Thought Surgery…

Fuck Facebook. How can one like, on one picture, from one person, threaten to turn my life upside down. Create such a resounding bang in my existential silence that vibrates my cells with its loudness. What was my ex-fiancee thinking! Did he just reactivate his old Facebook to take a walk down memory lane? If so, why couldn’t he do it quietly and not “like” the picture of us in ignorant bliss, as to not disturb my silence.

My female brain is having a field day with this one. Thinking. Over analyzing. Bona fide thought surgery. Should I reply? Comment? Send a message?

No. I can’t. I won’t. Details of our break flood my mind. The unbearable pain that crippled me for almost a year afterwards. The me that couldn’t sleep, eat, or think. That girl deserves for me to be strong enough to look the other way. To not be the girl that’ll just grab at the first fucking bone he throws her way.

“I told twin I was gonna marry you one day,” he says. Twin is an army friend of his that looks eerily similar.

“Whatever” I reply. He doesn’t miss any opportunity to remind me I said no to his previous proposal and that I’m only delaying the inevitable. Deep down I hope so.

Christmas is creeping up and it’s been 8 months since I’ve seen him. The calls are more frequent now. We go in cycles like that. I’m lonely. Im in college with literally thousands and thousands of people and though I’ve managed to make some really good friends, I’m lonely. I’m lost still. I’m confused still. A year and a half in college and I’ve yet discover who I really am. I take a stab at sororities. I’ve been in an interest group for one for over a year because they just don’t take anyone… You have to prove yourself. It’s something to work towards. And I’ve made some awesome friends.

“Is sorority life really for you?” He asks. He said I was a quiet soul and partying and socializing wasn’t really my thing. I smirk on the other end of the phone line. I’m here trying to grasp at anything and everything to find out who I am, because certainly there’s got to something more behind my quiet exterior, and here he sums me up and makes it sound perfect. Substantial.

“Whatever,” I reply. I say that a lot to him, I hate it when he makes so much sense. “When are you coming home?” He told me a couple of days ago that he’s leaving the army. It’s not for him he says. He had called me more times than I can count with stories about how he’d gotten in trouble in the army. He’s not so good at taking orders. He’d finally gotten a general discharge under honorable conditions.

“Soon. I’ll let you know when I I know” he says. I’m so excited I can’t even see straight. What does that mean for us? Will we finally be together? He’s already the closest I am to anybody and he hundreds of mile away. My mind is in overdrive and my heart is racing with possibility at how the connection could grow when were finally close in the flesh as well.

Before I know it he’s home and he’s inviting me to to an amusement park with his family for Christmas. I’ve never been so nervous in my life. His family will be there. His mom, his stepdad and his triplet little sisters. What will they think of me? My nerves are all over the place and my thoughts are racing loud and clear in my head when I walk into Busch Gardens. I see him standing waiting for me and my nerves disappear. We meet each other halfway and hug so tight as if the other might disappear should we let go. And just like that…. Silence.

Sweet silence.

The memories haven’t stop coming. Though his coming home was almost five years ago, the memories are vivid and run rampant through my brain.

I need a distraction. Just a small dive bar will suffice. I don’t drink much but the atmosphere and music soothes me. There are far too many interesting people in NYC for me to be dwelling on an ex fiancĂ© who is literally a thousand miles away. He doesn’t deserve my time or thoughts.

Isn’t he married now anyway?


Will You Marry Me Now?

A week.
It’s been a week since the mysterious reappearance of my Ex’s Facebook page. The the spontaneous “like” of the picture of us in Italy. The ruins of Rome serving as the backdrop and me blissfully unaware of the ruins that would soon be left of my heart when he lays waste to it all.


It’s been a week and I’ve found my silence again. I’ve realized that I’ve learned not to need him and so I’ve found my peace.
But it’s a restless kind of peace.
A peace of the heart but not necessarily of the mind. I’ve always had a restless mind. I am a woman after all. It is engrained in my DNA to overthink and over analyze. To take the most simple of notions and pull back all the layers, break it open, and turn it upside down and inside out.
Why the hell did he “like” the damn picture of us knowing that I am tagged in it and would be notified?
I can analyze it a million times over and still I’ll be left with naught but speculation.
I know I don’t need him any more because I’m dealing with it analytically, not emotionally, which says a lot. I wear my heart on my sleeves, as they say. It sits there on my arm, bare and exposed to the world, and it aches and rejoices often. I see through my heart for my eyes are often blurred with tears. Tears of happiness for the couple celebrating their 60th anniversary, or the couple welcoming their first child into this world and tears of sadness for something as trivial as a movie or book, or the news. Or the homeless woman with a dog on the streets of NYC.
Now that’s painful. I know what it feels like to not have a home, both figuratively and literally speaking. So when I think about him, it’s nothing short of a miracle that, though I still feel my heart tighten, it’s not debilitated. Not because I love him any less but simply because I don’t need him. Not like I used too.


“I’m serious.” His voice came through the phone and spoke to my subconscious need for permanence. For stability. “Let’s get married.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m in college remember,” I shrugged it off. “I can’t just up and leave and follow you to… wherever the heck you’ll be stationed,” I reminded him.

“Hawaii,” he said.

That was his plan. He requested to be stationed in Hawaii. I’d marry him and finish my preliminary studies and go to nursing school in Hawaii. I was starting to think he was certifiably crazy. Sure we’d known each other for years but we’d only been romantically involved for a few months and most of them while he was 100s of miles away in the Army. And I wasn’t even technically his girlfriend. We had never, you know, defined the relationship, or whatever.
My arm might’ve ached from lugging around my huge ass heart but I’d always been a supremely realistic person, cynical even, so even I knew that was ass backwards and wouldn’t work in the long run.

As it was, we were swept away by our perspective lives. Him with his army duties, his army friends, his army family and me with college. I approached college like an express crash course in finding who you are. I needed it. A new organization every semester. I even jumped around at sports events in a sports bra painted green and gold from head to toe. I definitely didn’t find myself there. In moving so much and attending do many different schools before college I felt as though I left a bit of myself in each place and adapted to so many different environments, that I wasn’t all too sure what about me was real. Which puzzle pieces were fraudulent.

I felt like I stared at the incomplete puzzle that was me almost daily trying to make sense of it all. And then he showed up. Strolling into my life and apartment like he hadn’t been away for seven months and looked at my patchy puzzle like it made total sense. How did he do that? And just like that he stilled my mind and shook up my world. After his week of vacation he walked right back out and again the calls became less frequent until they stopped altogether.

As much as I understood, more than anyone, how easy it was to get swept up in your new life without maliciously leaving behind your old one, it still hurt like a motherfucker.


It did hurt. He offered a way for us to be together but I knew it wasn’t right. We weren’t ready. No way no how. We would’ve both missed out on the crazy experiences we had in the first stages of young adulthood. Tied down by marriage. It was easy to say no back then.
Nothing like Paris.
Nothing like having dinner in the Eiffel Tower then taking the hike to the top where I couldn’t find one reason in the whole world to say no. I was on top of the world with the only person who understood me in all my incomplete, pixelated glory. And he was down on one knee in front of me. In Paris. On the top of the Eiffel Tower. Making all my dreams come true. We could’ve been on our couch back home and I would’ve been just as happy but damn if the fucker didn’t know how to speak to the hopeless romantic in me.
I had no reason to suspect he’d yank the world from under me a month later.
And damn if I didn’t want to do it all over again.


Read Silence in NYC And Will I Ever Learn? for previous journal entries and perspective

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Barely … An erotic spoken word.

Yes I really am 23. Yes I look as young as I sound. Yes when a really old man hits on me I tell him I’m 14 yrs old and he’s a bona fide perv. That’s just how I roll.
This is a little something I wrote a bit ago and a the video is freshly made.

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Will I Ever Learn?

Click. Next. Click. Back. Scroll.
Why am I doing this to myself?
Scrolling through his Facebook that’s been frozen in time. Like he never left.
Click. Us in the Colosseum. Next. Click. Us in Venice. Kissing. Laughing. Hugging. Next. Click. Us in Paris.


Paris. Us. In Paris. The Eiffel Tower. The proposal… That’s another story for another day. Click. Exit.

That was pure torture. Looking through what used to be, what could’ve been. I successfully appease my inner masochist, or so I thought. I’m trying to find my silence but that inner masochist of mine keeps pushing images of Paris to the forefront. The little bitch. Paris. It wasn’t the first time he proposed to me. Just the first time I said yes.

Eight and a half years ago sitting behind me in English 2 Honors, at Wharton High School in Tampa, Fl, is the boy that would become my first love; my only love. I didn’t know it then or for years after. He joked with the guys next to me. They all laughed. What was the joke? Who cares? I thought. Be social. Fit in. I laughed too. And so it started. Passing notes. Joking. Laughing. I received my first C that semester. How’d that happen? I love reading and writing! That should’ve been the first sign; he has the power to consume my attention, my mind, and my life should I let him in. But would it have stopped me? Probably not. I probably would have given in sooner, chasing that all consuming love we only find in books and movies.
At least in my ignorance we found friendship. A solid friendship. Wharton High was the 9th school I attended since kindergarten. I’d moved around and gained and lost more friends than I care to count. So when my mom decided to move again to Clearwater I was already at peace with losing yet another set of friends. It was the story of my life. So the last time I hung out with him I knew the drill. We’d hug each other tight and I’d promise to stay in touch no matter what, a promise I’d given to many before, though I knew we wouldn’t. Sure we’d talk for a couple of weeks. The calls would become less and less frequent before they stop altogether. I didn’t do it purposely but had I a five minute conversation with every recipient of that promise there wouldn’t be enough hours in the day. He must’ve saw through my bogus promise. The lie must’ve flickered in my eyes because he took off a delicate gold chain with a solid gold cross and put it around my neck. He knew I wouldn’t accept it. “Well, now you have to see me again,” he said “to give me back my chain.” I felt giddy but full of apprehension that our friendship could possibly hold such permanence.
He never called. Neither did I. It’s not that I didn’t care, it’s just… why open myself up more to someone who would cease to exist when the calls stopped coming. And they would eventually stop coming. Better sooner rather than later. I had bigger fish to fry. Adapting to yet another school. Being social. Fitting in.
I still hung out in Tampa from time to time with cousins who still lived there and friends we shared. A year after I moved away, I was driving around with a friend and she asked if I still spoke to him. She said they were close friends now. On a whim I said let’s go visit him! I touched the gold chain that had never left my neck. Sweet. Finally a promise I can make good on.
I rang the doorbell, his mom answered and I waited while she went to fetch him. I saw the surprise flash across his face and he hugged me tight, lifting me off my feet. I felt tears coating my cheeks. Did I miss him that much? I showed him the chain that still hung around my neck. I didn’t know it until that moment but I didn’t want to give it back. Don’t ask for it back. Don’t ask for it back. I repeated it in my head over and over. He didn’t. We exchanged quick hellos, and miss yous, and goodbyes before I had to go. Again, we didn’t stay in touch but I kept the memory of our last encounter close by should I need the comfort of an old friend.
When I moved back to Tampa after graduating high school I was surprised to see him at a small get-together my cousin was throwing. I walked up to him and didn’t even say a word. I just held up the same gold cross that never left my neck. We fell into the same tight embraced we shared just 8 months before.
“I thought you would’ve sold that for gas money by now.” He pointed to the chain.
“If I had a car I would’ve.” I joked.
We were inseparable the weeks following, our friendship turning into something more after a shared kiss one drunken night. We spent almost everyday together knowing the universe would once again put distance between us. I was starting college and he was leaving for the Army. For the first time in my life I was the one being left behind. So this is how it feels. We hugged tight. We cried. He made promises to stay in touch no matter what. A promise I’d made and broken many times before. I knew the drill. I knew the ease with which such a promise flows of the tongue. I also knew how easy it is to break it.
I must’ve just been a colossal bitch back in my day because he had no problem at all keeping the promise. We talked everyday for weeks. For months. I was fast falling in love with a guy 100s of miles away. “We don’t have to be,” he’d said, “let’s get married!”


Stop! What am I doing? Why am I reliving it all? Why put myself through that torture? Oh yeah, my inner masochist. Are you pacified now?
In the past year and a half I’ve learned to stop needing him but I never learned to stop wanting him. Will I ever learn?


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Silence in NYC

I’m in peace?
A year and a half ago my fiancé left me. *queue apocalypse*
So I thought. The universe said, “Unh unh, you gotta stick this out.”
I set out on the insurmountable task of finding out who I am. I found out jack shit. Do we ever really know?
I figured out a plethora of tiny things about myself. Pieces of a million piece puzzle, more pieces missing than not.
I can’t fight the feeling that the trigger of my self exploration holds more pieces of my puzzle than I do.
But it’s my puzzle. In this incomplete picture I see an incomplete woman. As I should be. I’m only 23. I’ve experienced enough heartbreak and obstacles to shape a lot of my soul but I know I’ve got a shitload more ahead of me. Experiences that’ll shave bits of me off and some that’ll add more dimension and textures.
Though my reflection is blurred, like pixelated censorship, I’m owning it. I used to wear a mask of sorts. Adapt to my environment. Be the wild party animal when I needed to be. Or the super brainy nerd. The saucy loud Latina. The list goes on. Fit in. Make friends. Be social! Now, I can walk in a bar baring the pixelated version of me. Be my quiet, awkward sarcastic self and not fall into the personalities of those around me. I let them see my blurred self and let them be as confused by me as I am. In no longer forcing myself in to a social persona I found my comfort in expressing myself with those who matter. Without all the noise of all my masks I exist in a comforting silence.
Silence in NYC.
I moved back to New York a year ago. The anonymity that the city provides set a stage for me to drop the masks. No need to adapt. The cluster of personalities and characters make it near impossible to fit in. No way I could possibly create a mask with all 30 different characters that are in this bar right now.
I thought, “Let’s just be me and see how that works out.”
It worked out just fine.
Though my environment is in a constant disarray. My inner self is silent. And when I need the outside to match the inside I curl up in a corner with a book (or rather my kindle)
Praise schmexy fucked up men in smutty romance novels. They got me through a lot.
And today, on just another average Monday, while I’m drowning myself in yet another schmexy book boyfriend and participating in book club discussion on Facebook, my silent existence of self acceptance is threatened. My ex fiancĂ© has reactivated his old Facebook page, which seems to have been in a black hole where time is on a different wavelength and has reappeared like the last year and of half did not happen. I’m notified that he “likes” a picture I’m tagged in.
Which picture?
Now I’ve gotta find out which one.
Why did I do that.
It’s a picture of us in the ruins of Rome.
Damn it. I used to like that picture too.

Read next post Will I Ever Learn? to follow along. Thanks for reading.

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