Solitude, solitude July 9, 2010

I feel like I am wading through a thick grey fog wall, trying to find my way back home, wherever that may be. Through fog and mist I stumble, trying to stay on the sidewalk and not tumble over the rails into oncoming traffic, or trip over tree root cracks in my way. I hold onto the brick walls of other people’s buildings for support, the same ones he and I used to kiss in front of, on a night not unlike this one. And then suddenly, I remember where I am and where I’m going–back to Seattle.

More and more, I feel like I’m really drowning, real drowning, not fake movie drowning. I’m not screaming or flailing my arms; instead, I’m sinking below the water line, and all I can concentrate on is breathing. I don’t call for help, I’m not sending out an S.O.S., I’m just trying to save myself from a cold, dark spiral. I’m trying to tread water, but the sea envelopes me, and it’s almost soothing to just give up and go to sleep.

Sometimes I feel brainwashed, but I’m not sure who did the brainwashing–him, or me, or a bigger picture. Sometimes I am an automaton, smiling and standing up straight because it’s what you do. I want, I need, I want, I need–these things become replaced by I can’ts. Sometimes, though, I am myself, and I do strange things like dance alone or watch bad t.v. or act like a Santa Cruz hippie, and I am unconcerned with what you think.

I am trying harder. At all things. To go home. To stay alive. To be myself, and not hide my tattoos. To be myself and smoke my Parliament Lights and drink my Newcastles. To be myself and kiss him hard against the wall. To be myself and not justify my actions and decisions. Mostly I’m just trying to breathe.

One day, I will tie up my belongings in my kerchief and stick out my thumb, and float through the fog and waves until I reach my golden castle, where I can just be, all by myself.

everything reminds me of him October 2, 2009

Elliott Smith has a song titled, “Everything Reminds Me of Her.”

Well, I have a statement. Everything reminds me of him.

[Jenny Petite Newman: I know, I know...but this is the way I purge. And my purging may take a long, long, long time. I hope you understand and can commiserate.]

So I’m watching “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” while Nate snores away on the sofa, and Meghan’s in the other room, also asleep. I’m enjoying (well, I don’t know if “enjoying” is the right word for this) a Bud Light, watching possibly the best show in the history of television.

And there was a new episode of “Sunny” on, and I laughed, and I wondered, is he laughing? Does he have an opportunity to watch this? And I thought, one of the crux(es?) of our relationship was our friendship, and our friendship bonded partly over the TV show that I (underline “I”) brought into our lives.

And I messaged Heather today. I realized one more thing of mine that he has, and I suppose for every one thing of mine that I’m missing, there’s two of his things that I have. And Meghan tells me, give them back. Give them all back. But how is that possible? Our apartment would be void of so many things. And then think about all of the things that remind me of him (i.e. Everything), and then I’d be left of nothing.

I said I had nothing left of Paul, but that’s not true. One lonely double-sided mirror that we all use to tweeze our eyebrows and check the back of our hair, that he probably got from his ex, I have kept. Not because it’s ugly or because it reminds me of him, but because it’s useful. I suppose I’ve saved myself a good dollar-fifty over the years.

But The Love Of My Life? The One That Got Away? What am I supposed to do? Get rid of the beautiful chandelier he bought for me? The mugs we had in Seattle? The clothes I bought that he liked? The shelves, the tables, the picture frames, the bed? Am I supposed to dispose of all of this and start over? I think his life is too imbedded in mine. Sure, I could throw it all away, but what would I be left with?

This is the thing I hate the most. That everything reminds me of him, including the things I refuse to dispose of, the things I love the most.

But more than that? More than that? More than that! More than that.

I’m not ready to let him go.

Not at all. And if that means drinking until I pass out, blogging until I cry, straddling the edge of contacting him and holding some sort of dignity within myself, and looking like a sad bastard to all of my friends, not to mention nearly crying about it to my friends, even though they’ve heard it all before, I will. I accept that. I accept my pain, and I may not handle it well, but it’s MY pain, and I’m doing the best I can.

Friends, I need you. I need you to help me keep my head on, definitely. For sure. A lot. Always. But I need you to understand that this love does not end easily…and the biggest fear I have is that it might not end at all. And then what will I be left with?

Hopefully you. My friend. Reading this.