Wake up in a tissue ball wearing the outfit that you wore last night. Allow the pain and memories to wash over you not unlike a large ocean wave. Go back to sleep as your eyes are basically swollen shut from all of the crying you have done. Wake up again three hours later and…
I thought about M today and cried, violently, for the first time in weeks. Dipped into the part of my canned heart that remembers the way his skin smells after he showers, before he sprays cologne and charges quickly through it.
He is deliberate like that—folds his towels the same way every time, ribbon facing out, creating a pattern in the stack. He is concerned with proportion and aesthetics and giggles. (Or he used to be concerned with giggles, before MIT raped him of his bliss and he could only giggle 3/5ths of the way into a bottle of Jamison).
Giggles or no giggles, it is Thanksgiving week and I miss the familiarity of M. I could almost imagine him walking through my front door, a door he has never seen, and sitting with me on the couch. And I would smile… and feel LOVE. The deep-fried kind—juices reserved, marinated. God, I loved that man. I loved him more than anyone, anything, ever. So much of our relationship was poison. But I would have made him my life… if he had let me.
So what if his mother thought I was deserving of Hell. (Cuz the Bible told her so-ho-ho).
So what if he wanted to live in London, or New York, or Basel. I could MAKE myself happy in a city that is far too large and far too far away from my family. For him.
So what if talking through things with me was “exhausting.”
So what if he never understood the concept of “teamwork.”
So what that he let other (strange) men put their hands on me in public—without saying a word of protest.
So what that he essentially has three mothers and expected that I cared for him, support his every wish, love him, appreciate him, with zero expectation of return anything. Just. Like. A. Mama. Would.
So what that he took credit for the work, contributions, and value that I added to his life.
So what if his career came before me when it counted the most.
So what if he never understood who I am as a spiritual person and how that shapes my life, love, and choices.
So everything. (It hurts!) But so everything.
I guess this is part of being a grown-up… choosing what’s healthy(er), responsible(er), forever(er). It comes down to this. I love(d) him. Obviously. In spite of and because of his flaws. I forgave him for hurting me countless times and began again. Anew. Virgin. Fresh. I saw through incompatibilities and red-flags. I imagined and dreamed and worked toward a shared and beautiful life with him. I molded and remolded me for him. Out of love, out of commitment. And out of necessity. But the unfortunate price I paid for having the love of my life in my life was my own happiness. And I am a grown-up. (Or at least aspiring to be). And I have a choice, in all ways and always. And since happiness and love seem mutually exclusive when it comes to M… I choose happiness.
So apparently 94% of twenty-somethings believe in soul mates. Soul. Mates. Souls that merge, have intercourse, dunk into each other‘s personal bits. Wiggle around and feel better together. And according to that same article, 87% of us think that we are going to end up marrying that one, predestined person, who makes us stronger, faster, and more perfect. Oh, and then? Dot, dot, dot. Here is where I become skeptical… I become concerned whenever the story ends with shrugged shoulders and a, “You know, dot, dot, dot…” Naw. C’mon now twenty-somethings. Get a grip.
Or so I thought…
I am the last person I know who would ever leap forehead first into the pool of non-logical, soul mate proselytizing. Nope, not this girl. I intentionally coat myself in logic, in check-lists, in vision creating, in tests and re-tests, in we’ll just “make it work,” in partnership-seeking and building. I think (thought. Yes, it’s coming…) of relationships like a financial investment. Like a venture capitalist—analyzing, evaluating earning potential, calculating risk, consulting experts, board of directoring, ass covering. That’s me—boom, boom, boom, chhhhh. But something happened on Sunday that turned my logical ass on its ass…
Jamie…. Sigh…. O, o, o, he’s magic.
I looked at him and recognized him. I felt him, I knew him. And I couldn’t look away. I felt his skin against mine and suddenly lost the ability to clearly differentiate where my physical body ended and his began. It was as if our essence, our molecules, and protons, and neutrons, and electrons, were all reduced, beyond quarks, to their immortal essence. And the vibration of that essential energy was THE SAME. Our vibration was the same. I felt us pulse—starting from inside my chest where my former heart used to live. Beat, expand, push. Beat, expand, push. I couldn’t hear my thoughts or feel my feelings… because I didn’t have any of my own—they were OURS.
He put his palm against my chest and took my hand to his… and asked me if I could feel that. THAT. Electric, ridiculous, stretching of feelings, and love, and magic and beliefs. THAT. Melting of disappointment and heartache and whatchagonnadoaboutit fears. THAT. Destruction of isolation, of alone-ness, of disconnection.
Yessssss….. I could feel that. I WAS THAT.
I wanted to pull away. Afraid of him, of us, leafing through what had not yet been seen, or experienced. And what desperately wanted to remain under wraps… to keep me as THE SAME: delusional, and separate from other forms and beings and lives.
Please don’t pull away, he said… because he heard me desire it. I cried. Stayed put. And pooled into an ever expansive ocean of Jodi. And he cried, too. And wrapped himself around my separation from M, my anger, my loss, my void, my drained and discontent and wounded. He said he thought he was processing my sadness, because I couldn’t do it on my own. We sobbed.
And then, POOF, gone. No more pinchy, ouchy, hurting. My heart(ish area) felt like putty. And I could see myself, better. I could see myself at the end of the grief, looking back, like phew. HE DID THIS. This magical man…
It occurred to me that this is what GOD had in mind when he created the concept of teamwork. I KNOW THIS: I will never again process a single challenge alone. He is suddenly, inexplicably, and necessarily a part of my everything. So yes, we are stronger together. And yes, he makes me more perfect. And yes, I believe him to be predestined. Goddammit! I want to scream in public. Okay, OKAAAAAY. You got me… I FUCKING BELIEVE!
Conveniently he looks great on paper, too. (So CHECK that off my list). But all that is now a moot point… because I’ve realized something so beautiful… this is a zero risk investment. Because how could I possibly hurt him when I IS him? How could I accidentally stomp on my own heart? How could he ruin me when his bits are ours? Not possible. Nope, not possible.
Well hello, Soul Mate. I’ve been waiting for you. Dot, dot, dot.
I just celebrated my 27th birthday. And now I’m suddenly close to the female version of immediate, necessary DEATH- 30 years old- and I have mixed feelings. Planned by nature, proactive, controlled, this is not where I thought I would be at my age. IN CONTROL ended up slapping me in the face (the whore), and telling me to get a fucking life, in Boulder of all places. So here I am… without the dude I thought I was going to marry, without the wedding I thought I’d be planning, without the career I killed myself in grad school to stab, and take to the canvas. BUT WITH a whole lotta everything rich, and magical, and not worth living withoutssssss.
I have friends who would lay down, naked, on traintracks for me and who prove it, everyday, in spontaneous acts of kindness.
I have a career that is growing, and challenging, and pays me enough to live comfortably, with a little extra somethin, somthin, for a pint or two of well-crafted bevvys from sticky note worthy, local venues. Oh and I get to work from home/coffee shops, so that’s the shit.
I have discovered several amazing dudes (and several not so amazing dudes), who would love nothing more than to make me their world. Who knew I was such a catch? I mean, silly I know, but if someone(s) like THAT wants someone like ME, than that must mean I am deserving. So cool. I can dig it.
I experience miracles every week, sometimes every day. And I throw my head up to the sky, let my heart swell, and feel gratitude FLOWING UNABASHEDLY.
I eat and drink like a queen, and take adventures, and look forward to every morning, and every ray of skin soothing, mind expanding, lucky-I-am inducing sunlight.
Last year I DIED. But I am now happy to have been reborn, or to discover that I am once again LIVING. And living well.