Down to believing

I have felt as if I have come to a turning point more than once in my relationship with D. Some more significant than others, as I look back and reflect.

This may be the first time in my history with him that I truly feel as if I am making one of the most important decisions of my life.

Early 2015, I was reexamining my relationship with him, what I wanted from our life, from my life, from the future. I spoke with a few friends over meals about struggling with still wanting a family, wanting to have that sense of one, even if that didn’t mean children.

One friend in particular reminded me that perhaps D and I weren’t meant to be together forever, and that perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing. That maybe God had something else in store for me and I should pray on it. I was a touch insulted, and at the same time intrigued. Wasn’t it too late to still be thinking about a new life, one with a husband and possible children gotten by whatever means the universe would lead me to? It seemed painful to even think about it, honestly. You want people to root for your relationship. I think she recognized that D and I are / were quite different in many ways.

Determining what one wants from life is the everlasting twist. It changes and evolves until you barely remember where you were where you started. Or maybe, until you come around full circle.

Months later, I feel as if I’m standing on a precipice. I have a few options. We have more than a few choices to make. Conversations to cry through, decisions to hash out. That all seems so complicated and overwhelming.

D says we love each other and that we’ve always been able to talk through everything, but it isn’t just us anymore.

With the kind of irony that life enjoys thrusting upon you sometimes, we have reached other places in our relationship as well. As D continues with a therapist online, he has found his legs a bit. Able to speak up where he felt stifled, we are arguing when we rarely did before. He felt his feelings didn’t matter for a very long time, and so he went with whatever I wanted. Now that they do, it’s difficult to realize you may have been the bully in your relationship.

We still want very different things. We want fewer overlapping.

Walking away from M, years ago, I knew he could find happiness elsewhere, and as delusional as this sounds, I thought I was keeping him from it. Without me dragging him down, I thought he’d find someone better suited to his personality, his needs. It’s easier to consider yourself noble than to walk away because you believe you could be happier, not because you think you’re doing someone a favor.

Leaving D, I don’t honestly believe he’d move into a relationship without a lot of struggle. I believe he would feel proven right – that everyone leaves and he doesn’t deserve love and happiness. Though that burden seems like a poor reason to stay.

I’ve put in time, and history, and it seems a waste to have nothing left of what we made. But, in looking, whatever was that time?  Companionable at times, perhaps. Kind, loving, but certainly not happy. Knowing happiness is the ultimate con, is the lack of connection enough reason to consider walking away?

Can it be restored, reignited, especially given the distance and hurdles we’ve chosen to give it?

If one wants to get through day-to-day, and another is envisioning a future, where’s the balance? While opposites attract, can they serve as glue? One needing intimacy, both from a relationship standpoint and the small social / familial circle, one preferring the company of just you two. One wanting to adventure the world, the other choosing to never move from a place they call home.

It is frightening and frustrating.

Our relationship has changed drastically since those conversations with those friends. Much has happened, in both the little ways things unfold and in the unsettling faults left from arguments lasting days and miles. There are more crucial elements, more complications and more concern that these two people remaining are remarkably different from the two that came together years ago.


The intensity with which I miss him surprises me, much like so many other pieces of whatever this is.

Confusing and overwhelming, I am unable to explain it all, and have somewhat given up on trying. I can focus on the twelve hundred miles between us. I can think of possibilities, both good and bad.

Last night, he said that in ten years, the memory of our first morning together would still be one of the predominant memories of his life. I didn’t know how to take that. I’m elated that he might think of me just as fondly in ten years. I wonder if he thinks of some future version of us, or if that day is just imprinted. I worry that the only part of him I’ll have that many years from now are the memories.


I didn’t write a post last year on the holiday. It was a painful one, but I felt like I’ve said everything I have to say until I’m blue in the face.

Last year was my sister’s first. This year, she has a second child. It’s also a rough day for her, it seems, as she adjusts to life with two little ones.

I am trying not to feel sorry for myself. I try to remember there will come a year when I’m grieving my mother and think of those who’ve lost theirs, recently or otherwise. I try to remember those I know who are mothers but who happen to be  having a tough year. There are also those still in the thick of hoping motherhood is only eluding them temporarily.

I am grateful for the friends who think of me. I am happy to get to talk to my mother. I am relieved that I’m not having to hide my oversensitivity.

watching airplanes

There’s a spot near my house, where you can park and see some of the valley lights, the night sky illuminated by traffic signals and streetlamps. Depending on which way you face, you can watch a string of airplanes, waiting to make their final descent into the city. I like to watch this, almost as much as I like to get on one of those planes.

D informed me just after I returned from my last trip that he would be boarding no more. He won’t be accompanying me to meet my new niece or nephew this summer. Nor will he join me for the family wedding I have to go to in September. He doesn’t want to travel anymore and he prefers to never get on a plane again.

I have wanderlust. The last few years, I’ve made more round trips to see my folks than anything else, but I was looking forward to traveling to any number of places. He’s not stopping me, I’m free to go alone, but this news hit me harder than I wanted it to.

I only think of what I miss. That my nephew and the baby still yet to arrive won’t know him at all. That he won’t hold my hand at my parents’ funerals. That there’s no grand vacation overseas.

I mourn so many things in my life, so many might have beens, and I suppose this is just another set.

Precariously prancing

He has me less than sure footed. Somehow, I get knocked off balance and overcorrect myself. When I need to be playful, I end up defensive. My attempt at trying not to sound vulnerable and dependent wounds with the kind of insult I couldn’t even dream of hurling in that direction. How could he think he was anything less? The person I want to hear from most. Then, when I hear from him, I can’t wait to hear from him again. I can’t wait to hear his voice, his laugh.

Trying to explain that I don’t need it made me sound like I don’t even want it. And I do, desperately.

I’m afraid I’m not as good as I used to be. I have forgotten how hard it is to want this badly. To deal with the consequences of my desire and my compulsive nature and my preference for playing it low key.

do you know that every time we hung up, I would almost whisper “I love you”, as if I couldn’t possibly keep it in any longer?

like I had been holding my breath

your laugh, or one of those sounds you make when incredulous, or aggravated; would raise something in me I struggled to keep down, to keep in place.

 I have it under control now, but I pause to wonder if something would cause it to tip again
 could the slightest provocation start me back?


Wandering my house, bare feet on the cold travertine floor of my kitchen; I could put on socks or slippers, I could turn up the heat, but the stinging cold of the stone on my soles dulls something more painful.

Everything seems too intense.


A particular song on repeat, melancholy; I can sing in a whisper or at full volume, depending on the where I am in the pendulum swing.

I answer the inquiry into how I am with the stale and canned response of “fine” when I feel anything but. There’s no quick and easy answer to give when stress and sadness and worry sit somewhere tight in your chest, just behind your heart.

I wish I had written the song. So many books of so many lyrics lost or burned or otherwise dead. Instead, I’ll listen until I’m too tired to stare at my phone or pace the room.

Laying on top of the covers naked, until my skin tingles from the cool air and I tuck inside the sheets to cry myself to sleep.