Let's Talk about Your Hair

Call me retrospective, but-- you know what, let's just stop right there before whatever ridiculous but statement I was about to type. Call me retrospective. Full stop. I'm done.

Lately I've been having these thoughts. Visions. Nothing new, really, except the cliché thought that comes immediately post. Take yesterday, for example. I woke up in the morning, super tired and not wanting to move because I had a friend at my house the night before until almost four but having to move because I had a birthday party I couldn't not go to, and for about a minute but no more, I lay there thinking about what my Sunday mornings used to be like. I thought about how I used to get up and go downstairs and do whatever on my computer while I drank coffee and listened to music, usually Peripheral Vision by Turnover once all the way through before either moving on to their next album, Good Nature, or something else, and then after a few hours, I'd go and get into bed with Jonathan (who from here on out will be known as Jonathan - not my Virgo, not my ex-Virgo, not the ex-Virgo, not the liar, and not the come pinga as I often think of him in my head because Jonathan is what he is to me now. Nothing more, nothing less), and we'd start our day. I stretched out in my bed, all alone as I've been every morning when I've woken up since the last time he slept over some time in late June, my mind started to wander into the land of retrospect, and I stopped myself before I let myself get lost. 

That was another life, I told myself, and I made myself get up.

It also happened more than once Saturday, the day before, first when I was at the eye doctor and needed help picking out glasses. Jonathan helped me with this the last few years, I thought, and then immediately the subsequent thought came: But that was another life. It also came when I was at Sip Java a couple hours later. The weather was gorgeous, the kind of weather that used to prompt Jonathan and me to go get something to eat either from Parlour or Happy Vegan Baker, go eat at a park, and then walk around. I was sitting there thinking about the times we sat at some Fort Lauderdale coffeehouse and how we'd be sitting there together, me grading papers, him playing Dokkan, and I know you think that thought popped into my head, and it did, but not at that point. What was in my head at that point would be impossible to describe, but maybe - maybe - you can imagine what was in my head if I tell you it was based on just having seen this

Talk about instant sickness. Last year Jonathan was sitting with me on gorgeous weather days as was the plan for every day for the rest of our lives, and that day, in real time, I was watching his new life unfold in a land of pumpkins and ice cream (that clearly neither of them needs) in a ridiculous-looking wife beater of all things with the girl he assured me he didn't have feelings for and who didn't have feelings for him (What a scummy scumbag, a friend of mine wrote after saying, Please tell me that's not the coworker, and finding out that it was; I regretfully have to agree). 

After texting everybody I've ever met and being told how truly masochistic I am and that I can't keep doing this to myself; after talking to my best friend who called to see if I was all right; after sitting there at an outside table at Sip Java where I alternated between crying and looking at dining room tables at Wayfair for two hours (and surely making the man directly on the opposite side of the window from me horribly uncomfortable (albeit clearly not concerned)), the whole time thinking about how Jonathan had been my boyfriend and he was supposed to be doing those things with me (except not in a wife beater because gross), the thought flit across my mind: That was another life. 

I'm at the acceptance stage, I guess. I mean, I'm still sad - not constantly, but if you were to put me on a sad-o-meter right this very second, I'd break the sadness scale - and I'm still angry - angry enough to have posted this

- but the more frequently That was another life pops into my head, the more it seems, at least to me, that I'm starting to understand that as truth, and while I know that's supposed to be a good thing, the fact that I'm accepting this, the fact that I'm realizing that my life before June truly was another life, the more heartbroken I am, but not for the reason you think. 

Along with my That was another life, I don't know, thought process? Realization? Idea?, I've been thinking something else, and that's, How many lives have I had? And, How many lives do I have to have? Like, seriously? How many? I'm forty-eight years old, and I've lived so, so many lives, but I'm not a fucking cat, and I only ever wanted one. 

Daughter of Liberty

"The sun is rising, devouring the darkness. It always does; this is the natural order."

                                                          -Annette, Castlevania: Nocturne 

Not that I ever gave it much thought, but if I'd had to, in the past when hearing the cliche the truth will set you free, I would have said it applied to the person not telling the truth. Lies are so cumbersome, after all; to hold onto them and carry their weight is such a heavy, crippling thing. Over the past nine days, though - ten days; can you believe it's only been ten days? - I've realized the expression isn't about the person holding the untruth. It's about the person who's been untruthed to. 

Those of you who have been reading my posts since the beginning of the summer know I've been in bad shape. Awful. Honestly, the worst shape of my life (and I was in a mental hospital. Twice). From June 3 to September 25, I was functioning at probably fifty-one percent. Maybe fifty-five. I got up, I cried. I lay in my bed, I cried. I sat at my table, I cried. I got in the shower, I cried. I walked around my neighborhood at night, I cried. I sat in parking lots, I cried. I sat in breweries, I cried. I went to parties, I cried. I started going to work, I cried. I drove home from work, I cried. I went to Orlando to visit my older son, I cried (at his house, at Leu Gardens, at Winter Park Biscuit Company, at a Total Wine). For 114 days, the only time I felt remotely okay was when the ex-Virgo and I were communicating in some form. 

And then day number 115 came along.

But wait. Since I'm not one for untruths, I have to tell you that day number 115 started out exactly the same as the 114 that came before it, possibly even worse. The ex-Virgo and I were on the phone from 10:47 until 2:00 a.m. the night before (leave me alone, I keep good records) when he called me after I messaged him asking if he was Carla's boyfriend and told him he'd better tell me the truth because somehow I'd find out. Not only were we on the phone and FaceTiming until all hours of the night, but we were both emotional wrecks, and when finally I told him we had to hang up because I had to be up at 5:30 and needed to sleep, that was impossible, of course. So starting out day 115 on two hours of sleep, a loss of hope, and a dearth of faith? Maybe one of the worst days I'd had. 

As the day went on, though, things started to change. I told some people what had transpired, and between their reactions and the thoughts that had been percolating in my brain, I got angrier and angrier and less and less sad (and, yes, I know all about anger being a secondary emotion, but believe me, people who read my blog. On top of the hurt and rejection I felt, I was just plain pissed). Within a few days, the sadness and anger started giving way to a different feeling. It certainly wasn't constant, but dare I say it? I was feeling happy again. 

Fifty-one-to-fifty-percent-maximum functioning Kelly, she of the summer and September blogs? She of the listless crying who thought about buying stock in Kleenex and salt? 

Let's take a little look

                    I swear I didn't purposely set this up to stop on a still of my butt (as evidenced by the fact that I can't even properly align this text)

     

Seriously, the change boggles my mind.

In addition to dancing around my house, I've moved the ex-Virgo out of favorites on my phone, where I also gave him a new name, and from which I also deleted almost seventy photos, thrown away a bottle of the ex-Virgo's nasal spray that I'd been holding onto because I'm a nut, and have watched none of his videos even once. I've cried exactly three times in the last nine days, the time when writing my last blog post, when watching a scene from That Thing You Do, and yesterday when filling in my gynecologist, who hadn't seen me since the beginning of April and only knew the ex-Virgo and I were having problems, on the rest of my tale. I've also been socializing, I've been singing and dancing on my butt in the car, I've been telling jokes. For fuck's sake, I'm (gulp) going on a date. A date, people who read my blog. A date! (Full disclosure: I have a date; that doesn't mean I'll actually go.)

The point is talk about liberty - although surely not justice - for all. The truth gave me the liberty to be me again, the liberty to begin to move on. Along with writing my Final Fantasy posts, which helped me tremendously, too, the truth gave me the liberty to look at the last three years in a less myopic way, to see so many things clearly that up until so, so recently, I couldn't manage to do. 

*** 

The Scene from That Thing You Do

Right after I found out about the ex-Virgo and Carla and realized all his lies, I couldn't stop thinking about this scene. If you haven't seen That Thing You Do, what's happening in this scene is Faye, who throughout the movie, has been utterly in love with her boyfriend Jimmy to the point of blind worship,  has finally seen him for what he really is. I only remembered the sentiment, not exactly what was said, but I knew it was something that resounded with me, and I wanted to watch it since I was wallowing at first. 

As you already know, it made me cry. When Faye told Jimmy she wasted thousands and thousands of kisses, kisses that she thought were special because of his lips and his smile, I could do nothing but think that I had done the same, that I had wasted not only thousands and thousands of kisses, but countless I love yous, I love you muchos, and I love you demasiados (boy isn't that the truth?), countless cuddles and snuggles, countless conversations, countless minutes of talk of future plans. 

But when I was talking to Maria Claudia (my gynecologist), she made a good point. She made a lot of good points, actually, but I won't go into them all here, just the currently-relevant one which is about all the good times we shared, the ex-Virgo's immaturity, and the appeal of this la-la-la-24-year-old girl, who, sure, will come chock full o' problems of her own, but those problems are a much different kind of problems from the ones accrued throughout my ex-Virgo's and my time (look at that, I guess I did go into most of her points. Throw in the one about how when I mentioned I hadn't met his mother once in three year, she put her hand up to shut me up right then and there and told me I don't need that, I have way too much to give to be in a relationship like that, and I've shared them all). 

But I digress. We shared good times. That's it. That's the point. We shared great times. No amount of lies and betrayal can change that, or fine, I supposed they could, but I won't let them. I don't want to regret my kisses like Faye. I don't want to regret that time. Despite what I said about the come pinga robbing me, I don't want to regret how hard and how much I loved him. I don't want to hate anyone, least of all the man I've loved most in my life. 

It won't be easy to not give into my dark side. Even as I type this, I think about the things he did to me and that I'd probably be better off. And maybe I will; gods know my feelings are all over the place. But I think about something Giles says to Buffy in "I Only Have Eyes for You," one of my favorite BtVS episodes (and one that's strangely apropos to the whole Jonathan-Kelly situation, at least in my eyes). 

He says, To forgive is an act of compassion, Buffy. It's not done because people deserve it. It's done because they need it, and the "they" in my situation? It's not the other party involved. It's me. I need to forgive the ex-Virgo not for his sake, but for myself. Will I be able to? I'm not really sure, but at least now that I have all the facts, now that I'm no longer encumbered by his lies, I have the liberty to decide. 

Final Fantasy VII

Anytime the ex-Virgo got sick, he would invariably say he had Sephiroth in his blood cells, so he'd be fine. For those of you not in the know because either you're not a gamer or you didn't spend three years of your life committed to somebody who claims to have been raised by video games, Sephiroth is the main antagonist of Final Fantasy VII. He's a soldier of unparalleled strength who isn't just strong but sadistic - like, the sadistickest - and evil - like, the evilest. And as much as I hate to say it, as much as I hate to think it about somebody who has been so monumental in my life, somebody I loved love so much, the notion that he resides in, or somehow controls, the ex-Virgo's blood cells doesn't sound wrong. 

Or maybe not. Maybe the ex-Virgo's not, as a good friend of mine put it after reading these recent blogs, "pretty devious," taking the fact that he'd never had a serious girlfriend before and using it as an excuse for not respecting boundaries and "playing it up as a form of manipulation." 

Maybe, despite the fact that my son, who through this entire ordeal has always insisted that he doesn't dislike the ex-Virgo but just thinks he's done some bad things to me, messaged me on Tuesday afternoon saying, "Jonathan has proven to be nothing more than a piece of shit, honestly," and then later when we talked said he thinks of him as a scumbag now, he isn't.

Maybe, even though my best friend, who this entire time has listened to me go on and on about the ex-Virgo and never had one bad thing to say, responded, "What a little weasel," when I sent him the screenshot of me asking the ex-Virgo if he was Carla's boyfriend, he's not that.

Maybe he's just, as he - the -ex-Virgo, himself - has said to me, scared. Surely, he's scared of conflict, having been raised by a lunatic mom who it was just easier to agree with or lie to than to be up front with. It's become very clear to me as I've written these recent blogs, looked over our old texts, and thought about our past, that his lies come from his being scared, a scared, puerile little boy too immature to face the consequences of his actions, to take ownership of the things that he did. Like, dude forgot to look for milk at Walgreens? Just fucking say that. Booked a reservation for a hotel on the wrong day? Bruv, put on your big boy pants and own your mistakes. 

Or maybe right this second, I'm just feeling particularly sad thinking about so strongly, so fervently disliking someone I loved love so much, that I'm making the same excuses I've made for him and his behavior for the last three years starting even before we were an official couple and he was still updating his Bumble profile and logging on despite the fact that we'd been seeing each other for almost two months, having sex, and he'd left a toothbrush at my house. 

But there's no maybe in this case: Although he was helping me with things I really needed help with for the first few weeks of summer after we broke up, the fact that he was coming over and not just helping me but also sleeping with me in bed, snuggling up to my naked body, running errands with me while holding my hand, having sex with me as late as the second week of July when he either was already with Carla or was clearly thinking about being with her - but let's be real; whether he was with her or not, he was thinking about being with her even way before we broke up - isn't in any way all right. 

There's also no maybe here: His having lied to me for the past however many months about having a girlfriend, and I say "however many months" because while he said he and Carla started talking again in mid-July, and she became his girlfriend in early August, it's obvious I can't believe a word that comes out of his mouth, first through omission and then blatantly because, according to him, he was afraid I'd stop talking to him was inarguably selfish and cruel. 

Even if everything the ex-Virgo told me was true, even if he did love me, even if he did miss me, even if there had been a chance of us getting back together one day in the future after we both worked on ourselves and lived our lives, and I'd like to be clear that I think that it was (but, again, after poring over the past, I'm so overwhelmed by the things I didn't see - like, for instance, how it seems that anytime he Okay Kellyed me, he for sure had lied - that despite thinking I knew him, I don't know what to think), for him to lock me in the land of limbo in which I languished because he didn't want me to stop talking to him was so horrible, so unfair, so just downright mean. 

And that, more than any of this, more than the lies, more than not wanting to work on a relationship he'd committed to thus rejecting me and making me question my worth, more than dating Carla so quickly after we broke up and very clearly cheating with her before (although not worse by much more), is the worst part of all this.

My ex-Virgo robbed me. 

He robbed me of two months when I could have begun to heal, when I could have begun moving on (because I'll tell you, I went from crying every single day since the beginning of June to not having cried once since the morning after I found out), but by far, worst of all, he robbed me of the memory I'd had of us and of him (and now I'm back to crying). 

He robbed me of the memory of the beginning when I felt like this:

So I'll say it again. No more. I try to be blasé, but I can't. I'm just not a blasé human being. I'm excitable. I'm excitable by nature, and from here on out, that's what I'll allow myself to be: the excitable person the universe made me. I'll be excited about things even when there's no evidence that these things should excite me. If something makes me happy, the way something just happens to be making me happy right now, a feeling I've been trying so hard to fight in an effort to be realistic and responsible, I'm going to let it.

I'm going to let myself smile my stupid smile and get that happy excited feeling I get in the pit of my stomach, that visceral feeling that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with my perception of the way things are. 

He robbed me of the memory of realizing this:

I'm home. That may not make sense to you, but that's what my Virgo is. 

He's home. 

He robbed me of the memory of being thankful for him:

2. My Virgo. I know what you're thinking. I swear, I know. Of course Kismet's going to talk about a boy, and yes, of course I am, but I'm not talking about a boy because it's my MO, I'm talking about a boy because I couldn't possibly make a list of the things I'm thankful for this year without mentioning him. He is by far what I'm most thankful for, today on Thanksgiving, yes, but also every single day that's not. 

He took the last three years, three years that even after we ended, I still looked back at with love and appreciation, and he made me question everything about that time. 

He also robbed me of even having him as a friend, creating a world where we can no longer coexist; a world where we went from hand-holding otters on our bed in the sea of our room, to what? Enemies? People who think of each other with contempt (because I can't imagine after seeing these blogs, he sees me with anything else)? 

He turned me into someone sitting here blogging unforgivable things, someone who's not going to pretend to be the bigger person, someone who hopes he breaks Carla's fat, virgin heart.

And even worse than the worst of all, he turned me into someone who, despite all the gaslighting, despite all the manipulation, despite all the lies, thinks about this text her ex-Virgo sent her after she kicked him out in March

and that despite everything, it's still him. 

(But she's working on it.)