My very first blog was nothing but the end of a relationship. My first one – first real one (whatever that means).  To this day I cringe, remembering the abject despair and chasm of just pure…anger and depression, I stayed in, for months…and months and months.

I tried to go back and re-read it, wanting to believe I was a good writer and, within all that anguish, there was something. It made little sense, the 3 a.m. ramblings of a merlot-soaked brain completely overwhelmed and devoured with grief, confusion, betrayal, and all the other love-song fodder words applicable.

The second blog was started because I felt “over” The X (or HWSNBN), and was with someone new. Aaaaand then a third blog. Picking up and casting off each one as I felt the need to pick up and cast off Nietzschean layers of myself.

I’ve since sworn off (well, until this morning, idle hands and all that – which is also how the other blogs got started) writing personal nonsense. Let it happen, let it go, that’s my new motto…it was years, two or three, the last time I attempted to net the eddy in my head, and put it into words. We had just broken up, right before a tragic accident brought my family together at a funeral:

I just want to talk to somebody. Anybody. Preferably a stranger. Preferably not about “a better place.”

I took a deep breath and called…*sigh*

“the ex.”

(God, how I hate that phrase. The finality of that ‘x’ constenant. The virulent hissing. Even if it’s friendly, even it’s if amicable, the phrase still betrays.)

I want to go out. Desperately. More escape. Find solace in the comfort that life goes on. I have two beers in the fridge, and a bottle of wine. I don’t want to get drunk. Not alone, anyways. It’s either get drunk alone, or stay sober alone, she shrugged… (part of what makes my writing unreadable is my habit of thinking in literary form.)

I tried to kill time, editing pictures from the funeral. It didn’t take long enough. I have all three Netflix movies, but I think I’ll squirm, and look out the (metaphorical classroom) window, unable to concentrate. (the break-up) sank in, hollowly, this afternoon, it’s still sinking, I can feel it…it’s like an ooze. “Atreeeyyyyoooouuu!” Like all of me is falling asleep. Only without the tingling and pins and needles. I slowly just can’t feel my skin. What’s the point? Nobody else will feel it, wants to feel it (my skin).


“I’d rather be blue with you, than happy with somebody new.”

Ain’t that the truth? How long have you said you loved somebody, simply because the thought of life without their familiarity was too big? Because the mountain you’ve built, that you sit on, with them, is built of so many pebbles, stones, rocks and boulders, the very thought of starting over, beachcombing for shells of a new foundation is tiring. The very thought, exhausting.

On the way back I read High Tide in Tuscon, by Barbara Kingsolver. It’s good. She has the gift of speaking plainly. The gift. Joyce Carol Oates describes, in eye-blurring paragraphs. With Barbara I climb to the top of volcanos, and back down, and everything around me is green. Or misty. I can hear her daughter laugh, and feel my hair frizz with frustration at stupid questions from not even well-intentioned interviewers.

Oh, I love my Balzac. My Goethe. The fat-dripping linguistic meals they serve, pages leaving my fat cheeks greasy with satisfaction. But really, what is more satisfying than a simply executed expression? Who among us feels with the heart of a French novelist?Thankfully, others are out there willing to not only share, but to share eloquently, sincerely and succintly.  Heartache can be so trite. Cliched. It is so universal that to take it, make it personal and, with the personalization, somehow make it even more personal for the reader…THAT is what makes a good writer. That is what is true, what will last.

My heartache?

It sucks.

I’m sad.

My worn, bare feet trod the slivered shards of my mealy, sobbing heart. My pale brow swept by my trembling hand, wiping away the years of broken trust, and lost memories.


It sucks.

I’m sad.

My breasts heaving with the sighs of a thousand losses, playing in the cinema of silent laughter, echoing in a past not heard by the present.


It sucks.

I’m sad.

I have one beer left.

It sucks.

I’m sad.


“I’ve never been a true cynic. An honest-to-God, devil-may-care misanthrope. I’m afraid that I may become one now. It’s easier and smarter and will, I hope, keep me safe from harm. I have actually changed drastically. In ways I never wanted to. I always liked that I believed. That I had faith in love.

Now I just feel like I don’t ever again want to hand someone the gun used to shoot me — the power to leave me lost and in pieces and forced to rebuild from the ground up. I don’t want anyone to be able to make a decision about my life over which I have no control. I realize how this sounds. Unrealistic at best. Ridiculous at worst. And I’m sure some will scoff at this notion and chalk it up to the predictable rhetoric of the freshly broken-hearted.

But if it makes no sense to give up on love now, when will it?”


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