Oh Jeez:

Dear you (an open letter to the 2nd boy that broke my heart)

Dear you,

I can’t believe that after nearly a year of not speaking I still miss you. I think about you all the time, not in the romantic way that I once did (no more wistful afternoons spent looking into the bottom of coffee cups and whispering “what ifs”), but in the way that I did when we first met, as friends. I see things I want to show you constantly. I want to text you and say “did you see that hardcore song that an 8 year old made about her dog?” because I know you’d love it. I want to tell you the strange things people say to me at work. I want to know how all the weird things you love are doing, all your strange research: what’s the weather in New Mexico, what sort of dog breed is most hypo-allergenic?

A few weeks ago, I was standing on a corner in Chicago in a snow flurry. I was wrapped up head to toe against the cold but I was determined to get my one night of sight-seeing in. I looked up at the buildings around me, chanted the names of architects under my breath. Hands in pockets, I kept fingering at the edges of my phone, always one second away from whipping it out to send you a quick picture-text: “look, a Mies Van Der Rohe!”, “The waterworks, I am really here and I am seeing it!”. It was always your dream to go there. In some of our more optimistic moments together, we used to plan a trip where we would both go, and I would look at art and you would collect all the silly data you love from historical societies, and then we would eat all the deep-dish pizza we could. He stood next to me, smiling, happy to see me happy. He looked over at me and said, “You want to send him a picture, don’t you?”. He’s so understanding. He is everything you couldn’t be for me, and I think you know that.

In some ways, I wish I had never kissed you. I wish I had just let myself believe you when you said we could never be together. But I’m stubborn, you know that. I thought I could convince you. Two years after that kiss, I am over you, and I can say that with absolution- I really am. I am in love, completely, and I honestly think this is the man I’ll end up marrying. In fact, I never even miss that kiss, I never relive it, I don’t dwell on it. What I miss is you. What I miss is our roundabout conversations, our secret language, our quiet understanding. How we could go for months without talking and then one night we’d find each other over the soft glow of computer screens and it would be like time had never passed from the last day we spoke. Jokes and memories and self-deprecative humor passed back and forth with ease. 

I think sometimes that the reason you can’t talk to me now is because you know you can’t ever fall in love. I think that you considered me so similar to you that I couldn’t be in love either. That I was stunted in the same way you are. That what we had was the closest thing either of us would ever have to love. But that’s where you’re wrong- I can love. And I do love. And I loved you. 

I hope someday we can talk again, when you are ready to forgive me for not being the person you thought I was; and when I can forgive you for attempting to stop me from trying to be. 

With love,

Bee.

Ch-ch-changes

After stops, starts and stutters, soaring hopes, romantic weekends stolen from our “real lives”, sweaty sexy romps and gentle kisses, I told the Spaniard I just couldn’t see him or talk to him anymore. I need a break, and I need it to be real. No more “I’ll just see you in Boston” when we fall into each others naked arms for the weekend and come up needy. No more “maybe I’ll visit” that end in tears and talks of moving closer. No. More.

I’ve felt emotionally manipulated by him for awhile. Yes, in a moment of frailty I called him last week when I had a freakout - and I shouldn’t have. He dealt with it beautifully, swallowing his pride and letting me scream and cry until I fell asleep. Since then, I’ve felt guilty. He’s milked it for all it was worth “well I supported you, why can’t you just support me when I need you? I’m having a mental breakdown here.” He’s baited me, ensnared me, entrapped me into feeling like I’m the only thing that can save him, and its just too much pressure. I can barely save myself. I need to start seeing someone on the regular (therapy wise) to be able to sort through the fact I can’t figure out how to handle transitions, authority, changes and the real world. And you know what? Thats okay. I’ll work on it.

Its okay that I’m not grown up yet. All of the Spaniard’s hints about marriage and babies and the fact I’m the only girl he’s ever felt this way about (his words) make me sick to my stomach with fear. My mother (the sassy, crazy hippy) was engaged three times before she met my father. Her first husband was apparently extremely similar to the Spaniard. He was funny and sweet and attractive, but ultimately couldn’t get his shit together ever, and she left him. I don’t want my life to be spent supporting a man who is falling apart all over the place, only to end in heartbreak. I’m not going to start dating him again and let him move to DC so that I can keep supporting him for the rest of his life. I’m not going to commit to a relationship, because I can feel he’s in it for the long haul. I’m not. doing. that. 

Upon telling him how I felt, it was like a giant weight was pulled out of my body, from my tiny cold toes to my wispy weird brain. The day after, I’m going to say I’m sad. Its okay. Sad is fine, melancholy is okay, but ultimately I don’t have to feel unhappy and unstable about committing to something I just cannot handle. I’m only 23, I’m only on my first job, I’m only dating and I’m totally okay with that. I don’t want to know who I’m going to end up with for the rest of my life. If I let him go and he doesn’t change, I’ve sidestepped an emotional freighter that was bound to wreck my own self-worth. Instead, I’ll let him travel where he needs to go to fix himself, and I will fix my own feelings and thoughts on my own.

There’s a different guy, Penguin, who isn’t too special. Actually, he might be, and I just haven’t let myself notice him yet. He’s intelligent, refers to himself as High-Bro (a bit high-brow but with a large foundation of bro that I can’t seem to squash out of him) he’s still growing, he’s interesting and he makes me giggle. He’s weird-looking, with a hawkish nose and an almost-Gosling demeanor, if only he was cuter. Lets just say he would have been my perfect highschool-boyfriend. A plus is he knows how to dress himself, and although sexually we’re not super compatible, I’m having a good time. He makes me feel worth it (whatever “it” is). I just need to make sure I’m not jumping into this so I feel supported by someone, during this time of being alone and being by myself. He’s said the typical “I like you.” and I’ve responded in a generally favorable and agreeable response, but I’m not going to commit just yet.

In the past three months, I’ve noticed something. Its like a huge magnet is rolling around under us, realigning our thoughts, places and needs. There’s this huge upheaval in the universe. People are shifting, new places, new spaces, new boyfriends, new breakups. Something in the water, or the collective unconsciousness. We’re all looking for a change, and dammit we’re actually brave enough to throw caution to the wind and go for what we want. 

Is this what growing up means?

With love,
Bear

Mom, could you not?

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

Domestic Goddess

Okay,

So we’ve established at length that I am something of a commitmentphobe. But let’s look at my other, non-relationship-related life choices to solidify that fact. I have moved four times, to four different cities, in the past four years. I have quit jobs and schools, switched majors, and generally never been able to make up my mind about exactly what I want ever since I graduated high school (and took a whole year off) five years ago. The past five years have consisted of building up relationships with the people I meet, then disappearing on them.

In spite of having co-habitated with a significant other before (though it was more out of a need to escape my mother’s house than a desire to build a future), I have really only ever thought seriously about “settling down” with one other boyfriend before The Scientist. That was, of course, the Big One. We had big plans- moving to Paris or Seattle or New York City (which of course I later did solo), living hand to mouth in some studio apartment while we “worked on our art”. Decorating the place was never even a discussion, it was going to be pure punk rock glory and milk-carton tables all the way.

Well, I was seventeen then. Now that I am an old maid in my twenties (one foot in the grave, so to speak), I have…matured a little. I’ve realized that maybe I like having a well furnished home to walk in to at the end of the day. I like my matching robin’s egg blue plates. I like my tasteful-yet-inexpensive Ikea bedframe. I like my stable, kind, generous, grown-up boyfriend.

And I like googling wedding dresses. This, to me, is the nail in the coffin. Since being invited to the website Pinterest by dear Bear, I now spend hours a night just oggling other people’s weddings. In a botanical garden? So elegant. Cookies and milk at the reception? adorable! Anthropologie’s new BHLDN collection? Can I wear more than one dress?

Add to that recipes, interior decor, BABY CLOTHES, and any other number of glossy images Pinterest has to give me, and I’m a goner. I may as well buy a minivan and start scrapbooking.

But in a way, I think this is healthy. I think it indicates me moving towards a new kind of fantasy- not, for once, one where I get to gaze at other men and think about how I could win them (except Ryan Gosling, of course, but the Scientist and I have an arrangement); but instead one where I look for happiness in beauty and living an aesthetically pleasing life with the man I have.

So bring on the puppy photos, Pinterest. Do your worst.

With love and a strange sense of assurance,

Bee

I want a man, who

I want to find a man, who, if Ryan Gosling magically showed up and asked me to marry him, would make me think twice about it, and decline.

C’mon true love,

Bear

Obligatory Breakup Post (on Sad, or Maybe Not)

I wish I could be that romantic, wistful girl who is mysterious and beautiful in a heartbreaking story of love. The one who, when left, waifs around the fresh food section of an open air market, crying because the smell of fresh pecans or the sight of perfectly rounded grapes reminds her of feeding her loved one in bed while he twirled her hair through his strong fingers.

I wish I could be so deliriously heartbroken that I can’t eat, throwing my hands up in despair as my friends and family flock around me and coo and cluck and hug, and let me rest. 

Instead this seems almost worse. I am a crazed young adult, not quite a young professional (just need the job), who doesn’t know whether I’m sad, or fine. I’ve gone two days with happy thoughts in my head, a series of “good luck but good riddance” adages on my tongue as I think of all of our differences. But one sight of a luscious beard in a crowd sends me spiraling into a pit of doom, where I cry my eyes out. Only to emerge, instead of a teary wisp of a girl who everyone can nod at and say “oh, she was in LOVE, what a tragedy”, no, instead I rather resemble a rotten tomato. Squishy red face, with some odd hard places, and that feeling you get saying “oh, if I had only gotten to her yesterday she would have been great.”

No, I had to walk boldly into a love I was not confident of. I picked the opposite personality of what made sense, a complaining, selfish, loud, small-town guy who shook me up and let me spend all the money I could on the relationship out of love. He tested my patience, sapped my emotions, and now I am almost too sick of taking care of him, to take care of myself in the time I most need it.

What happens when the wrong guy still has your heart? I don’t see prince charming vaulting over pews up the wedding isle to grab my hand and take me away. Instead, I see the wrong guy knowing that maybe later we would have worked, but for now its too hard. I see him leaving my sorry ass crying in bed as he tells me, its just not working for him either.

But my heart, that vicious, fickle asshole, decides it has already run away to try and live with him, dreaming about him every day so every day I have to go and get it back. I think my ass-heart already convinced my lips all they need is to kiss his, and everything will be fixed, because they refuse to bad-mouth him or the situation.

So what happens when half your body believes its still living a fairytale, and your brain pipes up and tells you to quit it?

Maybe its like an addiction. If I go cold turkey, I’ll be okay. But looking at his pictures on my phone, listening to the saved voicemails…I slip into a zombie-like state of neurotic crying and shaking, then lethargic lounging while every movie I try to watch I turn off before it ends. Who cares? I don’t. Ends are for losers. That means either he loves you, or he doesn’t. and I can’t deal with that right now.

WIth grumpy crying and the inability to lose weight even when depressed,

Bear

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 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.