Saturday, March 16, 2024

Nobody Wants to See Me Blog About Tragedy

Last week I was talking to Griffin, who, one day earlier, had gone to the gym for the first time in two or three years. When I asked him what he did there, he told me that among other things, he ran. Naturally, the next things out of my mouth were how far and how fast. He answered that he put the treadmill on an incline of five, started out at 5 mph and went back and forth between 5 mph and varying speeds for a mile, 7 being the highest.  

Wow, that's really good! I've been running for years, and I work out all the time, and I can't run at 7 mph, I responded. 

A couple days after that conversation, I went to the gym instead of running outside for the first time in months. Because it was Saturday and Sundays are my long run, my plan was to run two easy miles like I usually do. Onto the treadmill I stepped and began my 5.5 mph slog. And I started thinking about Griffin.

I started thinking about how Griffin had run 7 mph, Griffin who had run for the first time in years, Griffin who didn't work out at all, and I thought to myself, if Griffin can run 7 mph, I can run 7 mph! I'm in way better than shape than Griffin! 

And you know what I did next?

Wrong! You were going to say I ran at 7 mph, weren't you? (I know you were. Don't pretend.)

What I did was set the treadmill at 6.5 and run at that pace for about a minute. You know, give a faster pace than I was used to a whirl. I then went back to 5.5 where I ran for a minute before moving up to 6.6 for another minute and then back down to 5.5. Then I did the same thing for 6.7; 6.8; 6.9; and yes, finally, 7.

7!

There I was, running at 7 mph, faster than I'd ever set the treadmill to in my entire life, and you know what happened? 

I didn't die!

I didn't die, I didn't fly off, I didn't get hurt. I didn't even get abnormally out of breath. 

You know what I did do, though?

I felt fucking thrilled. 

I felt fucking thrilled, and even it was only for two minutes, I felt super proud of running at an 8:34 mile pace, the fastest I'd ever run, and I text Griffin, all excited, as soon as I got home.


You inspired me to put the treadmill up to 7 mph today

I was like, Griffin does't even run

If he can do it

And I could!


And then, once I finished texting, I asked myself why I was always so afraid to do anything, so cautious about everything.

For so long I've told myself this story, this story about what I can't and can do. This story about how I'm built, about my limitations, about my ineptitude.

I'm not built for running.

I've got these wide Greek-Italian hips. 

The Venus of Willendorf and I may as well be twins.

I mean, I've been injured before, yes. I've hurt my IT band, I've hurt my Achilles tendon, I wore custom orthotics, I wore a boot. 

But you know what else I did? I ran a half-marathon in January, my first since the half-marathon debacle of 2007 that left me incapacitated and nearly crippled for weeks, and not only did I do it half an hour faster than the average first half-marathon time for women between 20 and 50 years old, but I was totally fine when I was done; I recently took more than two minutes off last year's 5k times, running a sub 30-minute 5k three times in the last two months; and I started running 9:35 miles at my run club on Wednesday nights - and, yet, despite these accomplishments, when someone at my run club commented a couple weeks ago that I've gotten fast, I immediately corrected him. I've gotten faster, I said, emphasis on the er. 

People who read my blog, the point?

That story I tell myself; that's all it is: the story I tell myself. I'm _______. I say it all the time, forget about running but about so many things. You know what, though? I think it might be possible that I'm only those things because I think I'm those things, and well, if I think I'm those things, and it makes me those things, doesn't that mean I can just think - and, therefore, become - other things?

***

A few days ago, so I guess about four days after I ran at 7 mph, Griffin called me.

Hello?

Hey, I'm on my way home from they gym and can't talk, but I just wanted to call you to tell you that you inspired me.

Goddammit, Griffin! I replied, laughing.

He laughed. I thought to myself, If my mom could run at 7 mph . . . 

I interrupted him. How fast?

He continued as if I hadn't said a word. And I'm a man -

Griffin!

Then surely I can run faster.

Griffin! Just tell me!

And would you believe that fucking kid/man ran at 8.5 mph?

Motherfucker! I said. 8.5?  

8.5, he answered. 

Yeah, well, I'll see your 8.5, I replied. 

And I actually think I can. 

Tuesday, February 20, 2024

*Sobs Quietly*

I come here every day. It's instinct. Writing, that is, especially here in this space where for so many years I've exposed so many parts of myself to you for no reason other than, well, instinct, some innate, irrational need that I have, that I've never not had, to share. I open up Beatrix, I click on the little B on my toolbar which brings me to the "Blogger: Posts" page, I stare at the "Blogger: Posts" page, and I move on to something else. Because why? What am I going to write? What do I have to share? That ever since Jonathan told me about a month ago that if I never kicked him out of the house things would be very different now and we'd still be together, I've hated myself every day? That soon it will be nine months since Jonathan and I broke up and I still miss him just as much today as I did at first? That I cry in the shower? And in my kitchen? That I'm crying right now? That even though I can objectively look back and see how selfish Jonathan was in our relationship, how dishonest he was, I still love him the same way I did before that clarity came? That despite the therapy newsletters I get and Instagram therapists I follow who all say pretty much the same thing about dignity in breakups and how we should have it, I have to respectfully disagree because they also talk about authenticity, and nothing is more a value of mine or hallmark of me than loving fervently, irrationally, and unreasonably? That I care so little about things that Keifer, who doesn't have a job, spent over four thousand dollars on my credit card in just about a month, and it made me feel eh instead of angry? That in an attempt to move on, I went on four dates with someone over the course of about five weeks, slept with him last weekend, never heard from him again, and feel eh instead of angry or hurt about that, too (I mean, slept with after being assured this wouldn't just be about sex and never talked to again? It must be Tuesday, right?)? That if it weren't for my dogs, I'd stay in bed whenever I wasn't at work and that on the weekends I have to force myself to get up to take care of them? That living feels like a chore and some of the time or maybe a lot of the time, I wish I just didn't exist? That during particularly sad times the Buffy episode "Beauty and the Beasts" is there inside my head? That I picture the scene when, in the midst of a girl's breakdown at the hands of a boy, Willow says, I think we broke her, and Buffy responds, I think she was broken before this?

So, yes, I come here every day; it's my instinct, after all - to write. But, people who read my blog, I ask you again - why? What do I have to share? What am I going to say?  

Tuesday, January 23, 2024

I Kissed a Boy, and I Liked It

Actually I kissed two (well, two new boys anyway. The not new one will go unnamed and for the purpose of this post, unconsidered) but, really, I only liked kissing one. The one I didn't really like kissing, I didn't hate kissing; it was whatever (the guy was a little too mouthy and a little too handsy but then again, maybe I just didn't like him because it's not like too handsy has ever really been a problem for me). The one I did like kissing, I didn't love kissing, but it was nice, even pleasant maybe. You know what neither of them were, though, people who read my blog? Upsetting or unsettling or disconcerting like when I kissed M that time I told you about when I saw his penis (sorry, M, but I wasn't ready for that (either of those that's) although I can't imagine this news is a surprise). And you know what that means? You do, right? 

I'm starting to feel better. To move on. 

I mean, fine, maybe one of the guys just happened to be a 34-year-old Virgo just like Jonathan and Jonathan's same height, and maybe he's also Hispanic and has dark brown hair and dark brown eyes, and maybe the other guy I kissed was also a Hispanic guy with long dark hair and dark brown eyes plus an inch or two (regarding height, sickos! Regarding height), but, like, isn't a girl allowed to have a type? We're losing focus on the thing that's important here, people, which, to reiterate, is that I'm starting to feel better. I'm starting to move on. 

Or at least I was. 

I was totally starting to feel better and to move on, and I was planning to write about it here, share the good news, alleviate your concern, but what happened before I had a chance to write? My stupid birthday came along. 

My stupid birthday came along and stupid Jonathan spent four hours making me the stupid vegan picadillo that I love and because he wanted them to be perfect for me, he made stupid beans three different times, and he came here for stupid dinner, and until things got a little more than a little emotional - and surprisingly, the emotions weren't mine - we had a really good night, and then, somehow, despite the good night and despite the more than a little emotional aspect of it, I was still doing fine, clear eyes, full heart and all that jazz, ready, like really really ready this time, ready and resolved, and then there I was yesterday on a three-hour phone call full of I love you's but this and what's not insurmountable to you is insurmountable to me's, and nothing would be different right now because neither of has changed's, and information about his weird, weird relationship (if you even want to call it that, and I'm thinking that I don't) that I vacillate over whether it makes me feel better or worse, and, like, my gosh, it's been almost eight months. Eight months! 

Not that I don't think you can count, but

June 3 to July -1 month- July to August -2 months- August to September -3 months- September to October -4 months- October to November -5 months- November to December -6 months- December to January -7 months- plus 21 days. 

Seven months and twenty-one days! Griffin said seeing the two of us is painful, that it's like seeing a cartoon character who keeps stepping on a rake, and the rake keeps hitting the cartoon character in the face. My mother told me this needs to just be a learning experience, a lesson, and I need to ignore him when he texts. My students told me I need to block him and protect my peace. 

I'm not one to give tests, but if I were, and I gave a multiple choice one, and one of the questions were Which of the above statements involving Jonathan and Kelly is correct?, the answer would be (unequivocally? I want to say unequivocally, but unequivocally means a world I unequivocally don't want but do I want the world that currently is?) all of the above. 

If, instead, I gave a lesson about inference and implication and line of reasoning by connecting texts, it might look something like this:

I've been talking to this guy on Bumble, and when I told him my ex was bringing me dinner, he was like, It sounds like you guys are still attached. As friends, I said, and I meant it because that's all he and I are. 


We're friends. 

Sunday, December 31, 2023

My Darling, Who Knew?

So who just curled up in a ball in the corner of their kitchen and had one last good cry to end 2023? Just me? I figured.

I didn't intend for it to go out this way, 2023. When I decided I just wanted to stay home, sure, I knew I'd be sad, but did I think I'd be sobbing uncontrollably on my black and white tile floor? Certainly not. What I thought was, after having run ten miles earlier in the day, I'd eat some really fattening and yummy things I don't usually let myself eat, feel sad and lonely - which is obviously nothing new - sage my house, eat some grapes, toss a bucket of water out my front door, and call it night, and honestly, it might have happened like that if it hadn't been for stupid Publix and its DJ of Despair. 

There I was on my second stop of the night, Total Wine being my first since, yes, I'm not just sad and lonely, I'm a sad and lonely drunk, walking from the tortilla chip and salsa aisle to the produce section for my grapes when I heard lyrics I hadn't heard in a long, long time: "If someone said three years from now, you'd be long gone, I'd stand up and punch them out 'cause they're all wrong. I know better 'cause you said forever," and much like right this second as I type, I started getting tears in my eyes. I continued down the main aisle, taking a detour past the vegan ice cream, and as I got closer to the grapes, a new verse began: "When someone said count your blessings now, 'fore they're long gone, I guess I just didn't know how," and that time I had to force myself to not break down right there as I hobbled past the cookies and cakes. 

After stopping at Whole Foods for the ice cream I didn't buy at Publix (plus some vegan flatbread and olive tapenade (ten miles, people who read my blog! I think that warranted a feast!)), I came home, heated my flatbread, sat in uncharacteristic silence, and ate. When I finished eating, although I knew I shouldn't do it, I did it anyway. I picked up my phone, connected to Third Place on my Bluetooth, typed "Who Knew?" into the search bar, and listened as Pink sang the most painful, apropos lyrics I can't believe weren't clairvoyantly written about Jonathan and me - 

You took my hand, you showed me how / You promised me you'd be around / Uh-huh, that's right / I took your words, and I believed / in everything you said to me/ uh-huh, that's right

If someone said three years from now / you'd be long gone / I'd stand up and punch them out / 'cause they're all wrong / I know better 'cause you said forever / and ever, who knew?

Remember when we were such fools / and so convinced and just too cool? / Oh, no, no, no / I wish I could touch you again / I wish I could still call you, friend / I'd give anything

When someone said count your blessings now / 'fore they're long gone / I guess I just didn't know how / I was all wrong / They knew better, still, you said forever / and ever, who knew?

I'll keep you locked in my head / until we meet again / and I won't forget you, my friend / What happened?

If someone said three years from now / you'd be long gone / I'd stand up and punch them out / 'cause they're all wrong and / that last kiss I'll cherish until we meet again / and time makes it harder / I wish I could remember / but I keep your memory / You visit me in my sleep

My darling, who knew? -

and then there I was sitting at my table crying lightly and then standing in my kitchen crying harder and then sobbing as I sat crisscross applesauce on my kitchen floor and then lying down and sobbing in the fetal heap I mentioned before wondering if my dad was watching me as I cried and either feeling sorry for me or thinking that Jesus Christ his daughter is on a downward spiral and needs to get her life together stat and then after a few minutes of silence once the song stopped, making my way to my hands and knees and finally getting up, going into the bathroom, blowing my nose, looking in the mirror, and thinking, Jesus fuck, I look horrific.

It's been a couple hours since then. I've since finished my french toast beer, mopped my floor and saged my house all the while chanting, "Cleanse, cleanse, cleanse this place, cleanse, cleanse, cleanse this space," in an effort to cleanse I'm not quite sure what since the memory of Jonathan is the last thing I want scrubbed from my black and pink walls, but in the same vein, I plan to continue the tradition he shared with me of throwing a bucket of water outside to rid myself and my house of negative energy even though again in another same vein, the only negative energy here seems to be me, so I'm not entirely sure how that will work. 

Anyway. 

I remember as 2020 came to a close, people couldn't wait. The pandemic had fucked with so many lives, ruining mental health, draining finances, isolating people, forcing them to miss entire periods of life. I, on the other hand, loved 2020 for reasons I've discussed and won't reiterate now. Now, 2023 - that's 2020 for me. But, still, unlike those who clamored for the end of the worst year of their lives, I don't want mine to end. Like I told Jonathan when he was here the other night, I spent the majority of 2023 without him, and 2024 coming means a new year is starting out without us being together which just further solidifies what already was solid. 

Tuesday, December 19, 2023

The Body

Yes, yes, it's been a long time since I've written, long enough that I had to check to see what I wrote about last (surprise, surprise, it was Jonathan. Man oh Manischewitz, am I shocked). What's kept me? Why the lull in verbally transcribing my long face? 

My father died on December 3. 

My father died on December 3, and after schlepping my dogs to Orlando so my son's girlfriend could watch them, flying to Charlotte with Griffin, organizing and emptying my parents' mom's house because she and my dad were in the middle of a move down to South Florida when my father died, tying up the loose ends I could manage to tie while I was there, renting a car and driving to Orlando where I picked up my dogs and schlepped them back home and then having my mom come stay at my house while awaiting the closing on her new place, I just haven't had it in me to write. 

I wish I knew what to say. I wish I knew how to feel. But I don't. I have a very, very good friend - my oldest friend, actually, who I've known since I was four - whose wife is a self-confessed sociopath, and one of the things my friend relayed to me is that her wife said she's always acted the way she feels like she should. She would observe other people's behavior and act like that in similar situations. Now, I'm not copying anyone's behavior, and I'm pretty sure I'm not sociopathic, but I'll tell you, I'm at a loss right now. 

By the time my father died at roughly 2:15 in the morning late Saturday night/early Sunday morning, he'd been living several states away from me for over sixteen years, so saying I miss him isn't right. Other than talking to him when I would call my mom and he would answer the phone, something that had become semi-frequent in the last year or so, we didn't interact much. That's not to say we weren't close although I don't think we were although who's really to say what defines closeness? He did send me a shopping bag with Hudson's and Jazzy's faces imposed onto each side after they died and a recycling-bin mug to thank me for making him see the importance of recycling and little magnet hooks for my fridge after I admired his and a pretty little bag that looks Mexican since that's what I think I was in a past life, and he did ask me gently if he could ask me what happened between me and Jonathan when the two of us broke up and send me a vegan recipe for cacio e pepe afterwards telling me he hoped I felt better plus other little emails he thought would interest me here and there, so going back to being close, were we close? Maybe not particularly, but writing this now, it occurs to me that he did always try to show me he loved me in the ways that he knew how. 

And yet here I am, two weeks and two days after my father died, two weeks to the day after I walked into a funeral home and saw his unprepared body lying under a sheet, not knowing how to feel. I know that I loved my father, and I know that I'm sad, but I also know that if I compare the way I feel now to the depths of sadness I felt when Hudson and Jazzy died and the torrents of tears I cried for them to the tears I've cried for him, I'm ashamed. The sadness - if sadness is the word because more than sadness, what I feel is disbelief; I just can't believe that my father is no longer here - isn't omnipresent but rather it accompanies certain thoughts. I don't have a father anymore, I'll think to myself, and then I'll picture him lying under that sheet. I'll look at the yahrzeit candle glowing in my kitchen, and although I hadn't forgotten my father was dead, seeing it will make me realize it again. I love you, Dad, I'll whisper, but once away from the candle, it's like I once again forgot-but-not-forgot. 

Having a dead parent is a weird thing, or at least it is for me. I'm forty-eight, yes, a good age to have a parent until, far older than many, and while it makes no sense, the thought that I'm an orphan drifts through my mind (yes, I know I have a mom; I'm telling you, my thoughts make no sense). Still, it's not a feeling of sadness that I feel with that thought, but emptiness, I think? That's it. When I think about my dad having died, when I think about his no longer being here, when I think about his no longer being with me, I feel empty more than I feel sad. Fatherless. 

Like -

like something is gone. 

Like something is gone. 

No. Not like something is gone; 

because something is gone. 

Something is gone. 

Something is gone

My father

My father is gone. 

And now I know. 

What I feel is empty and fatherless.

I am empty and fatherless.

My father has gone. 





 

Thursday, November 23, 2023

(Un)Happy Holiday, You Bastard! 2023

This is a hard post to write, my until-2020-annual-what-I'm-thankful-for post that the last time I wrote talked about Jonathan and how grateful I was to have him; in fact, I wasn't going to write it because what the fuck do I have to be thankful for this year? At least that's what I've been thinking. A lot. But here I am, and here it is albeit slightly different from the norm because this year I've decided to write both what I'm thankful for and also what I'm not. Petulant and sullen of me? Sure, but also pretty on brand, not just in the petulant and sullen part but also in my refusal to pretend to be anything I'm not. In the spirit then of being somewhat thankful, mostly not thankful, and being myself, it's time for my list(s). Let's switch things up from gloom and doom for a few minutes and start with

Things I'm Thankful For, 2023

1. What I look like. Right this second, it's the only thing coming to my mind. So many horrible things have come out of my breakup with Jonathan, but the way I look isn't one of them and honestly, thank the fucking lord, because if I didn't at least have my looks, I'd probably have killed myself by now. I know this doesn't matter since Jonathan is with Carla and not with me, but it does make me happy that she looks the way that she looks and I look the way that I look, and while we're on the subject, it also makes me happy (which I guess means makes me thankful, so it should be number

2.) to know that the only reason Carla is Jonathan's girlfriend instead of me is because I threw him out and caught him in lies. He wasn't going anywhere, feelings for Carla or not, so at least I have that: the knowledge that, whatever happens in their relationship, she started out as a consolation prize. 

3. My determination to be healthy. I won't say this will last forever because with me, nothing ever does, but I've been consistently strength training since July and training for a half-marathon for the past month, and I have to say, it's really paid off, not just in the way that I look, but in the way that I feel about myself when I follow through and meet my goals. Right now, I really need a win, and being disciplined in my workouts is giving me one. 

4. R - so I met this guy on Bumble, but before you go thinking anything, it's not like that. I told him from the get go that I just wanted to be friends, and we're nothing more, but we've gone out, and we text a lot, and it feels good having that which reminds me of 

5. My group chat with Curt and Geoff. It's an inactive group chat a lot of the time because Geoff keeps very strange hours (I won't take the time to explain who Geoff is to you, but if you know the show My So Called Life, you'll understand who he is to me when I tell you his name is Jordan Catalano in my phone), but it always makes me feel good to be a part of it. Curt and Geoff are two of the wittiest people I know (far wittier than I am if you can believe it), and our interactions make me happy. Plus, no matter how far removed from elementary school, middle school, high school, and undergrad and, therefore, my obsession with Geoff I am, I'll always be just a little bit in love.

6. My run club or better yet, the fact that I got up the nerve to go to a run club at all. When Jonathan and I were together, he used to go to his cunt of a mother's house every Wednesday night for dinner, so I joined a run club to go to while he was gone. I didn't go all summer since I had no desire to leave the house, but I went back in September and have been there almost every Wednesday night since. I've never been good at meeting people because I come across as standoffish since I'm so shy, and while when I first showed up, I could barely talk, I'm now friends or at least friendish with everyone. It feels nice. 

7. The newfound judgment I, at least for now, have. I think it's no secret that I don't do things that are good for me especially when it comes to boys. Recently, though, I've made three good decisions that in the past I never would have. As we all know, I've been feeling pretty bad, and when I feel bad, I start to think of the past which leads to me wanting to talk to people -- you know what, forget the involved explanation. Clinton. I wanted to text Clinton. His birthday just passed, and I was like, what harm can it do to just send a happy birthday text? I even messaged a friend and asked what she thought, and although she stupidly said she supposed it could cause no harm at all, I realized it could do nothing but. Whether he ignored me or whether he responded, it would only lead to my getting hurt, and so for the first time in my life, I exercised self-control regarding a boy. You know what? I'm lying. That wasn't the first time in my life because exercising self-control was involved in another one of the three good decisions I made, and this other time came first. I recently was in the position to have sex with someone who you all know from past posts as the best sex I've ever had but who you also know from this post as someone who broke my heart. Even though I'm totally enmeshed in my breakup trauma and depression and feel like I'll never care about any boy other than Jonathan again, I know if I were to have had sex, emotions would resurface whether genuine or not, so like with not texting Clinton, I made a healthy choice. Same goes for my decision to only be friends with Bumble guy R who I could have dated if I'd wanted but who I know isn't right for me and doing so would only be an attempt to feel a little bit better right now but end up hurting in the long run. I think it's possible I'm learning how to protect my heart.  

8. Keifer moving next week. Keifer came to stay with me in July, and while I love him very, very much and am happy I had this time with him, I'm ready to have my house to myself. I also can't stand how much he loathes being here, and if moving will make him happy, I'm thankful for that. 

9. My relationship takeaways. Jonathan and I were talking a few days ago, and the subject of how we've influenced each other's lives came up. Both of us agreed that we've adopted lots of things because of one another. Not limited to but including the things that I cook and I eat; Mary, Gustavo, and Diana, my three Roombas; my well-rounded education in video games; and my love of The Vampire Diaries and Castlevania, there are so many things in my life now that weren't here three years ago, and since I mentioned 

10. TheVampire Diaries and Castlevania, I'd me remiss if I didn't talk about being thankful for them. I'm not saying they're Buffys, but they're pretty close. I suppose it's possible they came around at just the right time in my life and that's why I love them as vehemently as I do, but whatever the reason, I'm thankful they both exist.

11. The relationship with Jonathan that I still have. Through this post and some recent ones, you may have surmised that Jonathan and I still talk. It's not super often (although lately it's been much more often than it was), but when we do talk, we talk a lot, and like he said today, it's without devolving into fights. I know. I know! Zero contact and all that stuff. Except not for me. It doesn't matter what Jonathan did to me or how awful I've felt as a result, I still love him just as much right this second as I did our whole entire relationship, and I'm thankful I have him in my life.

And you know what? Let's stop this right now. It's not like you're unaware of the things I'm not thankful for; let's for once end a post on a good (although sad) note. Happy Thanksgiving, people who read my blog. It may not be in my immediate cards, but I wish every one of you lots of love and peace -- unless, of course, Carla happens to be reading this post in which case I'd like to minus one from that wish. 

Goddammit, did that just fuck up my good note? Let's try this again.

Ending on a good note, take two:

Love and peace, people. Love and peace. 

Wednesday, November 22, 2023

Here's to Living in the Moment 'Cause It Passed

You know how when you go to text a photo and click the little arrow, a choice of contacts comes up for where you want to send the photo based on the people you text the most (at least on iPhone)? For the first time a couple days ago, I went to text a photo, and Jonathan wasn't there (although for some reason he was later that day despite my not having text him (update for transparency: in the time since I started writing this post two days ago, I have, in fact, text Jonathan although also for transparency, it was only to remind him about an upcoming deadline for the accelerated nursing program at NSU)).

It shouldn't have surprised me -- his contact not showing up -- five months and seventeen days after we broke up, and it shouldn't have affected me, but let me tell you -- it did both.

I know. I know! It's time for me to move on. When I was in the car with my sister last weekend and said something about Carla taking my place and going to Friendsgiving with him this year instead of me, she said she still couldn't believe it, couldn't believe the two of them were together, and I agreed. I told her that even now, five months later, it's so hard for me to believe he's not my boyfriend anymore, that he's with someone else. I did acknowledge, though, which is something I wasn't able to acknowledge, or even understand, before, that this isn't anything unusual; my plight is not unique. Relationships end all the time. People leave each other, people who have been in relationships far longer than the three years I spent in mine. The incredulity I feel, while it may be warranted, should have run its course. 

That word, though -- should. I keep saying it. But should I?

We hear it and think it all time. He should, she should, you should, I should. There are lots of things people should, so many things, but, really, who's to say they should them? (Yes, I meant to write it that way; in this case, should is a verb and not the helping kind.)

When I recently told one of the guys I've been talking to on Tinder that I'm still recovering from my last relationship and have always been pretty emotional and sentimental and maybe -- maybe; uh-huh -- a little hypersensitive, he replied that there's absolutely nothing wrong with that, a sentiment echoed by a healer whom I watch on Instagram who asserts that all feelings are valid, and the way people feel is always correct.

But this isn't why I came here, to talk about feelings and whether we should feel them or not because should or shouldn't, mine aren't going away. I might not cry at the drop of a hat anymore, but like I told Jonathan last night when he told me he misses me very much, it's all Jonathan in my mind all the time. It doesn't matter where I am, where I'm going, what I'm doing, everything is somehow Jonathan adjacent. I guess that's what happens when you spend almost every minute with someone for three years of your life. 

But, again, this isn't why I'm here. I've kvetched about Jonathan enough, and unless they're mentally challenged, everyone who's read this blog (as well as anyone who's had even a two-minute conversation with me in the last five months) knows how I feel. So then why am I here?

Let me tell you, people who read my blog, I wish I knew. 

I'm here, I guess, to try to make sense, not to you, but to myself. About a week ago, I was grading some papers for my ENC1101 kids and came across a passage by Steven Alvarez. In it, Alvarez says that writing is "the process of discovery through language. It is the process of exploration of what we know and what we feel about what we know through language. It is the process of using language to learn about our world, to evaluate what we learn about our world," and while reading it, I kind of had a moment of vindication even if only to myself because that's why I'm here. 

That's why I'm always here. 

What reason, other than trying to figure things out, do I have to tell a bunch of strangers and a bunch of people who know me -- which is way worse than telling strangers -- the minutiae of my life? Why else relay the humiliation, the desperation, the loneliness, the denial, the sadness, the ugliness, the defeat, the truths that I imagine everyone carries inside them but is discerning enough not to share? I know I've said this to you before, but that's how I process things, how I come to understand, and no, writing in a journal for myself isn't the same. Journaling or diarying, if you will, is akin to fleeting thoughts while blogging and essaying and poeming engender rumination. I mean, how many times have you seen me have an epiphany mid-blog? How often does my blog start out about one thing and then it turns out I was really writing about something else? 

So (sort of) going back to Jonathan and my shoulds, I've been told, in addition to that I should feel better by now and that I should move on, that I shouldn't write about him anymore which really goes back to the former -- I should feel better, I should move on. I shouldn't spend (read: waste) any more time writing about him. But for me, writing about him isn't a choice because I write about my life, my world, and as pathetic as it sounds (here comes the humiliation from one paragraph up), Jonathan pretty much is my life and my world (all Jonathan in my mind all the time, remember?). And to make sense of my life and my world, or at least some semblance of sense, I have to write my life and my world, and so (!), here I am writing about how jarring it was that Jonathan's contact didn't come up when I went to send a photo via text. 

Also jarring? Getting an Olukai catalog in the mail a couple days ago since the only reason I get it is from ordering Jonathan shoes; sleeping without him in the bed where he and I slept when we'd visit my parents' house; booking a room for two nights in Orlando at the hotel where he and I always stayed; kissing another man; seeing a penis -- like an actual one, not a penis on my phone -- that's attached to someone else, an experience I'd love to write about, and about which I know you nosy pervs would love to read, but which won't occur since the person attached to the penis will most likely be reading this.  

Actually, you know what? Forget the catalog, the bed, the hotel, the kiss, and the penis. It all jars me. Every single thing. Every time I do something Jonathan and I used to do together sans Jonathan for the first time (and sometimes the second and the third), every time I think of Carla being the one to do something I'd normally do with Jonathan in my place, every time I do something I thought I'd never do again because I thought I was entrenched in forever, I'm jarred. 

I know. I know! You'd think I'd be used to these things by now. I'd think I'd be used to these things. 

But I refuse to subscribe to the idea that I should.