You forget how painful it is…heartbreak. So you can love again. Like childbirth.

It’s much easier to believe that the timing is off. That someone just isn’t capable of loving you the way you require generally. It’s considerably more painful to finally realize that they are indeed capable of loving…just not loving YOU. It makes it intensely personal.

I feel like I keep making mistakes. On the one hand I could beat myself up over it, as is my initial reaction because I am dramatically hard on myself. And on the other hand, of course, I can learn from them. Thus far I’ve come up with the following: be more discerning. I could say give less of myself but I know it’s not realistic…I’m a giver. Moreso I just need to concentrate on who I give to. Some of the best advice my therapist has given me is that it’s not realistic to change who I am, but rather to change how I inevitably react.

Mother’s day was brunch with Beans and my Mom, a blessed nap, sunshine. I’ve been a mom for seven years now and it keeps amazing me how amateurish I feel at it sometimes. My Mom, the old pro, her every word drips with so much wisdom. I really couldn’t fathom her love for me and my brother until I gave birth to Serena…I don’t know what I’d do without her. She told me that I have to find some way to stop living my life in a shadow of others’ opinions. I’ve given too much power away. A transference happened at some point, when I wasn’t paying attention, and I gave too much. And for some weird reason I keep resetting myself just so I can go through the same realizations and subsequent pain again. Not sure why, but I think it stands for something…a metaphor an shit.

I’m on the case.

“I want you in my life for all time…caught up in the rapture of love…”

THAT.

That’s what I’m excited about; what I look forward to. That is what I want to know intimately. That is what makes it all worth it.

Anita Baker was splendorous on Sunday night. Radiant, pitch-perfect and gorgeous; her voice gave me goosebumps. She actually sounded better live than she does on her records–how that’s even possible is a testament to her God-given talent. I was just in awe the entire time. To have love in your life that allows you to sing love songs the way she does…it must feel unreal. Bump all this unrequited stuff.

I just want to be radiant like that. I’ve been inspired.

But that initial foray into new love is a bit intimidating, isn’t it? The uncertainty is equal parts exhilarating and terrifying and I think that’s what heads tend to get addicted to…the rush. I love the rush, I can’t even lie. The opening act, when you’re still getting to know someone, just on the edge before you topple, the beginning of the intimacy…it’s habit-forming. It’s what Anita’s songs capture for me. I sat in that audience and I just tingled the entire time; equal parts envy and fascination. And with A sitting one seat away there were times I just wanted to turn to him and say “that is what I wanted with you”. But I behaved. I know that I should save that sentiment for someone who is worth me. I behaved.

I’m really into this whole idea of treating my heart tenderly. I love the way my heart functions, even though it causes me pain and confusion at times. My capability for love is vast and that’s beautiful, especially given what I’ve put myself through. I’m proud of who I am and what I’m capable of feeling. I’m done beating myself up about it, honestly.

I’ve lived my entire life believing every feeling has a reason. Especially love. I still love him. Thus, I get restless often…it’s almost painful. Why why why why why…

It’s the monotony that gets to me. I just want someone to take care of me sometimes. Shit.

It occurs to me at times that maybe this is as good as it gets. The time I subconsciously waste waiting around for things to get good adds up to nothing but time wasted. I’m not aiming for perfection here…no. I never liked handling delicate things anyway. I’m always tempted to shatter. I just want something that feels better than this. But what exactly is my barometer anymore and by whose scale are the conversion rates calculated? I need to determine what “level” looks like to me and nobody else so I can start determining happiness in a different way, otherwise I’ll forever be aiming for someone else’s ideal of perfection.

I think we spend a lot of time looking for that perfect person. We want perfect experiences and perfect love. But when the initial tingling sensation wears off, as it naturally must, disappointment is all that’s left in that particular scenario. I used to be at fault for this, too…my idea of love wasn’t a very realistic one. Now when I blossom for somebody I know they come with flaws and there will be lulls and a comfort will set in that some would rather see as boredom…but I welcome it. Something simple and imperfect, something real and substantial. I want to be seen that way myself. I’m on a strict anti-platform platform.

Tonight, I’ll drink and I’ll dance. The supermoon in the sky will illuminate my every move. I’ll witness the incomparable Anita Baker live tomorrow night. Semi-perfection, no?

Pretty much the worst thing you can do to me is make me feel abandoned. If I believe you love me, and you pack your bags and check-out on me when I really need you, that’s damn near unforgiveable.

This is what I struggle with when it comes to A. I had every right to cut him off after what he did to me…after he laid his hands on me, shoved me, and hit me in my face when I was just trying to help him. But I didn’t want to cut him off. I believed I could forgive him and get past it quicker if I saw he was truly remorseful and making the necessary changes in his life to not ever let that happen again. But he cut me off first. And once again I’m kinda left wondering why I let this man emotionally  manipulate me in such a myriad of ways. It disgusts me rather, who I’ve become when it comes to him…someone who caves. Yuck. People who cave instead of occasionally compromise will never get the respect they may deserve…that’s where I’m at with it.

While I don’t want to be put on a pedestal, I don’t want to be sold short either. I know exactly what I deserve but I somehow short-sighted it dealing with him. He said off top he wasn’t man enough for me. His morals fluctuated. He said callous things he’d never say to someone he really loved. He was a cheater. He wasn’t up to my standards AT ALL. I felt it the entire time. I just decided to ignore it all for the sake of something that I thought vibrated higher. I thought The Most High wanted him for me but it turns out I just wanted to get chose by him. So badly that I caved. So I repeat–yuck.

At least it’s a lesson I never need learn again. How can I expect someone to respect me when I don’t respect myself by way of standing firm on what I say I want and rate? Sacrificing a lot to get a little is a reflection of poor self esteem.

And “love” is a motherfucker. There’s no on-off switch. It crawls inside and camps out.

No matter. Fiddly dee dee.

All I want to do lately is drink at night and sleep during the day. I’m not sure if those things are related. I’m finding it hard to concentrate at work because I want to go home and curl up in a ball. It actually seems cruel to make human beings work for 7.5 hours a day when you can nap in the sun instead. How is my productivity supposed to flourish in these slavery-like conditions?! And then I just want to sip rum and stretch my limbs and frolic with aforementioned drink in hand once the dusk hits.

This summer can’t come quick enough. Beans will be able to travel and spend more time with her Dad, summer Fridays will be in full effect, I can brown my legs in shorts. I can attend as many happy hours as I want to. The sleep will be so orgasmic. It just kind of dawned on me that these are the kind of things I’ll institute to lift the feelings of emptiness and abandonment. Knowing that I am caring for myself and that Beans is being cared for will be the ultimate high.

Breakups and rebounds.

That was the topic du jour on my friend XD’s radio show a few nights ago. As I searched my memories for tales to share I realized that I don’t think I’ve ever been on the rebound in the classic definition of the word. Rebounding is something you do to jog the process of getting over someone. Quickly, immediately. Ripping off that bandaid. Whereas I, on the other hand, have nan problem taking my sweet time putting something in the past. I can barely even stand being touched when I’m sick with heartache anyway.

Which is actually tragic as fuck.

I should probably let someone spoil me a bit after I’ve been treated awfully. But I’m working on trust here first and foremost. There’s a measure of it that has to exist before I let somebody in. I don’t even like heads easily for that reason. I was actually “accused” of being smitten the other day and I almost had a hissy fit. As if. Being smitten is for amateurs.

I’m still learning to protect myself and my heart thoroughly. I realize there’s no way I can fairly depend on anybody else to do it for me, as romantic a notion as it is. I even have a tattoo of a heart over my heart to remind me to protect it fiercely. Whit feels like she’s taken it too far, and she might be right…maybe being at least a bit vulnerable is necessary for real connections. Sometimes I’d just rather be impenetrable, though. There’s safety in it. If I don’t let you inside you can’t do the damage. Simple theory, really, but not without it’s implications.

Another one of my brilliant friends said that being love is the answer. That if you project and embody love you’ll receive it. I figure that comes with a requirement of being stunningly open. Here I am always wagging my finger at those who live in fear when there’s probably a measure of envy on my part.

It’s a constant balancing act.

My friend Whitney and I are as different as we are alike. We both experience mutual envy in our capacity to open up or shut down. In every way I recklessly throw myself into love, she is protective and closed. We’ve said that if we could just trade some of what we got with the other we’d be solid.

We are all hair and boobs (well…I’m the ass, she’s the boobs) and lipstick and sass. We’re going to spend the summer ruling the world and leaving boys trampled in our wake. And then we’ll both potentially be moving to other states to reboot completely. Here’s to the adventure. And if it’s anything like last weekend, I’ll be set. I took my kiddo to Chuck E. Cheese for her birthday on Saturday. I went dancing that night. Sunday Whit and I had brunch with mutual friends, we had many, many alcoholic beverages, we made a bartender blush and faux-faint from our shenanigans. A near perfect couple of days. I want more near perfect days. I want to get lost in the weekends like they’ll never end.

I’ve started anew with my posts here. I needed a reboot; I was limiting myself. I really need and want this space to feel experimental. I want it to be visual. I want it to tell a tale of my life as it exists at this point in time. Where I’m striving to be raw and brave–gangsterly.

I always tend to write about love…it’s where my mind goes first. It’s a subject that intrigues me; something I know everything and nothing about. A conundrum that lends itself perfectly to my stream of consciousness. My cousin asked me if I’m optimistic about love, though–my answer was “sometimes”. I’m optimistic about it theoretically; but my thoughts on romantic love specifically, and whether it’s in the stars for me, wildly fluctuate. This may or may not have something to do with my propensity to attract heads who present their logic as an antithesis to the kind of love I like to believe in.

Plus, I’ve been through an immense amount of heartbreak lately. Hurt immeasurably. Still I remain a good sport somehow, despite my weariness…enough to sneak kisses here and there with cuties and hushed giggles with my girlfriends about said cuties. I still think about A but it’s always wrapped in anger and resentment…I hope one day it’ll turn to indifference…for my own sanity. I loved him too much, too fast, too deep. And I couldn’t walk away until I was emotionally and physically aching. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t open up wide like me, but then again I rarely recognize fear at first glance. But ultimately, it’s not worth psychoanalyzing any longer. He doesn’t care about me and I’m tired of trying to figure out why not.

I just want a love that soars, supersedes.

Love is the very manifestation of the most high. The most audacious act.

For my next trick I will be finding exactly what I’m looking for.