Knowing You're Not Alone

Three:
the number of girls I talk to about losing our boyfriends.
Although that number takes up less than a hand's worth of fingers, three somehow feels like thirty. Three hundred. Three THOUSAND. Counting doesn't seem to do them justice because numbers fail to quantify how much those three women mean to me.

Our four stories are not the same. One death was a tragic accident, another medical, and the other involved the same drug that took Blake's life. For a couple of us it's still fresh, the other two it's been a few years. There are also differences between how long we dated, the role we were allowed to play in the funeral, our continued relationship with their families, how we react to new men, and our general methods of coping with this unfathomably difficult situation.

But connecting with these women isn't about comparing who has it the worst or who is the strongest now. It's not about our disparities at all. What sets us apart melts away because we have this immediate and innate foundation of understanding. I feel like I can tell any one of these girls my scariest fears, most shameful thoughts, or wildest hopes. They may not feel the same things, but I know they would accept these confessions with a love that can only come from having "been there."

This is the power of knowing 
you are not alone.

It makes me sad that we've been conditioned to mask ourselves in front of each other. We are taught that the truths about our lives that may not look as pretty splashed all over Facebook are worth hiding. Ignoring. Denying their existence. When in fact, these are the building blocks that shape who we are and create meaningful bridges between us and other people.

I may never have met these three courageous and inspiring women if it wasn't for us reaching out to each other. If in that moment we chose pride over vulnerability, we would've never known the power of each other's company. We might have spent months, years, our whole lives thinking we were alone, believing that no one could possibly understand what life is like for us.

Four:
I was contacted tonight by a girl in South Carolina who's boyfriend also died in May of a drug overdose. Although we have no mutual friends, she stumbled upon my blog and bravely shared her story with me.

As we messaged back and fourth, I was reminded that the world is such a confusing, but beautiful place. Somehow the ugliest experiences are the ones that provide the pathway to the most life changing connections. If we open ourselves up and risk judgement, we will be rewarded with the unparalleled gift of knowing that we're not alone.

When Your Words Don't Matter

Last night I left the bar to go home because a guy made me feel extremely uncomfortable. After acknowledging my fear of new men, I've made an effort to clearly state what I want and don't want without being rude, but firmly enough to get my point across. The reason I panicked last night was because I discovered how powerless you can feel when your words don't seem to be enough.

To make a long story short, this guy did not seem to understand that when I said, "You're making me uncomfortable, can you please stop," and "I'm not ready," I meant it with complete sincerity. This was not me inviting him to try harder and push until I changed my mind. This was not a challenge. Even after a friend of mine explained to him that my boyfriend recently died, he still came back at me with, "I could be the guy to help you forget about him."

This is not flattering to me. This is terrifying and disrespectful.

After I realized he wasn't budging on his insistence that going out with him was best thing for me, I told him I needed to leave. I got up, walked outside, and hailed a cab home. I did what I had to do to feel safe. But on the way to my apartment I was quick to start looking for ways to blame myself for what happened. Did I come off too friendly in the beginning? Was it my fault for accepting a drink from him in the first place? Should I not be in bars at all?

Although I never felt like he was going to physically violate me, undermining the weight of someone's words is almost as debilitating. What gave him the right to insist that he knew what I needed better than I did? What I say should be a factor in my interactions with others. My words matter.  When that isn't honored, it can make a person feel insignificant. If what I said didn't register with him, maybe what I want isn't important. It made me start thinking that I was wrong.

But after a lot of reflection, I decided my question to myself shouldn't be "Was he right?" but instead, "How can I build my own confidence to insure that the opinions of others don't rattle it?" I need to shift the focus away from this man (and other men) and his actions. I will never understand why people do the things they do and I definitely won't be able to alter their actions. Just as they must decide for themselves to change, so must I.

Last night I didn't leave the bar to go home because a guy made me feel uncomfortable. I left because I allowed myself to feel uncomfortable. Yes, the choices he made in his interaction with me were questionable (in my opinion), but I gave him the power to affect me. By taking what he said to heart, I granted his words the permission to get under my skin. I allowed what he thought to mean more to me than what I thought.

Although I am by no means condoning how he treated me, I need to focus on my part in the situation. Because what I do, say, and tell myself is all I have command over. I will give myself consent to leave a bar if I have to. I will allow myself to tell any guy to back away and feel good about my decision to do so. And I will promise to remind myself that if I listen to my heart, it will never lead me astray. Because I am the master of what I do and think, and my words matter.

Lost Lips

Blake and I would have to go weeks without kissing. With me in California and him in Arizona, sometimes our lips had to be hundreds of miles apart. During those periods, they would wait impatiently on our faces. Once they knew each others' touch, an existence quietly perched between nose and chin would never be enough. After they tasted sweet purpose, they changed. They knew how it felt to come alive, so they lived in anxious anticipation of their next embrace.

Especially after longer gaps between reunions, our lips met with overpowering urgency. It was as if they had been holding their breath all along and were finally able to greedily gulp in oxygen. They were completely consumed with each other. Inseparable to the point that it was hard to tell where one set ended and the other began. So when one set ended, the other couldn't begin again.

Now my lips are just lips. 
They no longer get the chance to feel and lust and love. They reluctantly hold their place between my cheeks and resent me for leaving them there. Filled with memories of when they used to dance freely, my lips fight to imagine their phantom partner. They fall silent in defeat, waiving a white flag to signal their surrender. And so they lay dormant. In defiant refusal to live a life any less than the extraordinary one they once knew.

But even though hope is faint, they still cling onto the dream that maybe one day
they will come alive again.

     

Ruining My Own Birthday

It started this morning as the messages from well-meaning friends rolled in telling me "Happy birthday. I hope it's the best!" and "Happy birthday, I hope you're doing great!" and the worst "Happy birthday, I hope all of your wishes come true!" I thought to myself that clearly it's not going to be "the best." It's very obvious that I'm not "doing great!" And how could all of my wishes come true when no wish can bring Blake back? Did people somehow think that just because it's my birthday that my life would magically get better? If anything, today being my birthday put more pressure on me to feel happy when I. Just. Don't.

I started getting mad at everyone. How dare they wish me happy birthday like it could actually be a happy birthday. I'm not sure what I'd rather them write to me though. Maybe I didn't want them to write anything at all. I just wanted this day to disappear. I just wanted to disappear.

After I allowed myself to fume for a while, I started seeing things from a different perspective. Of all the million other things these people had to do today, they decided to take the time to write or call me. When they didn't have to, they made the effort to let me know I was on their mind. I realized it didn't matter what they said, it was the act itself that was special. So from that moment on, I made the decision to respond to each and every message with gratitude and appreciation.

I let this consume me for the entirety of today. I became very obsessed with making sure that everyone knew how much it meant to me to get their message and how grateful I was to have them in my life. I spent so much time doing this that I forgot that the day was supposed to be about enjoying myself. But I didn't want to enjoy myself. I used gluing myself to the computer as a way to avoid all of that.

My dad happened to be in town for business, so he took me out to dinner for my first and only meal of the day. I shoveled burrito into my mouth as I cried to him about how much I hated this day and wanted it to end. I had a class at seven I was supposed to go to, but decided I couldn't let my classmates see me like this. They would want a happy, smiley birthday girl... the kind of birthday girl that I just wasn't able to be for them today.

I missed the cake that they bought to surprise me with. It was pink and perfect and most importantly, purchased with so much thought and love. They sent me a picture of the cake, a video of them singing happy birthday to me, and reassuring messages that they understood why I wasn't there. I cried more. Why couldn't I just be normal and let myself have a happy birthday?

I don't think there has ever been a lonelier 24 hours in my whole life. The worst part is they didn't have to be that way, I made them that way. It's nobody's fault but mine that I chose to be distastefully detached from my own birthday. I have never been more relieved for a day to be over. Thank God for October 11th.

Not Ready to Move On

Back in April, Blake and I attended the wedding of one of my best friends from high school. Last night, as she and her husband were watching the reception video, she noticed that the videographer caught some moments of Blake and me dancing together. She recorded these shots with her phone and sent them to me in a text.

Today, I uploaded the clips to my computer so I could watch them again. The first moment I paused at was when Blake and I locked eyes. The way I looked at him can't be described as anything other than pure love. I know in that moment I was looking into his eyes thinking about how incredibly lucky I was to be dancing with him.

The second time I paused was at the point when I nestled into his shoulder and his hand came up to hold the back of my head. I started thinking about how good it must have felt to be held so lovingly like that. I wished with my whole heart that I could remember exactly what that felt like. As I replayed these clips, I began to wonder if I'd ever feel that in love, safe, and comfortable with anyone else ever again.

I closed my laptop and started wailing. My eyes filled so completely with tears that I couldn't see anymore. My mouth audibly struggled to take in air while it released moans of discomfort. Each hand grasped the opposite shoulder trying to hold onto myself as tight as possible. I ended up rocking back and forth, shaking and squeezing harder. I tucked my head into the crevice of my crossed arms as I continued to cry. At least all balled up like that my shrieks were muffled. I hoped that my neighbors were out like normal people enjoying their Saturday night. I hoped no one had to suffer through hearing such a soul shattering sound.

As this response subsided and I started to regain my composure, I was caught off guard by the intensity of my reaction. I had watched those clips earlier today and smiled with a quick, happy well of tears in my eyes. Why did re-watching them this time lead to a breakdown?

I tried to answer this question by thinking about the moments I chose to pause for and figuring out how they made me feel. In the first one I looked at Blake in a way that I can't imagine looking at anyone else. In the second, I was held in a way that makes me nauseous just thinking about anyone besides Blake holding me. After analyzing that, I think the reason I started freaking out was because I am realizing that I may not want to be with anyone else for a really long time.

I know that no one means to put pressure on me, but every once in a while people say insensitive things that make me feel awful about my "progress." It may be as harmless as saying, "When you're in your next relationship..." or as overt as, "I know a guy that I want you to meet. I think you'd really like him." I understand these people are only trying to help, but is it that awful that I'm still in love with Blake? That the thought of another man's interest or touch feels akin to a brutal attack? That I'd rather be alone than even entertain the idea of letting another man into my life?

Today marks four months since Blake passed away. For me, four months might as well be yesterday. In my heart Blake is still my boyfriend. I wish that wasn't considered weird or sad or pathetic by people who have no way of understanding what this feels like. I guess I just have to let them judge me. All I can do is have confidence that I'm doing what I need to be doing at a pace that feels right to me.