Let me preface this blog by saying the following: I don’t
blog so that people will feel bad for me. I don’t blog hoping that some certain
person will read it and “get the message”. There are no hidden agendas in what
I write, there are no passive aggressive arguments being made.
I write for two reasons. The first is that it’s the most therapeutic
thing I can do for myself – hence why I seem to write more when I’m extremely
upset or extremely happy. The second is that I hope that putting myself out
there will encourage others (even if just internally) that what you are going
through or feeling or not feeling, is just fine. I think a lot of “public”
writers write with reserve. They write what they think people want to hear.
They sugar coat things, they don’t put the whole graphic truth. They usually
try to make themselves look better than they really are. I don’t do that, and
if I have at all, it’s completely unintentional. I try not to make the people I
write about come off as “the bad guy/girl”. I try to keep in mind that there
are two sides to every story and I’m just writing mine. With that being said – let’s
get this blog going…
Life has thrown me some serious curve balls in my 30 years.
A few I’ve nailed (outta the park!) others seem to bean me right in the face!
(Where is Joe Mauer when I need him?!) The curve ball headed my way right now… not
sure if I should swing or step back.
The last “serious” blog I wrote was one of my favorites. I
had just broken up with my boyfriend. I was on that finally moving on/hoping I
didn’t have to phase. When I hit “save” on that entry, I felt like I took my
first step forward in months. Fast forward a few days. The ex-bf and I talked. He
had texted me, that heart-stopping, out of nowhere text that I had literally
been waiting for (and no, I don’t feel pathetic for writing that – come on
ladies, how many of you check your phone incessantly when you go through a
breakup). We talked. We talked about boundaries and limits and jealousy and
control. It was amazing. For the first time in probably our entire
relationship, I felt like we both had opened a book to the same page. Things
were wonderful after that. We saw each other – but not *too* frequently. I
stopped freaking out when he wouldn’t text me a million times a day (turns out –
people have jobs and stuff…) I liked the alone time I had when he was with his
buddies. All of this made me feel like the time we actually did spend together,
was even better. It was better because we missed each other and we were looking
forward to spending time together. It went from what (I’m sure more on his
part) felt like an obligation, to a treat.
December came– we spent the holidays together. We laughed
and joked as we opened each other’s presents. We drank hot chocolate and watched
Christmas movies (Love Actually anyone??) We baked cookies (Paula Deen’s GooeyChocolate Butter Cookies – OMG!) and decorated the tree. It was the first “good”
December/ Christmastime that I had had in YEARS.
Fast forward to January 4th. My poor lungs, for
whatever reason did not like me. I had been puffing on my asthma inhaler
several times a day. This was something that I haven’t had to do in a couple
years (thank you little hookworms). Friday night turned into early Saturday
morning. I was now using my nebulizer – which is a machine that turns a bronchodilator
into a mist you inhale. I only use my neb when things are pretty serious. At
this point (from past experiences) I’m usually looking like a cross between
Jonny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean and Helena Bonham Carter as Bellatrix
LeStrange in Harry Potter.
My hair is a mess; I’ve got this plastic contraption
hanging out of my mouth trying to breath. I hate when I get this way, I hate
anyone seeing me this way. To me, it’s embarrassing. I feel weak and helpless
and I usually try to do whatever I can to make sure no one sees me like this.
This day however, I couldn’t hide. The boyfriend had spent the night (thank
goodness!) and with all the noise I was making, it was inevitable that he would
see me. I also live in a one bedroom apartment so aside from locking myself in
my bathroom; it wasn’t like he couldn’t find me. He came and sat next to me on
the couch. He rubbed my sore shoulders. I didn’t feel embarrassed in front of
him. He is/was the only guy I have EVER been with who I have felt comfortable
being 100% myself. I was ok being vulnerable in front of him. That day he made
me breakfast, tucked me in bed, took my dog out. He was perfect. Unfortunately,
my nebulizer treatments weren’t working and even the relaxing shoulder rubs
weren’t relaxing me long enough to breath normally.
Sunday was ER time. By the time I got there, I was
struggling. It was work to talk between breaths. Now I looked like Johnny Depp
on meth. Huge circles under my eyes, unwashed hair, wearing pajamas I had been
in since Saturday morning (so sexy). They checked me in hooked me up to
(another) nebulizer, started an IV full of steroids, ordered chest x-rays and
they sat back and watched. All this time the bf was right next to me. He got me
blankets, he got me water, he held my hand while they pricked and poked at me.
My guy, there was no one I would have rather had next to me.
Now – from the outside, Johnny Depp lookalike aside, I
looked scary. I was gasping for breath. I was tense, was pale, I could barely
talk. On the inside (tight bronchial tubes not included) I was ok. I was
exhausted, yes. I had barely slept the last 48 hours, but this was almost old
hat for me. I spent a good majority of my childhood in and out of the ER with
asthma attacks. I knew the routine, I knew the meds (hell, I knew the doses)
that they were going to give me. I knew how long it was going to take until I
could relax enough to lean back and just breathe. I, Jacqueline Queen of
Bronchial Constriction knew I was going to be just fine. The bf did not.
Looking back now I feel a pang of guilt. I can’t imagine how scary that must
have been to see. The person you love, trying to breathe, relying on you to get
safely to the hospital, holding your hand through strange procedures… at that
time, I couldn’t relay to him that this was ok, that though not “normal” it was
going to be alright.
I stayed overnight at the hospital. I probably would have
been just fine at home in my own bed, but I wanted the steroids to kick in
first. I was home about 24 hours later.
I took it easy that week. I worked from
home mostly, I napped a lot. I had forgotten how exhausting asthma attacks
could be. I also realized that it had been close to 10 years since I had been
last hospitalized for my asthma (yeah!! New lifetime record!) I bounced back a
lot quicker when I was 20. So, the week
went on. I saw the bf on Monday and Tuesday. Wednesday I went back to work.
Thursday and Friday was low key. I hadn’t seen the bf then since Tuesday. I
missed him. He had been sick too. He
gets terrible migraines. I felt bad there wasn’t anything I could do. I tried
to not bother him so he could rest. Migraines suck so bad!
Saturday morning he called me. I love hearing his voice
first thing in the morning. It’s kinda sleepy and deeper than normal. We made
plans for him to come over. He was there by noon and we laughed and joked and
caught up on the week we had missed. We talked about his upcoming birthday. I
was so excited because when I was Christmas shopping I had unintentionally packed
my cart with things that I KNEW he would love. Then I had had a reality check
when I looked at my budget and had to put half of it back. I kept thinking though,
“his birthday is only a few weeks away”. I love gifting!
We went to a movie; he was quiet on the car ride. Not his
normal joking/chatty self. We sat in the theater watching Zero Dark Thirty and I
looked over at him at one point. He was looking ahead to the screen, an intense
look on his cute scruffy face. I smiled and caught his eye. I had this
overwhelming surge of adoration (I swear I’m not saying this to make my story
better, this actually happened). I thought to myself “I am so completely in
love with this man.” I felt almost giddy about it. I haven’t been that way in a
long time. I don’t know if I’ve just never allowed myself to be, or if I hadn’t
actually felt that way in so long. Either way, I was happy.
The movie ended we headed home. We talked a little about the
story line. We talked about books related to the story line. Still he was a
little quiet. “I love you *insert his cute/annoying nickname I call him*” he
smiled back at me “I love you too, JR.” I love when he calls me JR. It’s more
of a “family” nickname. For some reason, it’s sort of personal to me, like only
the people who REALLY know me, get to call me that. I only have two other
friends that do, and I’d only had one other boyfriend that did. I smiled again.
We stopped to get food – we were both hungry and I know hungry boys become
grumpy boys fast. We needed to fill his belly!
At home we stood in the kitchen talking – he made some
flippant remark, I can’t remember what, and I feigned annoyance. It was the sort
of remark that had a little sting to it, but I was trying not to overreact
knowing he was a little grouchy. He saw my face, knew it hurt and came over
with his “sorry” expression. I had my arms crossed, he tickled me, it was over.
He walked to the living room.
To this second, I have no idea what possessed me to ask this
question. “Did you seeing me sick make you worried about a future with me?” He
didn’t look up at me right away; he said quietly “Yeah, it did. That’s all I
can think about.” I was a bit taken aback. I guess I wasn’t expecting that
answer. I sat on the couch next to him. I could feel my throat constricting. He
started talking. He started saying how scary it was to see me so sick. He said
he worried about what a future might hold for us, if this is how my life would
be. My mind reeled backwards, violently almost. I pictured myself on my
bathroom floor, about a year after I had been married. I had my knees pulled up
to my chest, trying to silently cry into my jeans. My husband was pleading
through the door to let him in. We had just had a fight. He told me that he
didn’t think he wanted to have kids with someone that was “sick all the time”.
I snapped back to now, 6 years later, hearing almost the
same words from the mouth of yet another man. My stomach knotted, I suppressed the
sudden urge to vomit. “Nonononononon” was running through my brain. I was
trying to listen, trying to comprehend, but my head was screaming “NOT AGAIN,
JACQUELINE. NO!” I was panicking my
heart was racing. He was crying, and tears I didn’t know were there streamed
down my face. I cannot and won’t try to remember the conversation verbatim, but
the gist was this: I love you, you’re the only person I’ve ever been with who
hasn’t judged me and I appreciate that, but I don’t know if I can share a
future with someone whose health is so uncertain. I don’t think I can do it.
I was trying to slow my thoughts long enough to form
comprehensible sentences. I tried to explain that my being “sick” was such a
small part of who I am, and yes, I might be a bit fragile, but there is no one
you will find who is more devoted and loving and caring. “Say something to make
him stay, Jacqueline!” my mind shouted. I was cursing myself for not talking
more frequently about my health issues, but this guy was the first person I had
been with who genuinely seemed to not care. He never looked at me like I was
any different than anyone else. He told me I was beautiful when my eczema was
at my worse, he shared his inhaler if I needed puff. He made sure to check if
there were nuts in anything before he ate it. He was good, too good? Too good
to be true.
I started to swing in the opposite direction. I was getting
pissed. “Are you FUCKING kidding me?!” my brain was saying. “You have an asthma
attack and he wants to leave?!” My blood was turning hot. “You are seriously
going to break up with me over this?” I said incredulously. His eyes looked so
sad. I started to ramble on about how no one’s future is certain and that he
could be diagnosed with cancer tomorrow or get hit by a bus. I’m not even sure
if what I was saying was coherent. Ramble, Ramble, Ramble. “I just don’t think
I can” he said, his final words to me. “Fine, I’ll get your stuff.” I said. The
words ran off my tongue like wet cement. They were hardening before they
reached his ears. I flew through my house trying to find things of his. I practically
threw stuff at him. Trying to not sob/cry and trying not to punch him. My anger
was boiling over. He took my keys off his ring and set them on the counter. They
looked naked sitting there. My stomach lurched again. I folded my arms and
looked down. I couldn’t meet his eyes. I was shriveling. He picked up his bag
quietly, opened my door and left.
I fell to my knees behind the closed door. “Please come
back, please turn around and come back and make this ok” I pleaded to no one.
My door remained closed. I was numb. I didn’t know what to do. My cries started
coming out in hot violent burst. I was gasping. I had been so blindsided. I NEVER
saw this coming. I’m not sure how long I stayed on the floor, holding out a
glimmer of hope that he might turn his car around. I tried calling, just
voicemail. I finally lay in bed. My bed, my safe spot, was now a coffin of
memories. My pillow smelled like him. I realized I was lying on the mattress
pads that he had lent me. He was surrounding me though he wasn’t even there. I
texted. Again, I can’t remember what I said exactly (I erased the message after
I re-read it a million times) but it was something to the effect of “please
reconsider this. I love you. No one’s future is certain” There were strings of
other cliché sentences involved. He didn’t text back.
I didn’t sleep. I stared at my ceiling. I was willing him
with my Jedi-like mind power to knock on my door. I dreamed I would open it, he
would look at me and hold me and we would not talk. We would just embrace. It would
be an embrace that spoke of forgiveness and misunderstanding without as much as
a whisper being said I would know it would be ok. He would lay in bed next to
me, my head in the crook of his shoulder and chest. He would stroke my hair and
we would mutter apologies and sweet sentiments. He would explain how scared he
was, I would apologize for not communicating better. We would fall asleep and wake
up as if the last hours had been a dream.
I woke up, alone at 7am. No messages on my phone. I called to
plead my case one more time. I left a message. I calculated as the hours went
by. “He must have gotten it by now. He’s probably thinking about what to say.
He’ll call. He just needs more time to think. He’ll realize how awesomely
perfect we are when we’re together”. My phone remained silent.
I am not ashamed in any way to say that I lay in bed that
entire day. I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I just stared into my now ominous
future. Alone again, because of my health. Alone again because I’m a scary
person to imagine sharing a life with. Alone again because I am freak. My inner
voice – the mean nasty one, was out in full force today. It was calling out all
my insecurities, shoving them in my face like evidence of my demise. “No one
wants to be with damaged goods” she said. “No one want’s to have a family with
you – you’re a hot mess of disease” she croaked. “You’re 30. You’ve just been
dumped again. Don’t you get it?” My inner voice is a total bitch.
I got up the next day and tried to adhere to my schedule. I
went to work, I played dutiful, happy employee. I came home and cried. I let my
dog curl up next to me at the end of my bed. She knows she’s not allowed on the
bed, so she slept perilously close to the edge. I put my arm around her and
breathed in and out with the rise and fall of her furry side. I fell asleep.
It’s been 5 days of “Happy Officer Manager, Jacqueline”. I
still can’t eat. My throat tightens at the mere mention of food. I was able to
down some sushi but only after a significant amount of sake. It’s also been 5
days of reflection. I go in vicious circles of denial, rage, fear, sorrow and
acceptance. These can take hours or minutes, depending on if mean inner
Jacqueline is around.
So, back to that curve ball. I’m looking behind me, there’s
no catcher (thanks a lot Mauer) I need to swing or take the hit. I know what I
should do. I should take off my cape of sorrow and strap on my vest of
acceptance. I know that my life is not easy. I know that when I break it down,
piece by piece it seems daunting. Believe me, I live it Every. Single. Day. I
also know that my life – even though I am already 30 (gasp) is just beginning
(30 is the new 20 right…). I know that my future, as much as I’d like to plan
it out piece by piece (hello, 2.5 children and a golden retriever) is not meant
to be organized. I know that the only moment you are guaranteed is the one that
just happened. I look back on my dad’s passing. He was literally here one
minute and gone the next; life’s cruel reminder that you have no fucking
control of what happens.
So what can I control then? (If you haven’t gotten this
already, I have an issue with control). I can control how I look at life. I can
get downtrodden and mopey thinking about how hard things MIGHT be, or I can remember
that I am a good person. I love with everything I have. I am proud that even
though I got hurt, I was finally able to let my guard down and be 100% completely
myself with a partner. I didn’t let him shape me into what I thought he wanted,
I laid my cards down and showed him my hand, and he did what I thought no one
would ever do for me, he loved me for it. He didn’t try to change me instead he
was honest and said he couldn’t do it. Do I wish otherwise? Every second of
this week I have. Do I wish I’d find him waiting for me at my house (looking
all handsome and smelling great – ala some generic romantic comedy) heart in
hand? I’m not ashamed to say yep. What girl DOESN’T want that? Come on, we’ve
all watched far too many Julia Roberts movies to not want that even a little
bit. That doesn’t make me weak though. It makes me normal. It’s normal to want
the hurt to stop, to want to fix things, to want him to want you again. So I
keep reminding myself that I’ve done all I can. I was an honest girlfriend, I
was a loving girlfriend. I tried not to judge. I let myself be myself, and if I
wasn’t “the girl” for this guy, it’s ok.
I will never regret
this relationship. I learned that there are people out there who will challenge
me, open my eyes to new things, make me laugh a stomach-hurting-eyes-watering
laugh, and love me flaws and all. I learned that it’s ok for me to be
vulnerable. I learned that I should communicate more and assume less. I learned
that I might not get my little white picket fence house, tide commercial, happy
carefree life, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be extremely happy! I learned that
this life is meant to be embraced. I spout about accepting the bad so the good
will taste better, I talk about loving what I have and being thankful for that,
but I haven’t ever just opened my soul and let myself be still. What will
happen will happen, it’s time to get excited for that instead of scared, after
all a decision made in fear, is always the wrong decision.
I’m not over this. Far from, I fear. Though I know I’ve
learned lessons, I’d still take it all back if I could. I’ve tried to will time
backwards (who knows maybe I had super powers I didn’t know I had?!) but it won’t
budge. So, for now I plod along towards home plate. Batter-up! It’s time to swing.
