Dear You

Every. Fucking. Day.

Every fucking day I wake up from a dream about you. Some days it's about your new gf and she's laughing at me like she did in our home when we invited her over for dinner and drinks. Many times throughout that night, she made fun of my personality and poetry and I brushed it off. I was also a little drunk. I wanted you to have a good friend. I wanted her to feel welcome for your sake. So I made dirty jokes like I always do, about you being able to bring her over "to our side" and she looked at me with dead seriousness in her eyes and said, "Tara, I could never." I should have known. No one says that unless they're already thinking about it.

Anyway, in the dream I'm in flip flops in her horse stables trying to learn how to trust the horses and she just comes in like someone who knows how to do everything and laughs at me like she did that night. I try to convince her, convince myself, that I know flip flops aren't smart and I know what I'm doing, that I just wanted to pet them and move on, but then I'm surrounded and the horses trample me and she lets them as I scream out to you. She gets to you first, and you walk away together while I suffocate.

In today's dream (they happen every morning at the same time--usually right when you would have kissed me goodbye on your way to work) you asked me to come home. You missed me and said you made a mistake. Because I still love you, I came home, but I wasn't weak. I didn't fall right back into you. I was strong again, like I was when we met. Strong like I'm trying to find my way back to, now. In the dream, I wanted to try again, but I had conditions. I had things I needed. I had rules and I demanded you acknowledge them as I straddled you on the couch in new clothes and a red-laced bra. You took me into you. This was the first dream since in which you let me touch you. Since you broke up with me, you push me away in every dream. Like you did when I tried to kiss you one last time before I got into the car and drove away. I'll never get the image of you rejecting me like that, as we both sobbed and tried to embrace, out of my head. Ever.

Every fucking day I think I should've had more conditions. I should have asked for what I needed. I should have made you talk to me more, so at least I would have known that you weren't happy. I had no idea. You are so very good at concealment. I would have given my love to you, unconditionally, until we were old and gray. I believed in us that much.

Maybe long love has conditions. 

Every fucking day I am out doing something normal and boring, like buying food, and something reminds me of you and the things I did for us, like how much I loved buying all the groceries and making sure you were fed. And then the what the fuck comes up again. The dream of that day flashes in my mind and I wish I knew something, anything, about you and your heart. Your thoughts. Your needs. My broken heart just wants you to love me and give me a chance. My broken heart wants to hear you ask me to come home. My broken heart wants you to say I'm sorry and actually mean it, not the way you've said it to me during this long, surreal month of bullshit communication. Not the sorry you've given me that feels like guilt instead of sorry/sorrow/love. And not the sorry you gave me when looked at me like I was crazy for being heartbroken and sideswiped and in love with you. 

Today you are someone I would come back to. 

Tomorrow, I will feel differently. I will know that the way you tried to blame your shitty communication on me, my "moods" and artistic soul was an easy way out for you, an easy way into your new her. Tomorrow, I'll hate you and feel proud of myself and want to move on, fast. 

Then, the day after, I'll probably walk around wanting to come home again. 

Every fucking day it is this, and then the next fucking day it is that.

I interviewed and auditioned at one of the best restaurants in Denver and the guy I followed just wanted to talk about New Mexico, his home. The mountains you and I loved every day from our back yard? His favorite place on earth. I had to go to the bathroom and wipe my face. I was tender the whole shift. I don't know if I got the job. 

Every fucking day I'm mad that I even have to get a new job. And then, the tears again. The inner me wondering what I did wrong, what I could have done better, if I am even capable of being loved and seen and touched as my whole self. All my moody artistic shit and all. 

Every fucking day I have to move my body and let myself cry and write about it and breathe deeply and walk Pablo and call a friend and keep an eye on my sadness to make sure I find my strength in it. To make sure I don't fall too deeply into it. Make sure I don't trust the voice you left me with wondering if I'm just not good enough. Why wasn't I good enough? 

Every fucking day I wonder, how did I end up without a home? How could you make a life with me, the life you said you wanted, say it was ours, assure me of your happiness, and then let me leave it all as if it was only yours all along? I feel now that everything we had was yours. You think you were the one trying to keep me/us happy all these years, but do you know? I was the one that folded into your life the way you wanted me to. You never fully came into mine. I gave up a lot to be with you. What did you give up that I wouldn't have given, lovingly, if you would have asked? How was I in a partnership one minute, then tossed to the curb the next? Why did you look at me as though I had wronged you? Why couldn't the length of us allow for some down time, some stuff to work on? Why didn't you fucking tell me we were here? How could you touch someone else so soon, mere hours after spending the night sobbing and hugging me the way you did, as if I was a broken little bird in your hands? 

Every fucking day. And when it happens I feel like I was driving home from teaching in Santa Fe that Friday afternoon, after having a drink with a new friend, and must have been hit by a truck or something. Because I feel like I'm waking up out of a coma with a memory that is not mine. Like a mental patient strapped to a bed, unable to stop the sobbing, unable to catch my breath, thrashing and screaming at everyone, I had a home! I had a partner who loved me! We were together almost 8 years and we just bought a house! It was mine, too! It had beautiful gray and blue walls and lovely dark floors and a long sectional couch! We sat there together laughing at drag queens on TV and went to bed every night with a book and our dogs! I had four dogs! I had two goats! We made goat cheese and drank raw milk and had plans to get chickens and mini horses! I was going to build a huge garden and grow our veggies! I taught four classes at an art school and community college in Santa Fe and my career as a writer and teacher was finally growing! It was almost spring and I was ready to play again and find our fun together after a long year! My office was bright blue and I watched the bunnies romp outside my window every morning! She loved me! I loved her! It wasn't all a dream!

And the people just look at me and hold me down. They soothe my tears until I'm calm and then slowly tell me that it was all a dream. I wasn't loved. I couldn't have been. That life couldn't have existed. If it did, honey, where is it now?

If you loved me the way you said you did (literally days before you decided to erase me from your memory) you would have never treated me like this. Shut me out. Turned around and sent emails back to my sadness with words like amicable and I don't know what to say except I'm sorry you're hurting I'm sorry I'm the reason you're hurting I won't let you sabotage my happiness. 

I know if you stumble upon this you'll be angry. Don't worry. No one really knows I have this site, and I'm publishing these posts but not publicizing them. Yet. You did know I would write about you, didn't you? You did know I couldn't just feel all my feelings by myself for long, that I'd have to make something of it, right? You do know I believe in living out loud and sharing complexity and heartbreak as much as happiness? That not everything is fun and games and easy and happy, right? At least not for long? Then the work comes, the work you never wanted to do.

I wrote about you and our beautiful bodies after we'd only been fucking a few weeks and I read those poems in public. You fell for me then, right? I will continue to write about you, about us, about this, forever. Don't worry. I won't always blame you. Few will read this. After a while, it will become poetry and hard to tell who or what I'm referring to. Images will take over the pain and truth and shitty writing of this story. This story will become carefully planned lines with sound that plays with meaning and theme. Art will be made. I'll be better because of it, and I might never fucking thank you.

It took you weeks to even realize I unfriended you on FB, anyway. That's how much you stopped even thinking about me and started falling into someone new. So it's just my yearning heart here thinking you might look me up, want to know what I'm doing. My heart full of love for you that wants you to seek me out, call me to say you made a mistake, ask me how I'm doing. I should know you by now. You've showed me who you really are plenty of times, so why do I keep expecting more? I knew when I met you that this was how you were, but you wanted me and I wanted you and it felt so good to be wanted and desired. I let myself fall into you and now everything I knew would happen, all the ways I feared you would treat me are real. I never believed you'd dismiss me from your life like an annoying insect. I didn't know you saw me as parasitic. But, here I am. Swatted away. So I'll write into this space, be public about my life, and share this inner work and process because I really don't know what the fuck else to do except express. 

Every fucking day.

Every fucking day I wish for the courage to turn this pain into art, into action. Every fucking day I watch much worse things go down in the world and feel selfish for feeling so deeply into this pain. But I'm still in this. You left me with this heartbreak, enough for the two of us, since you just can't live that way. So I carry it. And I'll make my life beautiful again. And every fucking day I'll wish you loved me. And the longer you wait to say something the more I'll share and heal and move on. I don't want to move on. But you've left me with no choice, so every fucking day I choose to feel it all, feel it all, feel it all over the place until it's done with me.