Oh Jeez:

  I am twenty years old. It is hot, the sort of humid that gets in your lungs and starts to drown you. We are making it worse by standing over a cast-iron skillet in my unairconditioned kitchen, making fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I lick my sticky fingers, you laugh.

-Sweets for the sweet.

    You are corny, I like it. You’re standing very close to me, close enough to brush your fingers over my belt loops by accident, at least pretending it’s an accident. We haven’t kissed yet, but I have wanted to for three years, ever since I first saw you step behind a microphone, battered and beaten guitar in hand, and howl like some long lost Delta bluesman.

  We eat standing up, faces smeared with jelly like a couple of toddlers. Rinsing off with the cool water from the tap feels heavenly. We retreat back upstairs. My mother is away, I have thehouse to myself. Thunder rumbles outside, a few flashes of lightning. There’s been a storm every day for a week. Tree limbs down, lost power, the sky looks ugly and painted with bruises during the day, before finally crashing down as soon as it gets dark.

- I want to play you a song.

You lie back with my guitar in your hands and begin to sing.Your voice is low, and smokey, and as you growl through the lyrics I feel lightheaded.

Rise and fall

Curtain call

Build around your heart a wall

  That is exactly what I have done over the years leading up to this moment. I have build a wall around myself, the ivory tower of fear and heartache. I feel it melting away, not permanently, I know, but perhaps only for this moment.

  You finish playing. We are lying on opposite ends of the bed, our heads meeting in the middle. I sit up, you sit up too, but in an instant we are lying down again, melting together, blending at the edges. We stay like that for a while, exercising three years of physical tension. Then we fall asleep, like children, with all our clothes and all the lights still on.

A few days later, you call.

-It was beautiful, but it won’t work.

I don’t mind.

(Source: Spotify)

Don’t blame me

  Bear and I invented a new way of talking. Exhausted (and probably dying of heat stroke, the east coast is murderous the past few days), we could only summon up three word phrases to summarize our frustrations while texting yesterday. Example:

Bear:  Boyfriend: has unsatisfying life

Bear: Boyfriend: blames on me

Bee: Boyfriend: ditto ditto ditto

so on and so forth.

We are both facing a problem: our boyfriends don’t like their lives, no matter how much they may love us. On my end, Scientist has an extremely unsatisfying job in a coffee shop. He has to be at work at 5am, he works long hours, and he is currently in the middle of a stretch of working every day for 12 days straight. I understand his frustration, totally.

But I don’t understand why he has to take it out on me. We’ve been fighting constantly, over the stupidest things imagineable. He’s consistently sleeping on the floor. I feel us starting to just hate and resent each other.

But it’s over a job. Jobs can be quit. New Jobs can be gotten. Why are we letting it destroy us?

I think part of it comes from the fact that I’ve never been one to sacrifice my life goals for financial stability, and that is Scientist’s background completely. His family is wealthy — but not because they followed their individual dreams, per se. Their attitude is more, “make the money, then use it to do what you really want”.

I was raised more to believe that life is short, money is fleeting, and what is ultimately most important is to have lived a life you feel was satisfying.

I feel a little bad, like I’m unable to get off my high horse on this issue and just let Scientist live the way he wants to. But I can’t stand to see it tearing us apart.

How can you reconcile two different ways of looking at finances? And is this what being a grown up is like??

Seriously,

am I finally an adult,

Bee.

Grass is Green, Breakups Greener

The transitory period after a breakup is always odd. Do you think about him too much? Not enough? (Even after his favorite movie plays on TV)? Can you call just to say “hey” and check in, or do you not bother? When do formalities (“happy birthday anyway, did you enjoy the headphones I sent you a week before you broke up with me?”) become just formal, and unemotional? 

The Spaniard and I are on weird terms. My request for SPACE was met with “I miss you” texts, “I still love you” warbles on my voicemail, and “when can I see you” captions on photos attached to late-night e-mails. “I made a mistake” was the first and oft repeated words out of his mouth. Promised grades, new jobs, therapy appointments, they all have seemed like (all too quick) steps in the right direction, but they HAPPENED, and damn does the boy move fast. Yet this closet romantic coupled with a “men can change for the right girl” adages have led me right back into a time warp. Helloooo last fall. Hello….mistakes?

The Spaniard showed up with all the right moves last weekend, after he pleaded for a chance to make it up to me. Two dozen (well, 25 to be precise) lavender roses showed up on my doorstep before work, and a weary and very nervous Spaniard greeted me with tears in his eyes when I picked him up from the Metro. A kiss on the forehead, a warm hand on the small of my back, and I remembered just why I loved him. He was comfort. He was flawed, but  most importantly, he was honest about it. Words tumbled from his lips, and I ended up kissing them. A night spent together instead of in the spirit of a one-night stand, felt like a thousand years back to the right place when we woke up holding hands. His laziness erased for a day, a fresh start, was coupled with a love note on my pillow, wine in his hand, and a plaid-themed picnic. He chose the spot, and we breathed in each others company. Tired from the emotional turmoil, naps preceded an expensive (and delicious) french dinner. The one, perfect day. 

He left the next morning, and his grumbles and grumps started up again. I got busy (and stressed) with my new job and early start time, but I miss the comfort. I miss just knowing he’s going to be on the other side of the phone if I need him. His love note re-read, his voicemails re-heard, my heart is extending tiny tendrils in his direction.

Then, therapy happened. I’m sure its smart, he’s not exactly dumb, just inconvenient. Friday I got the call, after a hermit-like few days. “I just don’t have the money, or the time, to give you what you deserve. I’m sorry we spent the most wonderful few days together, but its just not going to work”.

…ouch. When does a breakup hurt twice? When you give them another chance.
My heart feels numb, and my inner mantra “fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me” is sweeping my stable footing awry. 

We’ll see if timing is ever good to us, but for now, lets let life unfold.

Happy halloween, love, you little trickster.

Bear

This is not about boys.

okay, well, it sort of is. But it’s not about my interactions with boys. I am stepping back from my severe narcissism to write about a friend of mine. In the end it actually still has to do with me, but….you know what, whatever, I am just gonna go ahead and start telling the actual story. 

A few years ago, when I was living in the south and attending my first college, I became very good friends with a girl from Vermont. Let’s call her Granola Girl (which is actually mostly what I called her). She was very different from me- a total hippie, very quiet and serious, didn’t drink, went to bed at like, 8pm….but somehow, we became friends. Better than friends! We were inseparable. I had a terrible bigoted roommate, and Granola Girl let me move in on her floor. She took care of me when I was too drunk and cooked me hangover food in the mornings. We talked about Harry Potter and I introduced her to the finer points of indie music and gin and tonics. 

After I left the college, we kept in close contact (she transferred elsewhere as well). We’d talk on the phone once a day, email each other constantly, and were constantly connected to the goings on in each other’s lives. I’ve never been one to keep close female friends (as I’ve mentioned, and of course with the exclusion of Bear), and I found that I sort of liked having that person in my life to gossip with over the long distance line. We visited each other when we had the time and money, and at first, that was great.

Then a boy happened. During one of her visits, Granola Girl was introduced to an old buddy of mine, Hercules. They hit it off instantly. Hercules was and is a really fun guy and a friend, but had a notoriously bad track record with relationships and was something of a serial cheater. I warned Granola Girl, who had only ever had one other boyfriend, that he might not be the best choice for her. But she decided to plow ahead and the two began a long-distance relationship. 

After they started dating, I noticed that Granola Girl began to slowly fade out from my life. Emails went unanswered, calls became sporadic and short. She never came to visit anymore, instead opting to fly out to where he was in med school in Canada. Eventually, it came to light that she had told him some very personal things I had confided in her, and in a moment of rage I declared that she had become a “shitty friend” and I wanted her out of my life. My feelings were extremely hurt. I held a grudge for years, when I was never someone to do that before.

Now Granola Girl and Hercules are going to be in town for the week, and she wants to spend some time together. I am wary, but part of me feels bad- I flipped out at the girl for having a boyfriend. Their relationship isn’t particularly healthy- she doesn’t interact with anyone but him, gave up her own dreams in order to move where he lives, and shunned her family in favor of her boyfriend. But I can’t say I’ve been much wiser when it comes to men. Should I forget my past hurt and attempt to rekindle the friendship? Can things ever really be the same?

All I know is that this is bothering me on some core level that I’m having trouble even acknowledging. Can it ever truly be ovaries before bro-varies?

With mild confusion and a distaste for girl problems,

Bee

Meet the Parents…or don’t

I’ve done a bang up job of not meeting my significant others’ parental units. Generally, the relationships don’t really last long enough for me to meet them, but when I have, it hasn’t always gone as smoothly as it could. I have an honest-to-goodness-doctor-diagnosed social anxiety disorder, which tends to make me have freaky panic attacks at the thought of stressful social interaction (such as impressing the parents of your beau), and coupled with my catastrophic and often comical bad luck, well, things just tend to fall apart.

Often, it is just that for some unexplainable reason, the parents don’t like me. My first boyfriend’s parents were Scientologists, divorced, and both lived in weird secluded compounds in the woods. His father was nice - too nice, if you catch my drift (I didn’t need a backrub every time I saw him, thanks) - and his mother hated me and actually accused me of being in a cult. Pot calling the kettle black, much? The Big One’s father was an absentee junkie who turned up only to terrorize him occasionally, so he resented me for defending his son. His mother was a prison psychologist who thought I was a good case for hospitalization and actually called me mean nicknames to my face and tried to set my boyfriend up with other girls while I was in the room.

If it’s not the fact that they are certifiable nutjobs, then its some weird awkward accident that I have no control over. Twice, I have had boyfriend’s parents walk up to the wrong girl and ask if they are the “Bee we’ve heard so much about” only to be informed of their mistake and cast their eyes over to me, standing there, warm friendly expression fading to one of semi-disgust. About a week after Shorty and I broke up, his parents flew into town from California to visit him, and I had to sit through an entire awkward dinner with them because he had neglected to tell them we split (decided to save his pride rather than spare me the crippling anxiety). 

Next week, I am supposed to travel to the Scientist’s hometown for the first time and meet his parents. I am already pacing in nervous circles around my house trying to figure out what clothes to pack, what to say, how to avoid awkwardness. This boy could be the one. I can actually see a future to this relationship (I know, right?), and I don’t want to have to live potentially the rest of my life trying to atone for some miserable social ineptitude I perform the first time I ever set foot in their house. The Scientist claims they are going to love me - “They know I love you, so they already love you!” - but I can’t help but think next week is going to be a nonstop series of foot-in-mouth, nausea-from-nerves, one-glass-of-wine-too-many, “i’m-sorry-but-I-don’t-eat-meat” awkwardness.

Here’s to hope!

Wish me luck,

Bee

GrrrrrRRRRRRrrrrrr

Lovely readers, I am grumpy. Allow me to elaborate on my reasons.

I have mentioned a few times that I’ve been seeing someone new lately and have chosen not to disclose too much on this person because it is that special to me and I feel mildly weird talking about him on my creepy-anonymous-internet-confession-blog. However, recent events lead me to talk a little about this boy - henceforth referred to as the Scientist. 

You all recall the story of the “Bestie”, my hot/cold on/off best friend/lover/mortal enemy, that I broke into two separate entries because the drama and complexity of the whole thing was too much for just one. The Scientist and I would never have met if not for the aforementioned douchetastic actions of the Bestie. We were introduced because he was the Bestie’s roommate, and on that ill-fated visit where I discovered my dear ol’ Bestie had a secret girlfriend (and chose to tell me by making out with her in front of me) I ended up spending a lot of time with him out of necessity. The Scientist was cute, funny, smart, dorky, and completely likeable. Unfortunately, due to his slightly effeminate personality and predilection for throw pillows, I thought he was gay. Had I spent any time at all really paying attention to the fact that he was obviously falling head over heels for me in the most blatant display of puppy-love ever, I would probably not have come to that conclusion- but I was distracted by blind rage and heartbreak at the time. After two more confusing, drunken days in their apartment, I set off for home; assuming I would never hear from the Bestie or the Scientist again.

But this wasn’t so. While the Bestie periodically appeared and disappeared (his typical pattern of behavior), the Scientist kept in constant contact. Soon, we were talking every day. And through two years of me being in and out of ill-fated relationships, still fighting with the Bestie, and going through tons of changes in my life in general, he was my constant companion - a text message away if I was ever lonely waiting for the train, always around to Skype with me into the long hours of the night when I couldn’t sleep. He listened without judgement, he told me funny stories, we sent each other the weirdest youtube videos we could find. In spite of the purely technological nature of our relationship, in many ways he became my best and most consistent friend. 

The Bestie, of course, hated this. He would constantly attempt to undermine the blossoming friendship his roommate and I were developing. Telling me embarrassing stories about the Scientist, further questioning his sexual orientation, keeping me forever on my toes about the nature of our relationship (any time he sensed me pulling away he would start hatching ill-conceived plans to visit). And so when he eventually learned that I had finally stopped being an idiot and told the Scientist I was in love with him, he had what I have referred to in casual conversation as a “tiny baby snapout”. He told me he didn’t want to hear about the relationship, that he was worried I would “break” the Scientist’s kind nature the way I had destroyed my other relationships, intimated that I was “settling” because I couldn’t have him- in short, he was a giant, unrelenting, unforgiveable asshole. 

Sadly for me, they continue to be roommates. So this past weekend, when I decided to come visit my dear Scientist and a few other friends, I had to face the Bestie in person - for the first time since we had our last huge falling out a year ago and since I had started dating his roommate. At first, he simply avoided me; a full 24 hours passed before I actually saw him with my eyes. And then he pulled a complete 180 - the first thing he did was pull me into an awkwardly extended and intense hug and tell me how much he’d missed me and how often he’d thought of me. Later that evening, I encountered him completely intoxicated at a party (I was stone sober), and he immediately pressed himself to my side, tried to clutch at my hand, whispered weird inside jokes in my ear - while the Scientist, not only my boyfriend but his friend and roommate, stood a few feet away with an uncomfortable expression on his face. I broke away from the Bestie and attempted to put some distance between us, but he kept managing to end up close to me, brush against me, touch my hair. He began telling loud stories to the Scientist (and anyone in earshot) about how well  he knew me, how long he’d known me, how close we were. The Scientist, being not only incredibly sweet but also sort of meek, stood helpless as the Bestie made every attempt to act like our relationship was a farce. 

Towards the end of the evening, the Bestie started berating me for it directly - telling me I was “never going to see him again” because of my “new boyfriend” (to me, this is the worst part: acting like he doesn’t know the Scientist’s name in spite of their friendship. Just championship assholery right there). And that was my breaking point - I told him to shut up. No wit, no class, no elaboration. Just the words “Bestie, you need to shut up.” And after that, he vanished. He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the evening, didn’t return to their apartment that night, and didn’t say goodbye to me the next morning.

While it is mildly heartbreaking to think of years of emotional connection being suddenly severed, I am perfectly okay with it. I made the right choice, and the Scientist is almost literally the perfect boyfriend, and I love him completely. The Bestie made his own choice- many times over- to give me up. He can’t be mad that someone else was willing to the make the effort he never could bring himself to.

Endings are always bittersweet, ain’t they?

With hope for a brighter tomorrow,

Bee

Lead me not into temptation, but deliver me from penis.

At the cusp of diving headfirst into a happy relationship, I’m being wishy washy and stupid. The Spaniard, who I’ve been sporting as Official Boyfriend since December, is fantastic. I just got back from a week at his house and have been sunshine and rainbows ever since. I, for the first time since Nudge three and a half years ago, am madly in love with someone who actually feels the same way about me. 

The Spaniard is just needy enough to calm the fears in my heart about how his attractiveness must get him all the ladies and—since he lives in Boston—our long-distance love could be pockmarked with infidelity and secrets. But, it seems I am the only fickle one in this union.

Yet, here is what I’ve been looking for since Nudge broke my heart, and I’m feeling…unsure. A friend said I’m looking for reasons to ruin it, after I drunkenly confessed to her I felt I needed to break it off with him since I like him so much. 

Its Charles. I have known Charles for about…six years. He started as a friend of a dumb-boyfriend, progressed to an occasional date when he or I had any time for each other, and has since skyrocketed into occasional hookup territory slash best friends who pretend to hate each other… he and I both being massive bar-flirts. He’s one of those guys I am watching build an empire around him of adoring fans, thinking, ‘why did I not go out with him before?’

Oh, thats why. Did I mention I’m terrified of his junk?

I previously have been fearless. Tall, short, large, skinny, give me a man who wants to kiss me, and I will find something to love about him, opening my heart and eventually my bed. (boo, you whore). Yet, Charles and I have been dancing around each other for years without actually doing the deed. After confessing his love to me one night, he turned around and made out with a dumb slut at a party. I got drunk and slapped him, leaving his friends to hate me, and my friends to pick up the pieces. 

Bee calls me fickle, and I agree. If Charles gets a lady at a bar, I go home fuming, but every kiss of ours ended in uncertainty and weird feelings…what if I have to deal with his hefty manparts!? Now that the Spaniard is in my life, I have a good reason to keep Charles at bay, and I try. But last night was his 25th birthday, something I wouldn’t miss for the world. J.K. and I packed ourselves into a car and drove into the city, something we barely do. But Philly is a delight when you have three great men who love to dance waiting for some ladies to pal around with… so saying no was not an option.

Halfway through the night, Charles and I were sufficiently drunk enough that dancing with each other stopped being fun and started meaning something .You know. Like, the words you hear means what you’re thinking in your head. Yet, I couldn’t figure out if I should pay attention to his exaggerated “fuck you”s and references to the fact I’ll only love him when he has money. I got the hint I should step out of it when he had girls flocking to his side via his dance moves, yet Charles pulled me close, kissed my cheek and said it again.

I love you. 

Now, I care for him. I, okay, I’ll say it, I love him. I want him to succeed and have someone to support and care for him and part of me had always wanted to be that person, but not now. I want to be that bestie, that person who can watch him succeed and lend a hand and talk to him about how dumb the bitches are he hates, while thinking that about the ones he dates.

But I want the chance with my boy, the one who didn’t hesitate to step up and say ‘I like you’. The one who called me every night for nine months. The one who loves me for all the little things I do…the one who lies and says he has trouble falling asleep when he can’t hear me snore.

I’ll figure it out someday, right?

Bear

How to be a commitmentphobe in 5 easy steps

1. Have divorced parents who hate each other -Pretty self explanatory, I think. My parents were never meant to be together, and really only got married because my mom got knocked up. Even as a little kid I knew that they might like each other alright, but they were never in love. Or, more accurately: that my father, in spite of his notorious emotional coldness, loved my mom the best he could love anything, and she didn’t return the sentiment. and when they split- well, let’s just say it’s a wonder I’m not more messed up than I already am. Talk about catastrophe.

2. Grow up too fast - recently, I was in a cab with my lady-mentor, a successful photographer and editor here in New York. She said to me, “Bee, don’t grow up too fast. Or you’ll end up afraid of commitment like me”. I replied with a “too late” and a nervous laugh, knowing that it was true. Forced into early adulthood by the nuclear meltdown that was my parents’ divorce, I learned rational thinking and cold logic far too early. I became staunchly self-reliant, and as a result have never been able to fully trust another person to take care of me. Always lookin’ out for #1, you know.

3. Have your first boyfriend be 4 years older than you - I started dating early. I was barely 13 when I started seeing  my first boyfriend, a 17 year old high school junior. Admittedly, I went to a “hippie” school, where grades K-12 mingled freely, and to see an older student becoming close with a younger one was not totally unusual or particularly frowned upon. But as a child of recent divorce, and something of a late bloomer, the fast progress from “first kiss” to “let’s do sex to each other” was a little too much for me to bear. The relationship became controlling and borderline emotionally abusive. While I did manage to keep my virginity, I lost my trust in the decency of people.

4. Date an emotional wreck for 5 years - I have touched briefly on the Big One in the past, and alluded to his troubled home life. He had issues, and not just the normal teenagery ones. The Big One was in need of serious psychiatric help, but instead of seeking it, he came to rely entirely on me for support. In turn, I threw all of my misguided love into him, devoting myself to him completely. And so every time he left me, cheated on me, lied to me - all the times we broke up and got back together in 5 years time - twisted the knife a bit in my heart, further damaged my trust in men and my faith in love.

5. Jump from short-term relationship to short-term relationship - Keeping one foot poised to run and my eye always on the door, I launched directly from my final breakup with the Big One into a series of poorly decided and extremely rushed relationships. Each lasted between 4 and 8 months - Triple X, Bird Boy, Shorty, and the Prince, each one was someone I barely knew, an attraction I desperately wanted to turn into love. I would try so hard to cling to these relationships for the stability they provided, but at the same time I was constantly looking out, waiting for the plane to crash, knowing in my heart that the relationship was doomed from the onset. I remain good friends with two of them, something I count myself extremely lucky for, have drifted completely away from one, and am totally hated by another. I look back at them all with a mixture of guilt and affection, knowing that they were all good guys in their own right and that I had no place bringing my destructive personality to their doorstep.

Forgive the bleakness of this post, but I find myself in a position now where I am at a split within myself- I have found someone I want to commit to. I don’t get that old familiar feeling, the desperate need to shout about how great the relationship is, how this is THE ONE NO SERIOUSLY GUYS THIS IS THE LAST ONE I SWEAR. It’s quiet, it’s comfortable, it’s with someone I’ve known for years, someone who understands me and accepts me for me, faults and all. But I worry I can’t fight my nature - the one who can’t commit, who is ready to tear and slash at things in order to protect herself from the possibility of hurt. And I don’t think I could handle it if things went that way with this boy.

Guess it’s time for ol’ Bee to shape up.

with strangeness and deep affection,

Bee

Why I Can’t Have Hookup Buddies (a lament)

Two months have passed since I ended things with the Prince, and my life is finally evening out. I’m moving past the feelings of guilt and jealousy, I am regaining the confidence I lost. I’ve been making a concerted effort to leave my house and socialize more, which has actually gone much better than expected - reconnecting with old friends I distanced myself from during my relationship, and making new ones who I’m finding I really like.

Which is how I met Twiggy. Twiggy is one of those friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend types who you see around occasionally but never really talk to. Then one day, you bump into them unexpectedly, start up a conversation, and then part ways. Then a few days later you run into them again at a party and that’s when you realize- the universe is pushing you together for the sole purpose of sloppy makeouts.

So, for the second time ever in my life, I have been doing physical things with a person I am not in a relationship with. At first, it was liberating- dizzying, exciting. I felt like I was doing something NORMAL for a recently single twenty-something. But slowly, over the course of the week this has been going on, I have been developing this feeling in the pit of my stomach…you guessed it, the good ol’ Bee-brand GUILT.

The guilt is twofold:

1. I don’t really like Twiggy. I do not want to date him. I find him mildly irritating, to be honest. But he is skinny and well-dressed and has good hair and paid attention to me. Sometimes that’s enough. Unfortunately, he seems to be getting slightly more attached than I had anticipated, so I feel guilty knowing that I definitely don’t share the emotion.

2. Remember all those nice guys? the nerdy ones I dismiss? Well, recently I have sort of let one of them into my life a bit more than I normally would. He is cute and attentive and I find myself sort of wishing he lived nearer to me. I am not making any noises about starting a relationship - I know the timing is bad and also the idea of starting something over the internet/phone is ridiculous, as well as not really knowing what my feelings on the situation are - but for some reason I keep thinking of him when I should be focusing on Twiggy. And boy howdy, does that make me feel bad on a couple different levels. Also, this feeling is sort of shared with a little leftover guilt from the Prince.

Well, there’s not much more of a turnoff that soul sucking regret, so I am not into it anymore. I know I need to tell Twiggy that while being sex-friends has been fun, it’s not what I need or want at the moment, especially if he’s looking for it to go further. I think I’ve come to accept that I just can’t “hook up” like the rest of my peers- it inevitably turns into something larger that absorbs all my time and energy. Three cheers for social abnormality!

With sexy mistakes,

Bee

How to make a non-emo breakup post

Ah, readers, what few of you there are. I write this from my bed, which I have been in all day, still wearing my pajamas at 4 in the afternoon, with my hair damp and tangled around my head like some sort of coconut-scented halo of misery (undried after I took an hour long shower that involved me sitting on the floor of my tub and crying). To my left, a pile of unfinished novels, some used kleenex, and a small mountain of Ferrero Rocher wrappers. 

Yes, I am in full breakup mode. 

I could bore you all with the details of how it went down with myself and the Prince, but to be honest, it still hurts too much to think about. Thank goodness for this anonymous internet blog thing, though, because otherwise I’d just be talking about this to my cats, and that’s when I’d know that I’d really crossed the line into absolute pathetic-ness. Instead, I write here and poke fun at my crippling feelings of self-loathing and despair. Better than therapy (right?).

 This breakup was unexpected and incredibly painful. I’ve never been great at clean breaks- as I am usually the one doing the breaking (read: always), I tend to feel guilty about what I’m trying to say to these boys and so I kind of dance around the issue until I’ve caused more pain than I would have had I just broken it off clean. But let’s be honest- does anyone really do that? Aren’t all breakups this long, drawn out, messy thing that eats your entire soul for weeks on end? Or is that just me?

All kidding aside, I recognize (and so does my therapist, the naggy jerk) that I tend to hold on to things for too long. I cling to the remainders of the “good times” like a drowning sailor to the wreckage of his ship (dang, I am on with the metaphors today!), refusing to full let go of anything. No, instead I just sweep it under the mental rug and move on like nothing bad ever happened- because I can’t deal with the bad feelings. But because of the nature of the Prince and I’s split, and the extreme pain I was feeling because I still cared so much for him, all the bad feelings piled under the rug came pouring out and resulted in one hell of a mental breakdown. So last night, Bear stopped by my house on her way home and together we decided to fix that. 

We took every photograph of an ex-boyfriend we could find in my house and we put it in a box. Then we collected every scrap of paper- every note, drawing, every birthday/valentine’s day card, and we shoved them in there too. Then it was on to the 3D objects- toys, stuffed animals. At the end of all our collecting, we had an “ex-boyfriend box”, and I was shocked to find that, save two stuffed animals and one painting on a piece of wood, everything I had ever saved from any of my past relationships fit comfortably into an 8x10” photographic paper box. All that misery and guilt I carried inside me, all the feelings of failure and self pity, were just little objects that could be locked away. They had made me who I am today, yes, but gazing at that bizarre collection of things, I realized that I didn’t need them. So after Bear left, I got a chair and I put the box on the highest shelf in my room - because it is important not to throw those feelings out entirely- and I for the first time in four days, I got a solid night’s sleep.

While the recovery period for this breakup may be a long time, I feel a confidence in my chest that for the first time, I am okay with that. I will take the time and be on my own and actually feel my feelings. I’m just like a real person!

With love, love, love, and a touch of heartbreak,

Bee.