Conquer The Moment

It’s been a while since I updated here… A lot has happened… First, though, lets just talk about the last couple of weeks, and especially today. Please pardon my format here, as I’m working directly from the site and not porting a document from Word. The depression has been oncoming for a couple of weeks now, with me preferring to stay indoors, away from social interaction, and rather than even doing something that I would enjoy, such as playing video games or reading, I’ve been moping around with my face stuck in Facebook, for the dog pictures and funny videos, College Humor etc, just for the cheap laughs to power me through the days and nights. Let’s just say that this evening, it all finally caught up with me, and I’m in a pretty low place.

Nothing dramatic has happened to encourage the comings on of the depression – things are going pretty well, in fact. I’m genuinely happy and free for the first time in my life; more on that in another post. I guess a good starting point would be a few weeks ago, when I learned I was losing my physician. For anonymity’s sake, let’s call her Shannon. She’s someone with whom I’ve come quite comfortable around, and can admit anything to, so it was really difficult to hear that she was leaving; though I’m at least glad she told me to my face and didn’t just up and disappear like I hear many doctors do. She wasn’t quite sure if she’d be staying within the practice or going to another, but promised she’d let me know if I were able to continue treatment through her. Apparently, that’s not the case, as I haven’t heard from her since, even after sending her a heart-felt e-mail immediately following my last appointment with her, which wished her all the best, and reminded her that I was still more than willing to continue being friends, a stage to which I thought we’d  come. She set my next appointment with someone who may be able to do well by me, though that was admittedly after she’d paused, considered, and said she didn’t think I’d do well with anyone in that office, so it’s a total crap shoot. Either way, I truly will miss her and the comfortably we shared. She was opening herself up to me, as I was her, and it truly made the difference, for someone suffering an alphabet of mental disorders, to come into the office without freaking out (though my blood pressure and heart beat were still quite elevated).

As a condition of my gong on and continuing on short term disability from work, which at some point, will transition to permanent disability (once I actually fill out the forms and go through the insane waiting period), I must see a psychiatrist. I had finally found one I enjoyed talking to, as she talked to me as well, divulging some private aspects of her life, but one day I called in near crisis mode, left a message on her voicemail, and though it’s been months gone by, I’ve yet to hear back… I’ve decided that, coupled with the enormous copay, dictated for me that I should once again, try seeing someone else. I know none of them will ever actually care about their patients, as the important thing to them is the paycheck, but I have to try to do a little better for myself…and that office is now far out of the way, as I’ve relocated… No time to start over but the present, I suppose. The worst part about that being that I actually do have to start over. It’s always difficult to attempt to establish a trusting relationship with someone new, and to be quite frank, I haven’t had the best of experiences. I’ll try to keep this updated going forward.

Keeping in the same topic of relocation, for the first time in my life, I’ve received a Juror’s Questionnaire, and of course it’s from the County in which I no longer reside. That being said, they need all sorts of proof and documentation that I don’t necessarily have, as I no longer pay rent or receive utility bills in my name. This means I’ll have to run to the DMV for a license change and actually do my taxes pronto to prove my address change. Good thing that it’s at least tax season, or I’d be up Shit Creek without my proverbial paddle. So much to do, with all the time in the world to do it, but completely lacking the motivation. The initial transition into a new life has already seen it’s emotional stage, and though I catch glimpses of it every now and again, it’s been all but accounted for. Now I begin the legal portion of the exchange, and hopefully with that, I’ll regain the mental stability to deal with things on a day to day basis. Recently, it’s been nothing short of a struggle. The more I internally refer to myself as becoming as useless as my father, the more I unintentionally actually follow in his footsteps; something I’m not at all proud of, and will be working on as soon as mentally possible. I’ve needed a break for so long, that now I’m taking too long of one. I need to get back on my feet. Mental illness, coupled with Lyme Disease has left me all but drained of stamina.

I will persist, and I will get through this. I’m not suicidal, and that’s a huge leap in the right direction. I don’t feel guilt and that’s another huge leap. The stress free lifestyle I currently have is both helping and hindering me, but I’m determined to find the right balance, and so I shall. It’s winter here, again, in New England, and that doesn’t at all help motivate me toward any goals, but it won’t be winter forever, (I think that’s the first time in my adult life that I’ve actually realized that) and I’ll get back outside, in the public eye, and have fun again soon! In the meantime, there are things at home worth looking after, and I need to just pull my head out of my butt and conquer the days until I’m stable enough to pull myself out of the exhaustion I face on a daily basis. I can do this, and I will… and I will write about it, too.

 

Apparently, I’m pregnant

Though I didn’t eat anything yesterday, and only committed the act of consuming a food product after midnight on what is now, technically, Saturday (though what are days when one cannot sleep? Time is merely an invention of man) early morning, after 12am, I’m bloated beyond belief. I had about 450 calories of broccoli and guacamole, with maybe another 100 calories of unsalted mixed nuts. Is there anyone out there who thinks that after consuming roughly 550 calories that anyone should appear so bloated? I literally look as though I’m facing the mid-term of pregnancy… Naturally, it’s 5am and I have to be to a function tomorrow, which I’m certain I’ll write about at a later date. Suffice it to say I’ve managed to find enough strength in my poor, old razor to shave at least to the knee, and I’d depended on the idea of wearing a very pretty, yet subtle, sexy little dress to the event, with matching flip flops, earrings, finger and nail polish. Now, I literally look pregnant. I’ve half the mind to go in what I’d planned anyway and when people inevitably ask how far along I am (I’m used to it folks; I used to be … Rather large, and asked constantly about my pregnancy, including strangers walking up and rubbing my stomach), I could claim it’s a girl, due in late October, and her name is to be Margo. –sigh- I’m so tired of the bloating, and the loss of hair – the diarrhea when I cannot eat and the constipation when I can.

Interestingly enough, I’ve once been pregnant with a little girl, who’s name was to be Cheyenne. The pregnancy followed a tragedy which I will probably disclose in the future – a man who took advantage of me in a sexual way, despite our age or my lack of interest – a man who threatened to kill me should I ever tell – a man I believed to be telling the truth. It was a major conflict in deciding whether or not I should keep the baby… Would it just remind me of who did something so horrible to me – or would she be the blessing that I needed? How would I explain to her why other girls had a daddy and she didn’t? How would I keep her safe – from him? From others? From everyone… One day, while working hard in my grandmother’s yard, I spoke aloud to the kicking child within my womb and said, “Just get out of my life already!” My family did not yet know that I was with child…and they never would later believe that I was – not that it matters – we all have our own battles – it’s not my job to ensure that everyone believe me; it’s my duty to make sure that anyone who chooses to listen can hear my story. My family never believed me about the incident, let alone the child… I’d obviously decided to keep her and I loved her – I collected things for her from low-cost facilities and churches to prepare myself as best as I could. My only true friend at the time had also abandoned me – it was just me and my little girl. I wondered often if she’d look more like him than she did me. I wondered how I’d react to her if she were a spitting image of her – I wondered if I’d be able to raise her or if I should give her up for adoption … But I loved her too much to think too far down that path. She was mine. And then she was gone, and I was left to felt empty, alone, heart broken and guilty for ever even saying such a thing – but I could never take it back – she was gone in the proverbial blink of an eye.

When I bloat so badly, I think of her again – about hiding her and keeping her safe and feeling her movements within me… I think back to the day I stood beneath the clothesline here, in my home, and wishing something so horrible on someone so innocent, and having it come true… Today, I will wear the outfit I’ve intended for days – I will rock this bloated stomach and think of her – I shan’t be ashamed – I’ll rock my bloat in pride.

Or will I?

I bet she’d have been beautiful. She’d be nearly 10 now. I love her and I miss her. Most days are better now, in that respect, after ten years, but sometimes, I think of her and wonder who she was supposed to be. All of the clothing and baby accessories I’d accumulated, soon after my finding I was pregnant – a car seat, a swing, a stroller, blankets, binkies and bibs were lost recently in the house my father lost – I’d hung onto them for far too long… I let them go – the bank cleared them out, fore I could not.

I feel so disgustingly disfigured and morbidly obese. My arms, my legs and my tummy, not to mention my round face and double chin – I fear they’ll never go away… And I fear I’ll never see my little Ms Cheyenne Marie. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe she would have looked too strikingly similar to the man who forcibly stole my innocence… Maybe I wouldn’t have been able to cope…. I still wish she were here. Cheyenne, I’m sorry, baby, that I scared you away that day – Mommy was frustrated and sad, but I never, ever wanted you to leave – I promise. One day, Mommy will meet you on the other side of the veil and everything will be okay again. Mommy loves you so much. You’ll always be my little princess. I love you, so, so much.

Smile for me, for I am free

I went back to the shrink today, to actually meet with someone this time, since it didn’t at all work out in my favor last time. Today started off similarly, after they’d lost my file. Eventually, they found it, and I sat down with an older gentleman with a slight lisp called Ted. We went over the initial family, living and personal information first, and then moved right into why I was there. I suffer from Major Depression Disorder, Generalized Anxiety with Panic Attacks, OCD and PTSD, though the last two I’d forgotten to mention to him. He asked about the ways I’d attempted suicide in the past, and we talked a little about self harm, but I didn’t tell him I punch my legs so hard that I’ve injured myself quite badly on more than one occasion.

I told him about my previous attempts – 54 Tylenol PM pills, laying on a train track just beyond a turn in the track so the engineer wouldn’t be able to stop by the time he saw me, and the plastic bag over my head, which unfortunately had a small hole preventing my escape which was less than two years ago. We talked about most of the ways I’d considered suicide without attempting it – falling off of a tall building, back first; leaping off of a bridge into upcoming, rush-hour, highway traffic; driving into oncoming traffic, preferably into a semi… I believe those are the only ones I admitted to today, but there have been others. I’ve considered hanging myself in my woods; buying an insane amount of cocaine and overdosing; pulling out a false weapon on police after insighting a high speed chase in a stolen car (that was from many years ago, actually – before the world was so crazy… Today, it probably wouldn’t be affective, as cops are afraid to do their jobs now, due to a rather large influx of crimes committed by police — the government is forcing a race war through in-proportionate media representation, but I suppose that’s a tale for another blog); stabbing myself repeatedly in the stomach (that one was actually attempted, but thwarted, much to my dismay); running into high speed traffic, painting the house with my brain matter after pulling the trigger of a shotgun with my big toe,, and — probably a lot more that I can’t even think of right now… I’ve been seriously considering committing suicide since I was a mere six years old.

After we’d talked about that a bit, he said he appreciated that I didn’t come in with the same old boring suicide attempt stories as they get boring to listen to over and over – we both laughed a bit at that. I learned that I’m more violent in my attempts and thoughts than females tend to be, which was interesting information that I’d never before considered. I do know one thing – if I ever use the bag over the head thing again, I’d first make certain there were no holes, and then I’d pump helium into it – I’d done some research after that failed attempt, and apparently, the helium keeps the bag from sucking tight around your face, and it just puts you to sleep so you can go a little more peacefully than some of my thoughts…and you can buy it at any local party store for a reasonable price – not that expense would matter on my last day… It’s been deeply considered. That would be less fun, but had I known then what I do now, my most recent attempt wouldn’t have ended in failure. I curse that lousy Wal-Mart bag with it’s stupid tiny tear to this day.

At any rate, he asked me why I had failed so many times, and why I was still alive. He told me I seemed like a determined person, and like a woman who if they really wanted to commit suicide, they would have already – so why wasn’t I dead. I don’t know. I suppose that’s a great question – I have so many ideas that I could combine several of them and absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, be successful… So why haven’t I? What’s keeping me here? He made me really think… Then I realized – maybe this time, I’m simply taking the longer, more painful and punishing route to suicide with Anna.

I’m certain it’s not the line of thinking he was trying to encourage, but I started considering committing suicide. What’s holding me back? Bambino, Isabelle, Kristin, Tom, Dad?

Bambino will be put to sleep and buried with me, should I be the first to go, and Dad would probably be forced into either the same fate, or getting his shit together and taking care of things again…if I were dead, I wouldn’t care which he’d chose.. The few friends I have would get over it and be just fine without me. I went to a very dark place, very quickly, and had I not asked Tom to accompany me, I don’t think I’d be here to right this tonight. I’m certain I would have entered the highway from the wrong direction and aimed for the biggest thing I could find at high speed. Tom held me while I cried pathetically into his arms after the appointment. I was relieved he was there to comfort me, and I couldn’t understand why – I do want to die.

At the end of the appointment, Ted asked me what I’d like to do… Since I didn’t want to be committed to the mental floor of the nearest hospital for god knows how long, I said I wanted to make another appointment, so we did… I don’t know if I’ll make it or not. I would, however, really like to see one more Renaissance Festival before I go, and that’s coming up in just about a day – Tom’s taking me this time, instead of Nonnie, but I would like to go have at least one more good time. I’m damaged goods. I’ve been through too much to recover, I think, and the shit still continues to hit the proverbial fan. I’m so tired of trying. I just want to go – no note – the people I care about should know that I do. The people who will ask what happened and why I’d do it didn’t ever take the time to know me in this world anyway, and they don’t deserve an explanation. I just want to go beyond the veil with my son and hide from the pain, the anxiety, the nightmares when I can sleep, and the insomnia when I can’t. There’s simply not much for me left here. I’ve ruined my life – I’ve wasted it and I haven’t accomplished a single thing I set out to do here. I’m getting far too old….

As far as burning Bambino with me, cutting his life short, I rationalize it with the knowledge that the day he dies, I won’t make it through. I need to be with him. He’s my heart and always will be. I want him to come with me, and I’d rather not experience the pain of his passing first. I want him to taste chocolate before he goes. I want his belly to be so full of deliciousness that he could burst – pizza, cream pie, a burger, a soft shelled taco, steak and chocolate – as much as he could eat (which is surprisingly a ton). I want him to meet some dogs and cats on his last day and completely harass them just like he loves to – I want him to be insanely happy….and then I want him to come home with me to the beyond – whatever it is that may or may not lay ahead. He couldn’t cope without me here – it would be so wrong to torture him by leaving him behind – as much as he’s my heart, I know I’m the same for him. I want him to lay in my casket with me, my arms wrapped around him, and unless I’ve managed to completely disfigure myself during death, I’d like an open casket. He wants his favorite toy, Rocco the Racoon, and I want my favorite stuffed animal, Liam the teddy, who can be found in my bed. I’d like to be buried in my favorite pajamas – a pair of black pants adorned with chevron and hearts, and my matching robe. They’re warm, soft, and comfy, and I’ll be sleeping forevermore. I want Kristin to be notified of our passing, and for her to be flown here to say goodbye. She knows the things I’d like on my grave – and I’d like something snarky or mildly stupid carved onto my headstone – something different that stands out and expresses my personality for people to enjoy on random passings of my site… One of my favorite phrases I say to Vaughn when we helplessly, though happily, get lost is, “And now we’re here.” I would, obviously, like Bambino’s full name, Bambino Ricardo Brooks and his date of birth 07/12/2006 and his date of passing as well as my real name – DakotaLynn Brooks along with my legal date of birth and date of passing.

It’s funny how at the start of this I was teary-eyed and now I’m calm, because someone out there will know my exact final wishes, and though this is not a legal will, it is a written document by myself which someone will have the unpleasantries of ensuring on my behalf. All of my possessions will go to my father, a transgendered person born as a female, who’s legal name can be found on my birth certificate under ‘mother’, including any property, death benefits, insurance benefits and final paycheck(s). I would like Kristin to come in, before anything is touched, and chose any of my belongings, including art, stuffed animals, electronics, books, décor, etc, if she should choose to do so, and Thomas may follow if he should chose, as well. If my father is not in the position to care for my remaining “children” (pets: Isabelle Marie and Sapphira Jade) I would like them to also be euthanized and buried with Bambino and I, with their information also documented on our headstone. I do not wish to be, under any circumstance, cremated, as the ash of others is often included in a product you believe to be one’s family remains, and we’d all be separated all over the local area, and hence separated from one another, left to unrest, possibly to wander and haunt the world, searching for one another or parts of ourselves. If my father is capable of caring for Isabelle Marie and Sapphira Jade, I wish them to stay with him to accompany him through a very difficult time. While I don’t necessarily have a hard core preference of burial site, and would be happy, if it were legal, to be buried here at my family homestead, I would like to be as close to my Nonnie’s burial site as possible, in Albany Rural Cemetery.

I’ve had a lot of fun in the last several weeks with my newest best friend, Tom, and I’ll never forget the joy I’ve experienced recently, and the growth that he and I have accomplished separately, yet together, even in the afterlife, or lack thereof. No one need feel guilty – if I attempt it again, and I’m not saying for certain I will or won’t, it wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own. Please, try to be happy for me. Most of you won’t understand – it’s so hard for me to be open and honest – but I’ve made too many mistakes here, and I’ve been through too much pain here – if I’m gone, it means I just couldn’t stand the inner suffering anymore – I was just too tired to carry on. I love you all, very much, and I’m sorry if I’ve caused you pain. Please celebrate my life rather than mourn my death – celebrate the strength it’s taken me to make it this long – and never forget the good times we shared. Smile for me, fore I am free.

Matt VS Mario

Recently, I started talking to a young man that I met at the Verizon store on the same day I purchased this very iPad that I type on… Meaning I met him little less than a week ago and started talking to him yesterday. I’m sure, by this point, mostly thanks to our texting this evening with a few beers in me, he thinks I’m absolutely psychotic. I suppose then, it’s best for both of us that I’m not currently seeking a mate.

I’m still completely hung up on Matt and last night, laying in bed, dreading this first date that may or may not happen with this young man I’ve recently been in contact with, we’ll call him Mario, and considering how to gently deny him a goodnight kiss (with more suave than I used with poor Matt who slinked off like a wounded pup) and I realized – kiss? I don’t want to kiss anyone ever again. I only want to kiss Matt; and if I only want to kiss Matt, maybe that means I shouldn’t accept a date with this Mario fellow, because what exactly would be the point of that? Not to worry; it wouldn’t appear he’s eager to ask for said date, but it still raises an interesting line of thoughts, none of which I’m currently willing to process.

I’ve recently found myself in yet another rush to “Find a mate and procreate before it’s too late,” (an original quote, if you wouldn’t so mind documenting, should my eminent death occur before I’m able to do so for myself), though thoughts of finding another mate pull at the delicate strings of my heart in remembrance of Matt. I genuinely felt and still (six months later) feel as though he is my soul mate and I could never again trust or love anyone the way I trusted and loved him.

Matt made me realize that I’d never before truly loved anyone, and with our separation, I came to the only reasonable conclusion I can see, despite my previous views on love, that I’ll never again find someone who could in any way take his place. I love him with every breath I take; and every moment we spend apart, I learn on a deeper level that we could never again be the same; not after so long of a separation; realistically, if he said he wanted me back at this very second, I would wholeheartedly leap back into his strong arms and be ready for him to love me the way that I once felt that he did; but he wouldn’t; just like I would never again be able to place my full trust in his hands. I would want to, more than anything in the world, and I would try my absolute hardest, but I just don’t think I could love him again without apprehensiveness the way that I used to… Of course, I never thought I could love anyone the way I loved him; so I could be yet again mistaken, but it doesn’t seem to matter as I’m lacking the opportunity to find out.

Matt doesn’t love me. That’s all there is to it. And this writing is not about what we had or what we could have; least of all what could have been – this article is about the possibility, or lack thereof of moving on.

How could it possibly be that we’ve been separated for six months after dating a mere three, and I’m still completely and utterly in love with the man I’ve known him to be? Under what circumstance would one not be ‘over’ a relationship after twice as long a separation than a togetherness lasted? I can only say that despite his dropping my heart, at work, from nine floors up, sending it hurdling toward the first floor at astronomical speeds during a lunch break; after meeting him at his apartment, and having him confirm my worst fear; after leaving his dwelling a blubbering mess of hysterical crying and screaming and feeling as though I was on the edge of a mental break; after attempting suicide, in his hoodie, with a plastic bag tied over my head; after failing and having to deal with things more rationally, though I barely make the cut; I love him, with all of my heart and soul. I know three months of dating shouldn’t prove a connection that strong, and it never has before for me, but with him … it was just different; in a purely amazing and wonderful way; and it was so right up until January 9th at approximately 6:45pm, when my “possibly paranoid” feeling of impending doom was confirmed to be true; to be the end; the end of everything I’d come to know and trust with reckless abandon.

I suppose, whether or not I choose to admit it – this is entirely about him. He is perfect; I am not. I ruined our chances to share a beautiful life full of love and laughter together and there’s nothing that I can do about it. Suddenly, I’m reminded that the original issue at hand (my eggs losing vitality within me) has come back to my complete lack of desire to do anything about it without him. I still feel lost. I hide it better now, but I feel completely and utterly void of purpose without him. Some might say that I’m better off with someone else; that we were incompatible on some important levels that I wasn’t yet able to see in such a short span of time that our relationship lasted; like our difference in opinion regarding animal companions or our preference in housing arrangements. I’d call them wrong. I was willing to make sacrifices in return for compromise in other areas. He and I (as far as I know) were completely open and honest about our likes, dislikes and indifferences to everything about which we spoke.

I still ask myself, aside from being ill, which he professed wasn’t the only reason we split paths, what I did wrong; much like I still, after so much time passed, stand by the door at which I wait now, anticipating his still familiar, authoritative knock upon it; always ready to throw it open with reckless abandon in hopes of seeing his face on the other side of the screen, ready to make amends. He never comes, and so I find myself spending more and more time avoiding the confines of my home and the company of the only decent living relative I have left, out of sheer pain avoidance. Let us, if we can, get back to Mario. He seems nice enough; funny, witty, a spice of sarcasm, and of decent intelligence, wrapped up tight in a ball of not-at-all-bad-looking. He’s short, 34 years old, and has eyes that bulge slightly… But he’s still pretty cute, and more importantly, seems to have an adaptable sense of humor, depending on what the situation warrants. I do not yet know the details, but he’s recently divorced; sometime within the last year, and has been putting weighted thought into moving. I find it interesting that he has a very similar background and upbringing to Matt; being around the same age, and growing up in Long Island, with family still there. I almost wonder if they went to school with and possibly knew each other, and if so, how well. Not that it would particularly matter, unless they were still good friends; in which case, that would be awkward, but chances lean against that possibility; though I probably should ask one of them if they’ve previously heard each other’s name. It wouldn’t much be of use, though, as I’m still crestfallen over Matt and not seeking a relationship; I’m not sure why I accepted Mario’s number and followed up days later, with a text. I am in the market for friends, but guys don’t give you their number for that reason. I probably should have just filed it in my compilation of guy’s numbers I’ve previously received and never responded to; but it’s a little too late for logical thinking; I was, and still am in the throws of a ticking ovary issue!

Maybe if I just knew what I did wrong, or what personality conflicts existed, or why I was boring to Matt’s manly senses – I mean; I thought our make out sessions were phenomenal; though this could merely be because I’d never before “made out” with anyone; if I just knew WHAT made me or WHY I was inadequate, I could at least work on myself! One of the moments that constantly resounds in my mind comes from New Years Eve, at the bowling alley, after The Ball dropped in Times Square, NYC, and we were surrounded by the cheering and noise maker blowing of all around us as we parted of a near everlasting kiss of pure passion, and I looked deep into his eyes and uttered with complete confidence, for the first time in my life, “We’re going to have a wonderful year together.” He looked back into my (normally) green eyes and replied, “Yes, we are.” Eight days later, it was officially over. Eight days after I was so certain that I could entrust any secret in his hands… Eight days… My heart sinks with the pain of unanswered questions; questions I’ll inevitably have to accept will receive no honest answer; answers that are serious enough to completely ban even a friendship between us.

Why was I so certain, in that moment, that we would last; that someone could actually just love me for more than a second? I would have bet my life, in that moment, that we’d be together until the day one of us died; and I would have sorely lost… Fact is, I nearly did. He means so much to me that I was willing to make an attempt on my own life, out of the purest form of love I’ve ever encountered, short of a story or film. I think of it now; the night preceding my returning his only possession he’ll accept back; a navy blue Michigan endorsed hoodie in Extra Large size that I’d borrowed during the youth of our short lived relationship; I think again of ending it tonight, better prepared with a thoroughly inspected plastic bag, wearing the last bit of us that I have. Short of Romeo and Juliet, I’ve heard of no love as pure as what I have for him – and I desperately want to cling to it; even if it no longer exists; more than anything. I wish he knew how much I love him; I wish it mattered.

I must accept that my undying adoration for him is simply not enough. I must not make another attempt at my life as it would not matter in the slightest to him if I were or were not successful. I must accept that I do not understand the reasons or ways in which I failed him; and that they no longer much make a difference. I must accept that my love is not enough; nothing I ever do will ever be enough; and that there is nothing I can do about it. I must accept that I may or may not love him for the remainder of my lonely life, and that my time in home may or may not be spent waiting at this door for him. I must accept that regardless my willingness to do so, I must return his personal property, as he has mine, and that upon doing so, all ties will be cut between us. I must accept that I may have found and lost my one true love in less than one fourth of a year. I must accept that he is, upon returning my belongings, and writing about other women, ready and able to move beyond our relationship, with compete disregard of my feelings; and I must accept that, at least for him, it was not true love.

I do not wish to accept these facts, but I do not know how much longer I can go on denying them, either. I failed. It’s as simple as that. I failed at possibly my only opportunity for true love, and there’s no way I can mend it.

I do know one thing; whether or not these feelings pass, and whether or not I one day “fall in love” “again” or not, I can never again trust a single soul the way that I trusted his. This was supposed to be about Mario… but nothing will ever be about anything if it doesn’t involve you. Matt, for what it’s worth, I love you with all my heart, and I simply don’t know how I existed before or how to continue existing without you. My life is so empty without your smile and your embrace and I don’t feel as though I’ll ever even try to find someone as worthy of my affections as you are. For whatever I did, I’m sorry. This isn’t a plea; I know you’ll never find and read this; it’s just an earnest admission. I. Love. You.

Apples to Apples

Today, I went to a local cafe and eatery known as Panera Bread. I’m not sure how many of you have those in your area, but basically their menu ranges from baked goods such as cookies and scones, to salads, soups and sandwiches. As their name states, they were initially and are still, to some extent, an establishment focused around their fresh-baked breads. I don’t eat breads, but I certainly love their Hazelnut coffee.

I’d gone there today to soak up some wi-fi and feel socially stimulated while actually sitting alone and being productive with my online applications for higher education and workforce opportunities. Though I do have my own wi-fi at home, there frankly isn’t much space to sit comfortably and I tend to be more distracted, and consequently, less productive. Regardless the reasoning behind it, I find it, at times, to be more comfortable for me to sit in a public establishment, surrounded by other people, with whom I’m not forced to interact; provided it’s not a particularly busy time, thus allowing plenty of space between myself and other parties.

It was a chilly day, so I opted to order a large hot coffee and an Apple. It took several minutes for the a cashier to figure out how to charge me for just an Apple, after she decided to stop giving me a funny look, but finally she comes up with .99 cents, which is typical cost for a single piece of fruit at an eating establishment, here in the North Eastern portion of the United States, so I’ve grown accustom to the inflated price, as it is fulfilling for me to be in possession of a healthy option when I take my seat, so I do not later order something unhealthy. I do not usually eat the fruit at the establishment, as it’s more of a pacifier for me. If I decide to eat out of hunger, or suddenly become jealous of those eating around me, I have an option immediately available at my disposal which is healthy, wholesome and guilt-free. I tend to find, with myself, that waiting in a line for a menu meal leads to poor decisions I would not normally make and subsequently enjoy far less than I initially predict, especially when dining alone. This can often times lead to a more serious consequence, which I shan’t bring up at this time, though probably will do so in a future blog.

What is unusual about Panera, as I learned earlier today, is the fact that to receive aforementioned Apple, I was actually sent to the meal pick-up counter and forced to wait in line for my “order” to be “ready”. When my name was finally called, the lady clearly was judging me for my choice of snack as she gave me both a stupefied look and a disapproving tone as she verbally confirmed, “Just a ….. Apple?” I felt like correcting her grammar and telling her to get that stupid look off of her face and give me my fruit, but I decided maybe I was being too judgemental myself. Maybe being healthy isn’t really a “thing”at Panera, and healthy snacks are not normally served as a stand alone option, and maybe her judgement was less about my choice of snack and more about how infrequently such an option is requested in that particular establishment.

Fine – but in the case where an apple is requested, would it not be more suitable to simply hand it to the customer rather than to bag it? That’s right. She bagged my Apple. Why are we wasting resources on a single piece of fruit? Would I be incapable of carrying my palm sized snack to my seat? If anything, it may have been served with a plate and a knife for my own slicing and dining-in pleasure, if you didn’t feel like simply handing it to me were a viable option. Nope; she bagged my Apple.