had ever lied to him or hurt him or betrayed him in any way.

But because of her.

I finally said the word I had been feeling for months, and it meant nothing to him.

There wasn’t a whole lot to say after that. The entire conversation had been incredibly bittersweet, but we weren’t fighting. We weren’t arguing at all. It was all kind of... surreal.

Especially when you consider the fact that I still had to drive him 30 minutes away to his truck after this.

By the time we got there, we had been silent for a while. He got out of the car and thanked me, before turning around and looking at me for a long time without saying anything. And then, he just closed the door.

There were no tears. Not for me, and not for him. I turned around and drove home, thinking to myself how easy something that should have been so hard had just been.

I went to dinner that night with my incredible friend hockey wife. Recounted to her the details of the morning as we both had a few too many glasses of wine.

And then, we went shopping. Mostly just for shoes she needed to get her husband, but while out and about I spotted a pair of sunglasses that reminded me a lot of a pair the boy had lost just a few weeks before.

Without even thinking, I was buying them.

I had no plan. No intention of giving them to him anytime soon. But I just figured I had them now, and the next time I did see him – I would give them to him. A friendly gesture.

Or, that’s what I was telling myself. The truth is though, I was already missing him.

In the most unhealthy way possible.

I recognized that. I knew it. I knew missing him now was crazy.

And I didn’t plan on doing anything about it at all.

But then… he texted me a picture of the dog. Along with the words “I think Tatalina would be a cool name for her.”

Something inside me cracked. Had he made a decision about something? Had he found something he wanted enough to commit to?

I texted back that I loved her, and then asked how he was feeling (knowing he had been pretty hung-over that morning.) He said he was recovering, and that he was at Barnes & Noble… looking at books about New Zealand.

My mind was spinning. Was this the same guy I had been dealing with for the last few weeks? And what had happened to him not contacting me for a while? Was he finally starting to make some decisions? And was I one of them?

Having just been dropped off at home, I sat there on my bed looking at the new sunglasses I had picked up, and the movie that had been in my mailbox.

Without even thinking I texted him:

“Come over when you’re done. I just got home, and I got you something. Had a movie in the mail too. We can break up tomorrow.”

He responded with “Fine!” and then was at my door within 15 minutes.

I don’t know what I expected to happen. If I really expected anything to be different. He laughed when he saw the sunglasses, and spent a few minutes regaling me with some of what he had learned about New Zealand. And then, we put the movie in.

At first we cuddled right up. Whether out of habit or circumstance, I can’t be sure.

But I do know that as soon as my tipsy hands started to wander, he was quick to put a stop to it.

And I was quick to pout.

This was not one of my better moments in our relationship, but… I was feeling rebuffed. And I couldn’t figure out why he was here, at my house, if he wasn’t somehow sure that I was what he wanted.

He said he didn’t want to go there though. That he still wasn’t sure what he wanted, and that he didn’t want to hurt me anymore.

But I was already hurt. And with a few glasses of wine in me, I was saying the things I had been holding back on for months.

In a moment of exasperation, I finally blurted it all out.

“I’ve spent the last few months taking care of you. Being there for you. Doing whatever it was you needed when you needed it. And whenever you're drunk, you can't keep your hands off of me. But now, suddenly, you're not interested. I told you this morning we needed to take a break until you could figure out what you wanted, and then you're texting me just a few hours later. What are you doing here if you don't want to be with me? And when does it get to be about me? When do you start worrying about what I need? Because what I need, is for you to decide. For you to choose. And for you to then stick with the choice you made.”

He sat there stunned for a moment. I'd never really called him out so boldly. Not like this anyway. “I know” he said. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

But it wasn’t like anything was resolved. It wasn’t like we had suddenly broken new ground.

It wasn’t like he had suddenly chosen.

I got under the covers and turned my back to him. He didn’t try to cuddle. And even though I’m fairly sure neither of us got any sleep that night at all, we didn’t say another word.

The next morning he got up early. Quickly putting on his pants and walking out the door.

I was fairly sure it would be a while before I would hear from him again.

That we had just experienced our real breakup.

But that night, around 6, he called me. Left a message sounding 100% sober. Asking me to call him back when I got a chance.

I didn’t.

A few hours later he texted asking if I had gotten his message. I responded that I had, and asked if everything was OK. When he asked why I hadn’t called him back, I said I had some things I was trying to figure out. The conversation ended with his saying “OK. I’ll let you be. Goodnight.”

It was then that I started writing. Continued typing and editing for hours. Before finally hitting send sometime after midnight on an e-mail that was composed on pure emotion.

Some of the highlights included:

“I’m sorry about tonight. I just haven’t had the greatest day. My mind’s been completely occupied ever since you left this morning.

In all honesty, I’ve been kicking myself. Wishing that I had stuck to my guns and kept some distance between us. After a few glasses of wine though, I guess you were on my mind. Our conversation from earlier in the day was on my mind. This sadness I was feeling over the whole thing.

So when you texted last night, all of my resolve faded and I just wanted to see you.

But, I wish I had stuck to my guns."

“This is starting to get ridiculous on my end. I get hurt when you disappear on me. Then I get hurt when you are here too. Anytime you’re cold or distant. Anytime you’re pulling away from me. Anytime I feel like you don’t want me. I’m becoming this girl I don’t even like. One who’s needy and desperate. One who’s sitting around just waiting for the boy she likes to like her back.

It’s not me. It’s not who I want to be.

And it’s not even really your fault. I’m the one who has let you come and go, even when I’ve known I need more. I’ve let you crawl into my bed, even as you’ve told me you don’t know what you want from me. I’ve let you hold back from me, and push me away, and build up walls, even as I have been completely open and honest with you about how I feel. I’m the only one to blame at this point, because I should have put a stop to this months ago.”

“If things keep going the way they are though, it’s going to make me hate you. I’ll end up being the one putting up walls, and then even if you do hit the point where you’re ready to give it a shot – I won’t be able to believe you. I’ll suddenly be the one unable to trust in your feelings for me. And there won’t really be any coming back from that.

Something has got to change.”

“I told you I loved you, and I meant it. I think you should know that I don’t use those words lightly. I never have. Which is why every single time you have drunkenly thrown them at me, I have kept my mouth shut. Because I don’t say things like that unless I know I can stand by it. I told you I loved you, and I meant it.

And you told me you didn’t believe me.

Maybe that’s why I wanted you to come over last night. Because I don’t know what to do with that. How I’m supposed to react. Do I keep sacrificing myself in the hopes that eventually you’ll believe me? That someday you’ll see that it must be true because I’m still here? Or do I step away and protect myself? Protect my own heart, since clearly you aren’t going to?

At what point does what I need start to matter?

If you don’t trust how I feel about you by now, I don’t know what else I can do to show you.

And at some point, I need to care about myself enough to let what I need start mattering too.”

"You may not know what you want, but I do know what I want. I want you. I want to be with you. I want to be a part of your life. I don’t care about what you still have to work through, and it doesn’t bother me that you still find yourself loving her. I don’t think your feelings for her and your feelings for me have to be mutually exclusive, and I actually think it would be weird if you didn’t still love her. I want to be there for you while you work through this. I want to be someone you can talk to. Someone you can count on. But I can’t keep hanging on, when you aren’t willing to commit to how you feel about me at all. I can’t keep letting you hold me at arm’s length; pushing me away when I get too close, and pulling me back when you start to fear losing me.

I can’t keep up the back and forth.

I don’t have it in me to do this half way anymore.

So I think you should take whatever time you need. Figure out what it is you want. Whether or not you and I want the same thing. Keep your distance for a while. Forever if that’s what it comes down to. Do what you need to do to be happy. If that means drifting around from stupid girl to stupid girl so that you never have to feel anything for anyone else ever again – do it. But know that I am not that girl.”

Almost as soon as I hit “send”, I regretted it.

This wasn’t an e-mail I had spent days thinking about. One I had edited and re-edited until it was right.

This wasn’t even one I had cut down to a reasonable length.

Throughout the course of this entire relationship, I had often joked that for the first time in my life – I was the sane one in a pairing. And I had been. I had kept my cool, controlled my emotions, and put him first.

Every step of the way.

This e-mail though… it was all of that coming to the surface. Me finally bubbling over under the pressure of trying not to create too much pressure.

And my inner crazy girl (i.e. the side of me that overanalyzes, overcomplicates, and overwrites) finally won out.

After months of remaining fairly contained.

But that inner crazy girl, she did keep reminding me that at least… it was out there.

I didn’t hear from him that day. I wasn’t sure I would hear from him again.

But the following night, he called.

And as soon as I saw his number, a wave of relief washed over me.

I answered without thinking. “You made me crazy” I announced.

He didn’t need to know that I had always been crazy. That e-mails like that were pretty much par for the course for me. I was fine with him thinking that he had been the one to push me over the edge.

He’d made enough comments along this journey about how calm I was. How rational. How normal.

Yes, he had actually referred to me as “normal” at one point.

No use shattering that image now.

He paused for a moment, before finally saying “Yeah… what was that?”

So I launched into it. About how confused I had been lately. How unsure of where I stood with him I had been feeling.

I told him I felt like we were going backwards. Like me and what I needed were being severely neglected in this quest of mine to support him.

And that at some point, I really needed that to change.

I needed to know I could count on him. That I could rely on him.

And that he was spending as much time looking out for me as I was spending looking out for him.

Finally, I said “If you can’t do that, I just really think… we need to be just friends. Like, really just friends. Not friends who sleep and cuddle in the same bed, or who kiss and get naked every time you’re drunk enough to want that. Just friends. Without the mixed signals or games. Without the underlying promise of potential in the future. Just… friends.”

I would be lying if I didn't say that at this point every part of me wanted him to tell me that wasn’t what he wanted. That he would try harder. That he would give me what I wanted.

What I needed.

Because he loved me.

But instead, he said “That’s probably for the best. I think friends is all we really are anyways.”

I caught my breath. “Do you really mean that?” I questioned.

“Yeah. I think I do.” He responded.

Confused now, I said “So if I started dating someone else tomorrow, if I moved on, you would really be OK with that?”

“Yes.” He replied, seemingly without even thinking. “I just know that there’s nothing more here between us. I mean, it’s weird to me too that I don’t ever want to be with you unless I’m drunk. Even I can't figure that out. I think it means something though.”

I was trying not to spiral out. I was trying so hard. “What are you talking about?” I asked. “We slept together just 2 weeks ago. You prompted that. And you were completely sober.”

“I know.” He said. “But… you don’t really want to know what I have to think about to sleep with you.”

...

The entire world came to a halt. Everything around me stopped. I couldn’t breathe.

What did that even mean? Was that a comment about me? About something being wrong with me? Or was it a comment about him? About where his mental state was in general? About how he would have trouble sleeping with anyone right now?

Why would he ever say that?

Why would he ever say it to me?

I wanted to throw up.

But instead, I cried.

The wall broke down. The emotions won out. For the first time in my entire adult life, I cried tears as I was being hurt. With the person doing the hurting right there on the other end of the line, bearing witness to it all.

They erupted out of me. These tears that had been built up for months. Exploding from my eyes before I could contain them.

I was shaking. And sobbing. And hyperventilating.

Finally stripped raw and exposed.

Finally broken down.

Finally beaten.

Immediately it was like a switch flipped for him. Like hearing my tears had triggered him to realize what he had just said. What he had just done.

He couldn’t stop apologizing. Calling himself an asshole. Telling me how sorry he was. That he had never meant to hurt me. That he hated himself for this. That he would never forgive himself for doing this to me.

He was panicked. He had never heard me like this before. Had never known me to be so vulnerable.

And there I was, on the other end of the phone, crying so hard I couldn’t respond.

I could tell he felt awful. I knew this wasn’t what he wanted. I knew he had spoken before he had even thought.

This was one of the traits the boy and I shared after all, wasn’t it?

The lack of a filter.

I knew that hurting me like this was the last thing he ever would have done intentionally.

But it didn’t matter.

It had happened.

What’s done is done.

As soon as I gained my ability to communicate, I told him between sobs to stop apologizing. That I wasn’t mad. That I understood. But that I needed some time.

Possibly a lot of time.

I told that if he really cared about me like he was saying he did, then he needed to stay away. I begged him not to call me again. Not to text. Not to show up at my door.

I told him he needed to keep his distance.

That if he really cared, he needed to give me time to heal from this.

From all of it.

From him.

The remorse in his voice was evident. “I’ll stay away.” He promised. “I do care about you, more than you know, and I’m so sorry I let this happen. If that’s what you need though… I won’t call. I’ll stay away.”

He asked if I was going to be OK. If there was anything he could do.

I continued to struggle with getting the words out past the tears, but I told him I would be fine. That it would just take time. And that the only thing he could do for me now, was leave me alone.

Which is when we said goodbye.

And I hung up the phone before curling up in a ball on my bed and finally letting it all out.

The tears. The heartbreak. The sadness.

The months of buildup, finally releasing.

Crying until I was sure I had nothing left.

And then, crying some more.

(to be continued…)