Friday, 30 October 2009

Sending You My Love

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Slept late. Couldn't get out of bed. Tired. Depressed. Sad. Went to therapist appointment. Got there early. Half an hour to kill. Cold out. Walked Flatbush Ave. looking for something to eat. Stopped in diner. Place empty. Felt empty inside of me. Didn't like idea of eating alone, being single. Remembered solitary feeling, eating alone in Austin, before I met Marie.

In therapy talked about discrepancy between girls I choose and the girl that I really want. Want a girl who respects herself, respects me. Choose girls who seem to do the opposite. Try to figure out why. I connect with a sadness that I see in the girls I choose, feel empathy for them, as I understand the sadness. The women I choose seem to be wounded in some way. I empathize with that. I want to show them love. I want them to love themselves again. I choose women who in some way have given up on themselves or life. They want to die, that is why they abuse themselves with alcohol or drugs. At a certain point I get tired of being a casualty of their carelessness towards themselves and the people around them - me. I realize I have to choose women who respect themselves, who are trying to better themselves, who want to live. I am trying to live. I used to thrive on self destruction. I realize that it serves me no more. I feel boring... that is why I choose women who are chaotic - to make me feel that I am not. I need to be okay with taking care of myself and let the self destruction go...

Walk through the cold to subway, wishing that I had my warm clothes - they're in two boxes in Utah. Picture my clothes at home (at the apartment - it's not home anymore) in bags, ready to go. Thought of clothes in boxes and bags weighs me down as I walk through cold, drifting...

Get on wrong train. Have to back track.

Didn't want to go home. Didn't know what to expect from Marie. Drunk? Upset? Icy? Apartment feels like morgue to me. Stop at coffee shop around the corner from apartment. Don't want to go home.

Go to yoga. Teacher has us meditate on someone in our life who is in pain. We are comforting them. Think of Marie. I picture her in pain.

I Take away the thing that is causing her pain, coursing through her body like a black liquid disease - me. I see the pain etched on her face. I sit across from her in the room, sending her love. I breath the blackness out of her into me, through me, into my heart, a red rose holding a diamond of light, radiant, all encompassing, brilliant. I breath out the blackness, sending it away into a wisp of vapors, taking away her pain, returning her to self love, able to move on...


Thursday, 29 October 2009

Are You Okay?

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I'm not okay.
If you have to ask if I'm okay it probably means that I'm not okay.
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the fact that you care enough to ask whether or not I'm okay, it's just that usually, if you have to ask whether or not I'm okay, you've done something that makes me feel not so okay.
And more than not, when you ask if I'm okay, that means that you're not okay, which means that I've most likely done something that makes you feel like I'm going away. Which is not okay. Because I don't want to go away, but at the same time I don't want to be in a relationship where things seem to often be not okay.
And the problem is, is that I don't seem to know how to make things okay. Because if I have a problem with something, that's not okay with you.
But if I don't say something when I have a problem, that's not okay with me.
So, you see, it seems to me that we're constantly having to ask each other whether or not the other is okay because we know that whatever it is that we're doing by being who we are is just not okay with the other.
It just feels like we're not okay.
And that makes me sad for both of us.
I don't want to break up, but I don't see how we're going to stop this dysfunctional dance that we're doing with each other, stepping on each others toes, constantly hurting each other, making each other feel like we're not okay.


Sunday, 25 October 2009

I Don't Know How To Do This Anymore

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Sitting in the coffee shop after work looking for rooms to rent on Craigslist.
Boss at work advanced me some money on next check.

Hadn't slept much the night before.
She called twenty seven times the night before.
Ringer was off.
She'd left eight messages, crying.
Said she didn't know I was planning on leaving that day.
I hadn't.
There was no talking it out.

It was dark, getting late out, wind was blowing, cold, starting to rain.
Worked all day.
Drinking coffee.
She text asking if I wanted food.
Said I didn't think that it was a good idea.
Boss had taken keys to office.
Was waiting for friend to get off of work to stay at his place.
I waited.
She text again, saying she wanted to talk, would buy food.
I waited.
I told her to come to where I was.

She walked in looking like a mourner with her shawl wrapped around her head.
She was fragile.
We talked and ate.
I tried to explain everything to her.
I needed her to hear.
She said that she got it, that she was willing to stop drinking, get help, to give the relationship a chance.
I said that I would do it with her.
She told me to come home.

In the black cab she said that she didn't feel supported.
That hurt.
We argued.
When we got to the apartment I felt like I was going crazy, couldn't breath.
Head and body ached.
Just wanted to sleep.
She held me as we lay in bed...


Where Do We Go From Here?

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I came home from work to find her drinking wine and eating dumplings down the street from our apartment with a friend of hers at the Chinese restaurant - our restaurant. She looked as though she'd been crying. I felt horrible when I saw her. She looked a mess. I'd told her on the phone earlier while I was working that I couldn't do it anymore. I'd tried to bring it up with her a few nights before. She said she couldn't hear it. She didn't want to hear it. She said that she couldn't handle it.

When I sat down at the bar she started crying and started to walk outside as the guy behind the bar watched her with concern. I tried to grab her arm as she passed by. She pulled away and I followed her out. On the bench out front she pulled away from me as I tried to hold her, give her comfort. It hurt me to see her that way. I care about her whether she believes it or not.

She said that I wasn't leaving her with next months rent to pay by herself, that even a roommate would have more decency than me. I asked her if that's what it was about to her - money. She told me that she felt used.

I went back inside and sat at the bar. She came back in and said that she felt taken advantage of. We argued. Her friend intervened. I asked Marie if she truly felt like I'd used her somehow. She rolled her eyes in her signature fashion when she wanted to dismiss something that I'd said. I told her she could fuck off, that I'd been decent to her, and got up and left.

I started packing when I got to the apartment. I wasn't going to stay around for more abuse.

She came in, saw my bags on the floor by the door and began crying. As I packed the rest of my things she got a beer out of the fridge, turned the music up loud to drown out the world, and began to storm around the apartment trying to avoid me. I asked her to talk to me. She sat on the couch and stared at me coldly. I asked her what we should do. She got up and walked to the other room.

There was no talking it out.

I put my bags in the hallway as she followed me to the door and asked me where I was going. I didn't know. I had nowhere to go. I handed her the keys to the apartment. She kissed me on the cheek, wished me luck and shut the door.

I had the keys to the shop at work and spent the night on the cold concrete floor.


Wednesday, 21 October 2009

It Takes Its Toll

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Life. It exacts its toll. It wants its fee. Nothing is for free. It literally sucks the life out of you, that's its job. What are we to do. I used to want to Rage Against The Machine. Then I burned out on the anger. The anger started to destroy me. I tried Peace Love and Understanding, but that was just annoying. Somewhere in the middle perhaps lies the truth. Then, Love. Love as Truth. Love, I wanna say is an illusion. But I don't think that's entirely true. But Love is illusive. What the fuck does it mean to Love someone anyhow? Does it mean that you accept someone just as they are? That would be an illusion. If you truly Love someone, you tell them the truth. And sometimes the truth is ugly, like baby: sometimes you drink too much, and when you do you go to a place that hurts me to see. I don't like to see you in that state as it makes me feel as though you don't appreciate yourself, and that makes me sad, because if you saw yourself the way I saw you, then you wouldn't feel the need to destroy something as beautiful as you. Or, baby: when you're in that state and you're playin' your music loud cuz you wanna drown out the world and you wanna keep it on til 4 in the mornin' when you know I've got to get up at 7, that just feels disrespectful. And when you start responding to emails from that guy who's married to your friend who you kissed just after I met you, who came calling drunkenly at your door like a fucking Tom cat at five in the morning looking for pussy (just after we'd split up when I went to Utah) not knowing that I was back in town (you giving me the phone to let him know to go the fuck home), giving him feedback on his writing (just like you do with me baby - I thought you did that just for me boo?), don't you realize that it hurts me and only makes you seem cheap. And I go around for a week after that working 67.5 fucking horrible hrs. with no one to talk to about this stuff, lifting heavy steel, driving around Manhattan in a giant fucking truck through rush hour after hour of endless traffic, flipping people off, with a knot in my stomach wanting to throw up because I don't quite know how to process it all. And God knows that I can't talk to you about it because it will just turn into an argument. All the while trying to figure it out, and make it seem rational, but, the problem is, is that it's not. None of this is rational. And when I finally decide that I want to try to talk to you about how it makes me feel when you're in that state (leaving out of the equation, out of respect for decorum of course, the whole part about that fucking overly literary little creepy fucking jerk with the panzy ass fucking outdated prose, who's out chasing pussy while his woman's at home with the little one) you turn it on me. And instead of trying to take it in that I'm actually offering you some sort of olive branch of hope for the both of us, you get all defensive and tell me that I have a fucking perception problem about your drinking. Well then, I think we've got some serious fucking problems, coming not to fucking long after I felt like we'd cleared the air about our perception problem with that fucking Jamaican motherfucker kissing you Upstate. So it seems like I've held my tongue long enough on this one. It sounds like I have a problem. And I guess that's why out of the blue, last night I told you that I'm through. And that's why I'm movin' out... because I'm tired of holding it in, because I'm tired of going to my fucking therapist's office each week feeling sick to my fucking stomach about something that you've said or done that I can't figure out (my perception problem, right?), feeling like there's something wrong with me because I can't quite accept whatever the fuck is going on. And each week the therapist tells me the same thing - that my feelings are valid, and that I should respect them, and that you just might have a drinking problem (and that if you indeed do, then there's really no way that we can deal with our issues, until you deal with yours). I'm sorry if that hurts boo, because I love, I really do, but it's the truth.


Monday, 5 October 2009

King Of Pain

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

In my utter confusion over the past week since me Marie told me some Jamaican motherfucker kissed her I've searched high and low for an answer, as to (1): what it meant?; (2): what I should do about it? As at this point in my life, considering my track record with women (two divorces; two cheaters) I simply don't trust myself to know what the fuck to do - fuck me for being a decent guy wanting to give people the benefit of the doubt. So before I hopped a Greyhound bus again to the middle of nowhere, and said FUCK THIS, I decided to sit tight, hear the little woman out and invoke the guidance and wisdom of anyone who would listen. I asked friends, co-workers, long lost acquaintances, bosses, family members, bar tenders, anyone really who would listen, including one certified genius and member of MENSA, as well as random people on the street as I vented my frustration throughout the city. Some declined to respond (literally didn't pick up the phone or respond via text - like old friends who've already been through two divorces with me (I think they're tired of hearing it and I can't blame 'em really as I'm tired of saying it)), some were equitable in their responses, some charitable, while others were harsh and condemning. I guess it's all relative. So maybe the only problem that Marie and I have is just getting on relatively the same wave length about these things with each other. Or maybe we just need to find someone else who's already there on that wave length and save each other the grief?

Here are the responses in no particular order:

- Shame on her for playing dumb. He didn't kiss her. She let him. Every woman knows when a man wants to fuck her. She could have cut it off. And giving him her number just leaves the door open. It's disrespectful to you and the relationship. If the guy ever met you he'd have no respect for you. He doesn't have any respect for her either if she told him she had a boyfriend. He was just trying to fuck her. She may have done it because she's not sure about the relationship, or simply not sure about being monogamous. Either way, she's questioning.

- Hang with the little sis.

- I don't think it's a big deal. She seems to be into you.

- You should crack that motherfucker with that headthumper of a ring of yours!

- Dump the bitch. She cheated. And even if you don't call it cheating, it's close enough to let you know that eventually she'll cheat. Get rid of her and save yourself the grief. You've already done your time with untrustworthy women. It's harder to cheat than it is not cheat. She doesn't seem to be able to act with integrity in regards to you and the relationship. You can find a woman, easily, who will. Let her go.

- Well, if she's the one, it won't happen again. If she's not the one, at least you know now.

- I don't usually give advice on relationships. But my feeling is, if she kisses someone, let her go.

- It's not a big deal that she didn't tell you. Little things like that happen all the time in relationships. And if they really don't mean anything, there's no reason to bother your partner with them. It's one of those things. Sounds like he caught her off guard with a kiss. But, since you did find out, you've got to be able to express how you feel about it without being attacked. That's fair.

- Good luck bud.


Friday, 2 October 2009


Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I need help.

The other night Marie was on the phone talking to a friend of hers. She was going on and on about a guy from a few weekends ago from a party at The Waterfall House Upstate that she'd done the cooking for. I wasn't there, and I hadn't heard about this guy before. So when she got off the phone I asked her who this guy was, and more pointedly, if there was something that I needed to know about this guy.

She said that he'd kissed her.

I wasn't expecting to hear that.

What transpired after that turned into the same old thing with us: me asking for clarification or explanation; her telling me that there was nothing to talk about; me getting upset that she considered what she'd just told me to be nothing; she then got upset that I had a problem with what she'd told me and her refusal to acknowledge it as "something". I felt dismissed. I felt angry. She felt accused. She felt attacked. She said she was scared. I felt betrayed. I felt disrespected. She felt criticized.

And we fought.

We said awful things to each other.

We tore each other and the relationship down.

At one point I said we should stop and talk about it at our therapist's office. She said that she didn't even consider "it" a subject worth mentioning.

Exhausted I let it go for the night.

Another stalemate of silence.

I had a feeling when she came back from Upstate. I'd had a feeling that there was another guy. I'd almost asked her two or three times over the past two weeks out of the blue, but I didn't want to come across as jealous or possessive. And I let it go...

I didn't want to get up the next morning. I didn't want to go to work. I didn't want to go to therapy. But I did.

When we got home from work I brought it up again, as we'd each seen our respective therapists and thought we could come at it with some insight and less hostility. She said she hadn't brought it up with her therapist. I told her that I felt she treated me with disrespect in regards to the whole thing. And we fought again.

She broke down, fragile, angry, on the verge of tears. She wanted to know what I wanted her to do. Acknowledge. Accept. Understand. Empathize. Anything but stonewall me and try to sweep it under the rug. She didn't get it. She wanted me not to have a problem with any of it. I had a problem with all of it.

Awful things were said.

I wanted to leave.

She told me not to go.

I wanted to get as far as way as fucking possible - Texas; Utah; Alaska... numb... dead again.

I told her to leave.

She packed her bag and left, giving me a forlorn look, and sad goodbye as she walked out the door.

I couldn't respond.

The next day she text me, telling me that she'd made an appointment with our therapist.

We met at five the next day at the therapists' office. Nothing was resolved. She tried to defend herself. She said that she knew she wasn't going to win this one. The therapist wanted to know what she what she wanted to win. That's what it was about to her - winning. She said that she was scared of me, and that my anger reminded her of her mother - irrational. I said I was done. It was somehow being turned on me. I said it was too much. I couldn't do it anymore. Marie said that she didn't want to give up.

And our time was up.

I was just as confused as before we went in. She'd done something hurtful. Then she'd lied to me - or withheld information from me. Then she'd refused to acknowledge or even admit that any of it was wrong. She didn't want anything to change between us. Yet she hadn't even said that she was sorry, or accepted any responsibility. She showed no remorse. I felt I couldn't trust her.

On the way out she said that we could work it out, that it meant nothing, that I shouldn't go. She said that I was like a child, running, always running.

She was right.

I didn't want to run anymore.

But I didn't know if I could trust her either.

And she came home.

I don't know what to do.

I don't know if I know what love is anymore.

Should I stay or should I go?