Bread Bowls And Break-Ups

He broke up with me while we sat inside of our college campus Panera Bread.

The location was ironically a staple in our relationship. The place, where a month ago, we enjoyed breakfast sandwiches and smoothies while laughing about our drunken night together. The place, where a few weeks ago, he bought soup and tea for me when I was sick. We sat across one another at a table, while he tried to explain to me why he didn’t want to continue our relationship. The place, where I watched our relationship blossom, now the gravestone for what was between us.

I took him home on the last night of my senior year fall semester. We kissed at a mutual friend’s house party after a night of flirting and drinking. We held hands while walking back to my apartment in the frigid December air. The impending doom of graduation made me hold tightly to the fleeting familiar lifestyle surrounding me: college hook-up culture. College is the only appropriate time for casual hook-ups, or so the media tells me. I felt the incoming pressure to be serious about relationships and dating when I entered “the real world.” The post-graduate world seemed prescribed to my uncertain, naive undergrad self. Graduation was only a pit-stop on the road to success. Success, not only being categorized by career, also meant marriage and family. Anything less implied failure and unworthiness. Not being good enough.

With limited days of socially-acceptable singularity, I wasn’t looking to form a deep relationship during my senior year of college. After our one-night-stand, we exchanged friendly snapchats over our winter break during the months of December and January. Social media tends to be the outlet my generation uses for flirting. It was a casual way to stay relevant in each others lives and it landed him back in my bed the first night of the spring semester. My intentions were only to hook up but I couldn’t help connecting with him over our late night pillow talk. I found comfort in our easy-going connectivity, which helped me block out his underclassman status and the knowledge of my diminishing undergrad days. Soon enough, he was coming over almost every single night. He started staying longer in the mornings and asking to see me throughout the day. He began texting me at random hours with well-wishes. He started walking me to class and kissing me goodbye when we separated. We told our friends about one another and agreed not to see other people. He even told his mom about me. It wasn’t until the end of March, when our peers started to label us, that we finally acknowledged we were “in a relationship.”

Our official relationship began with agreement. There were no grand gestures. We never went on romantic dates. We never changed our Facebook statuses to publicly claim one another and define our relationship. We never expressed “I love you” to one another. We definitely weren’t perfect for each other, with arguments and disagreements here and there. Yet it all felt natural. It never felt like we had to prove anything to other people. What was between us was solely between us. We found ourselves in a relationship without all of those distinct public actions that tend to pave the pathway for one. His presence brought me happiness. He didn’t offer chivalry or romance; the things I often looked for in relationships. On top of common interests, he was reliable, understanding, and attentive. He was everything I needed during that small period of time. It felt right, even though we both knew our days were numbered.

By the end of April, I was still unsure of what was to come of our casual yet intense relationship. Classes were ending and finals were approaching, and then graduation would quickly follow. I was choosing to move moment by moment, day by day. On the other hand, I could tell he was starting to get overwhelmed by the shift in his demeanor: he stopped texting me frequently and sleeping over as often. Consciously or not, he was creating distance. When he asked to meet at Panera Bread, I was already prepared for the worst.

Although I saw our break-up coming, it did not make it any less painful when he told me he didn’t want to stay with me past graduation. I stared blankly at my chicken Caesar salad, while word after word poured from his mouth trying to form some sort of explanation.“I understand,” I finally expressed to both his and my own surprise. An expiration date had lingered in the back of my mind through the entirety of our relationship. I was understanding of our break-up because I knew, just as well as he did, that we weren’t meant to move past graduation.

My friends came over expecting to console me, but were surprised to find me dry-eyed and level-headed. I was devastated and hurting, but not in a distraught and uncontrollable way. “Guys are just scared of commitment. Sometimes, it just takes a little convincing,” one of my friends suggested. But it felt like persuading him would take away everything we had between us. Our relationship felt effortless up until this point. Convincing him to stay would’ve felt antithesis to the foundation of our relationship.

We didn’t have a clean break after our Panera Bread break-up. There was anger and bitterness on both ends. But I think it came out of confusion that we had to divide onto separate paths. Nothing dramatic happened between us. I’d like to think neither of us lost appreciation for one another. There were no lies or deceit. The reality was we both saw the defined finish line. I was about to enter a whole new world, while he was going to remain in our small liberal arts college. Although together we were happy and cared about each other, we did not see eye-to eye on many things needed to sustain a long-term relationship. What we did see eye-to-eye on was choosing to temporarily turn a blind eye to all of the red flags. The red flags could not be hidden any longer after graduation. We both knew this. He was the one who was brave enough to admit it.

There’s no denying I had nights where I laid awake, wondering why we couldn’t continue our relationship. But each night ended in the same conclusion—we couldn’t fit in each other’s lives anymore. Every time I would think of our blissful and uncomplicated past, I would remind myself of the implications and energy that would have existed in our future. How could I force someone to exert energy when they are so full of uncertainty? The best feeling was knowing our relationship was progressing from our independent yet coinciding desires.

We stopped talking after graduation, but I still see him from time to time on my social media newsfeed and timeline. It is a strange feeling to have a front row seat to the window of the life of a person who has fallen estranged. He seems different now. I am different now. Seeing his face always causes a quick moment of pain; a reminder of what was once alive between us. But I still manage to find happiness for him whenever he posts about his life. Whether it be about family, friends, school, or even the new girl he has been seeing. How can I resent someone who used to bring me so much happiness? It would be self-centered of me to wish him misery in my absence.

I only considered myself to be “in love” twice in my life previous to this relationship. At the time of my relationship during my final semester in college, I never claimed I was “in love.” I just thought I was happy. I knew love was a magical and indescribable feeling, yet from my previous experiences it seemed as though it came alongside with strenuous labor. Love meant giving your all and never giving up. Love didn’t seem easy to me. It seemed irrational and consuming. No one ever asks for a boring, unmoving love.

Now, months after our break-up, I think the acceptance of the end constitutes as the most real romantic love I have experienced. Because to me, convincing someone to stay is an act of selfishness. Letting someone go and letting them be happy in your absence is true love. As we grow apart and in different ways, our relationship remains dear and untainted to me because we chose to acknowledge the finish line. Our relationship was ephemeral, but not illusive. Because of that, I will always love him for the person he was when our timing was right, even if that person and relationship does not exist anymore.

On Loneliness

Being lonely is something that I have dealt with for the majority of my life.

I’ve been fortunate to have loving and supportive family members throughout my life who have been there to reel me back in with loving affirmation when the emotional turbulence has become too much to bear. Unfortunately, though, there are sometimes situations where loved ones can only do so much. The instances in which I’ve felt most alone have been in some way related to segmented, peer-based experiences: meaning that while the safety and reassurance of a nurturing parental bubble feels good, in order to live and function in the world as a productive member of society, the bubble must be exited as one ages into adulthood.

Loneliness has manifested itself in several ways as I’ve grown, changed, and experienced different aspects of life. When you’re younger, loneliness, really any feeling, is easier to chalk up to being an evolving human being. In this stage of life, emotions and feelings are believed to be less substantive — whatever you’re going through at the time is said to be a hormonal driven “phase.” But people questioning the legitimacy of someone’s thoughts and feelings, discrediting one’s experience rather than attempting to understand it, can make coping that much more challenging.

This has lead me to believe that loneliness, although a universal feeling, manifests in a variety of different ways depending on the circumstances of our unique identities.

I grew up as an adopted black kid raised by a white family in a predominantly white area of New York. Most of my peers came from sheltered, conservative upbringings. Because of this, I was continuously subjected to stereotypical comments about my race and skin color: assumptions that I knew the name of every rapper, (even though I primarily grew up listening to alternative rock, pop punk, and screamo) and jokes like “Where did Caleb go? We can’t find him!” Even those who called themselves friends would routinely say outlandish things about other ethnic groups and assume it wouldn’t affect me because I wasn’t really black. I was an “oreo” as they dubbed me several times, in what I would now describe as an attempt to distance me from my own blackness.

As I grew up and gained more self-confidence, I began speaking up for myself. Nowadays, I have removed most of these toxic figures from my life and have moved on to focusing on myself and my goals. The process of solidifying one’s identity can be a lifelong journey, it is a journey I am still on, and each person should have the right to experience that journey without denigration.

Beyond my peer experiences of my youth, much of the loneliness that I’ve experienced in the last several years as an adult has been a result of a decision that I made. Even though I believe that this decision — moving across the country to a city where I did not know a soul in pursuit of a dream and personal growth — was one of the best decisions that I have made in my twenty-two years, it has not been without sacrifice. I have made wonderful, hopefully lifelong friends, and been able to experience things that I could previously never have imagined, altering my trajectory in an irreversible and impactful way. The relationships that I’ve formed, as well as the the opportunities and experiences that have come into my life, are things that seemed outside of the realm of possibility in the place where I grew up. My eyes have been opened to previously unexplored aspects of the human experience and my mind has expanded based on those realities.

All that said, even though I’ve had great fun in this new environment, it’s served as only a temporary suppression of the very the very human fears and concerns that, at some point, will infiltrate our consciousness. Regardless of my numerous attempts to lock these fears out, they always seem to have their own key.

Over the holidays I went back home, and although it was only for a couple of weeks, it was the longest period of time I’d been home in months. Seeing family was nourishing for my soul, and I am truly grateful for those weeks. After my trip home had concluded, I sat on the first of several flights to return to where I am as I write this, an apartment in Southern California. I tried my best to hold it together, and I did, at first. I eventually could not contain myself, however, and the tears erupted from my eyes as another passenger in my row slept peacefully in the window seat. It was at this point that I realized my attempt to suppress the sadness I felt was ultimately pointless. I cried because even though I was trying to tough it out, the reality of leaving my family meant returning to the ever-looming solitude of the recent past. It was an early flight, so the cabin lights were turned off, concealing me in darkness as I wept.

This was a couple of months ago, and I have since been in a brighter place, but throughout my life loneliness is something that I have never been able to completely shake. Being relegated to expressing sorrow in silence is something that has long plagued me as a black male who often felt that society had specific predetermined expectations for who I should be, and how my experience relates to others. An expectation to be hyper-masculine at all times, and to reject ever displaying anything that could be interpreted as weakness.

As a teenager, I can remember countless instances where my sexuality was called into question by peers because I spoke, and specifically dressed, in a certain style. Not only is this harmful because it shames those who might choose to explore self-expression in a personal way, but in turn, it also tries to compartmentalize something as complex as human sexuality into unrelated yet equated quantifiers, whose only basis is in stereotypes and ignorance. Thankfully, in recent times a clear transition has begun to take place. Openly expressing emotion has slowly become more accepted, even encouraged. But this was not always the case.

Today I am comfortable expressing that I have a great fear associated with death. Furthermore, as an individual who does not know if there is anything beyond this life, and who has spent a great amount of time doubting that there is, my primary focus has been living my life in a manner where I can express myself as freely as possible, while empowering others to do the same. The older I get the more focused I’ve become on spending time with people I feel truly value me; my family, my closest friends, and those who are committed to making the world a more accepting and loving place for all.

I want to tell anyone reading this that it’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to think about how much time you have left with people and how best to spend it. It’s okay to feel like you don’t belong. It’s okay to be vulnerable. No matter where you fall along the spectrum of gender and sexuality, it’s okay to be emotional, to cry. It’s okay to fear being alone. Irrespective of your race, gender identity, sexuality, religion, or whatever you self-identify as, you should feel free to be yourself, and not feel as though you are being externally relegated to solitude or alienation based on who you are. I would not wish the loneliness that myself and countless other possess on anyone. For all I know, many of us may never stop feeling it, but I hope whoever reads this, no matter who you are, finds comfort knowing that they are not in pain alone, I stand here as an ally for you and with you.

Much love.

Single Stigma

For some of you, the morning after a sexual encounter may begin with groggy words of endearment like, “Last night was fun, gonna call an uber in a sec.” From that point, the exchange may shift to your relationship history. “How long have you been single?” Then, it could end with something like, “You’ve never been in a relationship before?! That’s shocking! Especially because you’re like, so good looking!” As someone who’s been single for 9 years, with the exception of short term hookups and two-night-stands, my impermanent suitors have reacted with this backhanded compliment almost every time I’ve shared my status.

The shock value of their responses may have lost its punch over the years, but I’m left retracing the origins of my dating and hook-up experiences, and often placing the blame on myself for not “putting myself out there enough,” or for “giving off the wrong vibe.” Navigating the dating world amidst these expectations and assumptions is exhausting. When my partners have questioned the duration of my single status, using conditions like beauty and appeal as reasons for their confusion, I become frustrated. Not because they’re ill intentioned, but because being single is so often misunderstood as involuntary, or as some kind of solitary confinement.

The weight placed on beauty in a relationship status— whether “taken” or single— has created a false standard that beauty should serve a purpose, and exist merely for someone else’s taking. Physical appeal, especially that of women, has been learned as something to be observed and enjoyed by others (predominantly men). If one is deemed beautiful, pretty, sexy, or hot, their “single status” becomes outlandish, or undeserved. People are surprised if beautiful people are without partners, as if the concept that one might not want a partner is simply out of the question. Beauty shouldn’t equate sex, romance, or be a determinant of why someone is in a relationship or not. Beauty is exploited and fetishized, which furthers the assumption its primary purpose is to please.

I’m a woman that’s horny often, lonely sometimes, and usually down to spend the night with a respectable, attractive guy if the opportunity arises. Although inexperienced in the world of relationships, I’d imagine that when you’re in one, there are moments—even if they’re fleeting— when you want nothing more than to be a maverick, unbound by responsibility.

For me, it’s the same as a single woman. There are moments when I want nothing more than to be loved, spooned, and nurtured by a boyfriend, even though I’m content being single. Of course, I’m not speaking for all singles, but personally, I’ve discovered and explored many parts of myself as an independent that I wouldn’t have been able to embrace otherwise. From the excitement of coming home to my bedroom and spreading my limbs across my comforter, to the endless time I get to devote to my friends and weekends out, the bliss and harmony of being able to do what I want, when I want, fills me up. I’ve had years and years to work on friendships, try out new pick-up lines, learn how to navigate sex with different people, and get a feel for what the hell is out there.

One time, I was chatting with a male friend at a party, and the conversation turned to our relationship statuses, and the pro’s and con’s of being single versus in a relationship. He told me that maybe I needed to try being more open because I came across “stand-offish.” It was awful to feel like my character was not only being judged, but that my apparent isolationism was the reason I was single. Once again, I found myself reflecting on scenarios where I was at social gatherings, questioning whether or not I should have presented myself differently, approached that cute guy, or ventured out from my clique of girlfriends. I replayed the way I carried myself, my gaze. Did I come across “bitchy” and cold? Am I single because I’m that cold bitch?!

These toxic questions made me question the pride I had come to so closely associate with my singledom. I felt incredibly self conscious. After talking to many different people, gathering opinions, and taking the time to just think, I’ve come to the conclusion that we should all try to be better about making assumptions and judgments about people based solely upon the way they’re standing, or who they are or aren’t talking to. While it can be intimidating to approach someone who seems removed, or above it, I’ve realized that nine times out of ten, that person is either…

A) enjoying the evening with their friends, or B) feeling the same way you do. Yes, A and B may lessen the amount of new people you speak with in a night, but don’t let someone project these reasons onto your single status, and certainly don’t let them perceive these realities as inherently negative.

There are assumptions that being single for so long means you’re either a party animal or a recluse, hedonistic or anti-monogamy. The single life is filled with opportunity and autonomy, yet often, it’s met with sympathetic pats on the back, or these baffled remarks.

It wasn’t until very recently that for the first time ever, a guy I was hooking up with responded differently. Instead, when I told him I’d never been in a relationship, he said, “You seem like a strong, independent woman.” Sadly, it took me aback. This is the type of feedback that us singles miss out on, but need to hear more. The aghast reactions of my hookup partners at the “single for 9 years” sentiment is proof that being single is misunderstood in many ways. For some, it’s a choice and for others, it’s not. But either way, the single life deserves far more respect and critical thought for being the absolutely valid and acceptable lifestyle that it is.

Roots Grow

2016

I don’t know if I believe in love. At least, not in the traditional sense of the word.

When I was 14, my entire life was turned upside down. On Christmas Eve morning, my mom came downstairs shouting, with a handful of paper: emails, between my dad and another woman, depicting the intimate emotional relationship they were having.

Now, almost five years later, I’m sitting on a bed in a house shared by my dad and that same woman.

The last five years have not been easy. It’s still not easy. I can’t say I have a healthy relationship with my dad, or with love, or with marriage. I had to see a therapist twice a week at the peak of the divorce in order to keep my sanity. As the oldest child, all I wanted to do was protect everyone. I wanted to keep the peace between my parents; I wanted my siblings to remain blissfully oblivious to the turmoil that became our everyday lives; I wanted to protect myself from becoming the ball of apathy that I watched my mom become. In the end, I think I ended up more hurt than anyone because my siblings inevitably learned what happened too, and soon they were also in the line of fire.

It’s hard to explain the intricacies of a divorce. I know there were other factors besides my dad’s affair contributed to it, but there are too many to list here. I can’t explain to you the ways each of my parents hurt me. But I can tell you that a divorce affects your day-to-day life more than most kids let on. For example, there was a time when I was afraid to come home from my dad’s because my mom would verbally attack us for even just seeing him. My siblings and I used to plan out exactly what we would say to one parent in the safety of my car, on the way to the other parent’s house. My vacation in Florida last summer was ruined by the crippling anxiety of telling my mom that my dad was going to move in with his girlfriend, the woman who my mom believed was the reason their marriage ended. I have seven different letters saved on my computer telling my dad that I didn’t want him in my life anymore. I never sent them. I lost a lot of friends because they told me I talked about the divorce too much. It weighed on my mind and heart every second of every day.

The biggest impact the divorce has had on me, however, lies in the concept of love. I used to want to get married and have children. I used to believe that I would find my “soulmate” and spend the rest of my life with them. I still believe in love, but I don’t know if two people are supposed to spend their entire lives together.

I think that we’re continuously changing and growing, and as we shed one skin and crawl into the next, the person we once loved isn’t always meant to follow.

I think we’re supposed to love several people, each a perfect fit for the current version of ourselves. Yes, there are plenty of love stories that end happily ever after – hell, my grandparents have been together for 50 years – but I often wonder if they really love the person they’re with, or if they’d be better off with someone else. I mean, my dad is definitely happy and in love with the woman he’s with now, but I also know he loved my mom at one point.

I guess I do believe in love. I believe that I’ll fall in love over and over again and learn from it each time. I don’t believe in forever, and that affects a lot of my relationships. Oftentimes, after a few years, people start to think in the long-term, but not me. And I need to find someone who is okay with that, and sometimes it’s hard for other people to understand. While many want to commit to a marriage and settle down, I have different plans. I dated my last boyfriend for almost three years, and sometimes he’d mention something about marriage and I’d start to panic. It’s hard to be in a long-term relationship when you both want different things.

When I’m older, and I inevitably fall in love with someone, I will be with them. We will live together, and we will share the joys of life together, but we won’t need a ring or a piece of paper to show that we love one another. We won’t need the trickiness of making it official by law. That relationship will end, I will appreciate what it gave me, I will find someone new, I will love them too.

2018

The words above are filled with anger. They were written by my 18 year old self, a self that is now difficult to recognize. I feel like this was a page ripped from my journal which I put out into the world in hopes someone would notice me, and validate my pain.

A lot happens in two years. Time uncovered a lot of truth that I couldn’t see then, and my perspective on the whole situation has changed drastically. Although honestly, things within my family haven’t gotten better.

My sister and I are both in college now, so we no longer have to follow the schedule laid out by the Martial Settlement Agreement. Our parents tell us that we have a “choice” now, and we are free to decide how much time to spend with each of them. Though, apparently there is always a wrong decision, for when we don’t do what one of them believes is “fair,” they tell us not to bother seeing them at all.

During winter break, there’s no time for friends – instead, we are guilted into staying home and watching a movie while our mom makes passive-aggressive remarks from the other side of the couch. We have to hang out with our friends at our dad’s house instead of going out. “It’s only fair.”

Our only saving grace around the holidays is that my brother is still 15 and has to follow the MSA. We stick together, in part because it’s easier when things are decided for us, when another party decides for our parents what is fair. But it’s also because it will always be us against them, and with my sister and me out of the house, my brother suffers enough alone. He told me during Christmas, he’s “always in the trenches.” He’s now the only one walking on eggshells, always waiting for a bomb to go off in the war-zone we call home.

My parents don’t talk to each other. They talk through us. We hear our dad say that my mom is crazy; we hear my mom call my dad’s girlfriend a cunt. We’ve learned to tell little white lies about what we’re doing or where we’ve been; to submit to emotional manipulation rather than get in a fight, to accept that we will probably always cry on Christmas Eve. But, despite all of this, this year was different.

For the first time ever, my siblings and I are all in happy, healthy relationships. I can’t speak for them, but I can say that I’ve changed my mind about love. I’ve met someone who looks at me with nothing but kindness, and suddenly the thought of waking up next to him every single day isn’t so bad. In fact, forever with him doesn’t seem long enough. I’ve learned my lessons. In talking to him, I’ve realized something very important: I am not my parents.

If one day you find that you no longer love the person you wake up next to, just leave. If you have children together, don’t yell at them for having your ex’s blood running through their veins. Sitting down and having a conversation is a lot more efficient than a screaming match. Don’t be selfish. Christmas is just a day. Be willing to reschedule. Maturity has nothing to do with age. Being the bigger person all the time can make you feel really fucking small. Money can, and will, ruin relationships. Don’t keep a joint checking account. There are two sides to every story: the canopy of a tree embraces the sunlight, while the web of roots grows in the darkness underground.

My parents have made so many mistakes, but that doesn’t mean I will. My first step toward healing was allowing myself to believe in love again. Yes, we will change. Reading what I wrote at 18 is proof of it. But more important than changing, we will grow. Love takes work, and as long as we’re both willing to endure the growing pains, we will grow together.

Living In Her Fiction

I fell in love with the girl with the crooked smile. Her eyes have a brown hue to them, and I can hear my Dad’s voice telling me it’s because she’s full of shit. The trajectory of my life, at the time of our passing, is flat. I am still trying to figure out what I want to do and struggling to see how that looks.

She said she was polyamorous, and maintains that line with some to this day.

We sit in her apartment, and she wants to record our conversation. She wants to be a writer. I snort some Xanax and have a few beers, espouse some philosophy, and when I am leaving, she says she wants to hook up again, but she and her partner have rules — they don’t bring people home to their space.

We could spend whole days in bed. Mostly exploring one another and having meaningful conversations. We are always at my house. I get the call or text late at night, drinking is involved, things move forward. This is the beginning. It’s something new. It’s something exciting. Somehow my mind tells me it’s a little off, but the connection is strong nonetheless.

A few months in, the walls are breaking down. I’m showing more and more of myself to her, and as I peel away each layer, our time apart gets harder and harder. I start to snap under the weight of my own emotions. Fitting yourself into someone else’s lifestyle is a recipe for disaster. Never make yourself less of anything to make someone else happy.

In the moments of quiet with her, I know I have fallen in love, and it is chipping away at my soul. You will meet these kinds of people, the people that get under your skin, find your soft spot and kick it repeatedly. In the midst of it, you will make a choice as to how it will affect you: whether you grow and change from the experience, or just keep plugging along, headfirst into the abyss, hoping that (as in the true definition of insanity) you can repeat the same action over and over and expect a different result.

Months later, I’m sitting at the bar with two friends. The day has been good, though I am still treading water, waiting for a purpose to come my way. My lover walks through the door and sits alone at the opposite end of the bar. She is noticeably upset; and when I greet her, she asks to talk outside. In the late night, with the cold Pacific air clinging to both of us, she explains to me that she’s pregnant and unsure what to do. I tell her that I will support her decision, no matter what, and ask that she not panic. She tells me she has a plan: the weekend is coming, and she is going to buy a bunch of cocaine and do it with her boyfriend to induce a miscarriage. She tells me she’s sure that the child is mine, that there is no chance it is his. I believe her.

We have begun this emotional tug of war, and each day I suspect more and more that I am being lied to and manipulated. I know this game, I have lived this life — this level of dysfunction is the family fire I was forged in. I do my best, and when situations arise with her, I try. I am the secondary boyfriend now. The yin to his yang. She has it all, split between two men. Time continues to pass, and all of it in a hazy blur of mostly feeling down and kicked around. She comes at me only when other women show interest, and I am punished frequently for being in love with her. I march along, unable to see what is happening. By the following Tuesday, she has messaged me saying the miscarriage took, and I have nothing to worry about anymore.

Weeks later, the dynamic has shifted very little, and we are still clinging to all of our same behaviors. She explains that her relationship is not poly, and that she has been cheating on her boyfriend with me for months. She comes clean about lying to me about so many things, yet she still continues to lie to me now. I tell her that I’ll never get too upset at someone telling me the truth, but that I want the lying to stop. She tells me she’s pregnant again. This time it’s different though. She’s afraid. I can see it on her face. All the times the hair on the back of my neck stood up, all the times things didn’t feel right, the times when my gut told me that things were off, almost every single time, I was right. At this moment, though, there is sincerity on her face. She is pregnant, and there is a 50% chance that the child is mine.

By way of comparison, it snaps into clarity that her previous pregnancy may just have been an emotional manipulation. Because there is a stark contrast in her demeanor this time around. Again I say that I will be supportive of her decision, and we have multiple conversations about it. I offer her money to offset the cost of her abortion — she declines at first, then takes me up on it. Knowing that I am now the other man, I struggle to be fully supportive. Her emotions run high in the decision-making, and I attempt to navigate the swell. Her boyfriend also believes he is the father, and he will be the one taking her to the clinic while I work my shitty cafe job, wondering what I can do to help.

I voice my opinion, but I stand by the decision she makes, and even now I do not go against it. These issues are complex, and the decision to bring a life into the world is made by the person who does it. All I can do is support the choice, and hope we can all move forward.

It’s been several months since that day. More lies have been told, more cover-ups. Things move forward in increments, only to be set back by miles. I still love her, and I still stand by her. She runs to me, then runs back to him. In my moments alone, I realize that I and many others are all carefully constructed characters in the fictional life she has created for herself. I told her once that I like to see how far people will take me for a ride, and I will say: this is farthest I have ever gone.

Two nights ago when she was in my bed, we spoke of the future. The next day she was out having drinks with him and repairing their relationship. The sex makes things more complicated, because I sit alone while she has another warm body to be with, and I’d be foolish now to think she doesn’t take full advantage of that. She uses words to describe herself, like “monster.” But either no one is a monster or we all are.

I loved the girl with the crooked smile. She will inhabit my heart for a long time. Someday she’ll be a wonderful writer, and the honesty and wisdom will flow out of her in a way that it doesn’t right now. We all have times and meet people who shake us and throw us for a loop. It may not be the best thing at the time, but if you look and if you listen, you will grow from it.

You can’t force others to do the same, though, and that’s a hard lesson to learn. I know she’ll get there eventually, but her demons and skeletons are the price she will pay for what has happened. I sit and have a beer with her boyfriend on my birthday. I tell him that everything is going to be alright, and part of me actually believes that. I created this situation, and I wanted to sit down and be honest with him, even though she begged me not to. As I said, we all live in her fiction.

Why Your Heart Hurts After A Breakup

Ever wonder why a breakup is so f*ing painful? And why is it that some people suffer for years while others bounce back so quickly?

A 2010 study from the University of California found that taking acetaminophen (the main ingredient in Tylenol) can correlate with reduced pain after a breakup. Why might Tylenol help with emotional pain? Because pain, whether inflicted physically or emotionally, functions through the same neural pathways in the brain. Using acetaminophen reduces those neural responses that give us the experience of pain. So yes, figures of speech such as “heartache” and “heartbreak,” are more than melodramatic poeticism.

So, does that mean we just can just pop a Tylenol and wait for the pain to pass? Maybe talking to friends about your ex can help? Psychology Professor at Columbia University, Walter Mischel, would argue that discussing the breakup with friends will only increase depressive symptoms and should be kept to a minimum. So, where to turn next?

In a 2011 experiment, the brain activity of people who had recently experienced an unwanted breakup was monitored via MRI. When the subjects viewed a photograph of their ex-partner and thought about their rejection, the MRI revealed activation of the parts of the brain associated with social and physical pain.

But it also found that showing subjects pictures of someone with whom they were securely attached relieved the pain of their broken hearts! So now we must ask, how do we develop secure attachments so that we too can experience emotional tranquility in the face of a break up?

From the moment you were born you began bonding with the people closest to you. This infant-parent bonding and how well your parents responded to your needs was essential for the development of your physical and mental health. How well you attached during that early period determines how you respond in both relationships and breakups in the future, or basically how secure you are as a human being in and out of relationships with other humans.

People who are securely attached, whose needs were met by caregivers, have the healthiest response to breakups, turning to close friends and family for support, authentically grieving the loss, and being better able to empathize with their partner’s reason for the breakup and therefore responding in a less hostile way. They face the breakup with greater resilience and acceptance, and are less likely to blame themselves for the relationship ending.

People who have an anxious attachment style, whose needs were intermittently met by caregivers, are more likely to react to breakups with hyperactive emotional and physiological distress, feeling a loss of identity, turning to unhealthy coping strategies such as drugs or alcohol, being more prone to jealousy and preoccupation with the ex-partner, and are more likely to try to re-establish the relationship even if it wasn’t a healthy one. This type is more likely to stalk, threaten, or attempt to physically harm their previous partner, and they are more likely to ruminate on negative emotions, be in chronic mourning and prolonged protest and despair, and feel continued attachment to the lost partner, leading to depression, anxiety or other mental health issues.

Those with avoidant attachment style, whose emotional needs were likely not met by caregivers, tend to turn less to friends and family, are more likely to use drugs and alcohol as a means of coping, and may attempt to avoid the former partner so much they might change jobs or schools to suppress any reminders of their former relationship. They may show an absence of grief, little protest and despair, and a quick progression to reorganization and detachment, but it may also involve greater self-blame and use of drugs and alcohol to cope, lower motivation to replace the ex-partner with a new partner, and less interest in sex. They also show the poorest emotional adjustment and well-being compared to secure individuals.

But no matter your past or current attachment style, there is still hope! Attachment styles are not rigidly fixed as they incorporate subsequent life experiences and the responses of those close to us. A therapist can help us transform from an insecure to secure attachment through effective therapy, and focusing on and developing long-term friendships and other relationships can help create stability and foster feelings of security, acceptance and connection.

In John Bowlby’s 1980 book Attachment and Loss he reports that reactions to the loss of a relationship progress through three stages: protest, often involving crying, anger, disbelief and attempts to re-establish contact; despair and sadness; and eventually, the reorganization of one’s attachment hierarchy which includes upgrading new or existing partners and downgrading and detaching from ex-partners.

Breakups hurt a whole f*ing lot, but according to some scientists, focusing on people we have established healthy relationships with, not looking at an ex on social media, and popping some acetaminophen every now and then might help. If you’re not able to get past your breakup, are abusing drugs and alcohol, feel you’ve a lost sense of identity, or like you’re chronically mourning, finding a therapist to help you start working on how you attach can lead you to a full recovery.

Researchers Tashiro and Frazier found that after a romantic breakup, some people reported a lot of positive growth, such as greater self-confidence and independence, better relationship-maintenance behaviors such as improved communication, an improved ability to cultivate stronger relationships with friends and family, greater focus on school or work, and improved expectations of future romantic partners. Post breakup growth was greatest in those who attributed the cause of the breakup to external factors rather than to themselves. Let’s be those people.

So celebrate the relationships you have, surround yourself with photos of people who love you and are always there for you, dive into the meaning and personal growth that has come out of this breakup without over-talking about it, and know that the pain you feel is real, and it really sucks, but it will come to an end. Don’t dwell on who lies at fault for the breakup, get your butt to therapy if you need it, and if you can’t bear the temporary pain of rejection in your heart, keep some Tylenol handy just in case!

Lauren Brim, author of The New Rules of Sex, and sex coach at www.LaurenBrim.com

Don’t Joke About Suicide

Too often I hear remarks and jokes about suicide. We all have caught on to the reality of how many teens die from suicide annually. With anxiety and depression rates in teenagers skyrocketing, the statistics have only become more daunting. Approximately 105 Americans die from suicide every day and suicide is the third leading cause of death for people ages 14 to 24, according to Suicide Awareness Voice of Education, SAVE.

I tolerate a lot of dumb jokes–and make a lot of dumb jokes myself. However, there is one kind of joke I consistently call out: those that make light of suicide. Hearing someone say they want to ‘shoot’ or ‘kill’ oneself always leaves me with a sickening feeling that I can’t ignore.

If someone is serious, it is important to notify someone as soon as possible. Family and friends of those who have committed suicide consistently regret not “saying something.” Often, our society plays off warning signs around suicide and depression as normal “teenage” behavior. A friend could say they feel like killing themselves in a joking manner, but it’s important to treat these remarks seriously. It could protect those in your community and diminish the laid back nature surrounding suicidal remarks.

If someone is joking, they are taking this reality that many face, too lightly. A senior at Hale, who struggles with multiple disorders including depression, feels many people don’t realize the impact these jokes can have.

“I think everyone’s heard it and everyone’s said it. It just isn’t something to joke about. You have no idea what the person next to you is going through and what their relationship with suicide is. Even a small comment could devastate someone.”

Two years ago, I lost a close family friend to suicide. I took it hard, and was hit with the reality of the way suicide can impact family, friends, and a community. Like any death, there’s no easy way to come to terms and cope with what happened. I spent the majority of my childhood growing up with my friend Oscar, and in many ways I considered him a brother. I didn’t get to see Oscar as often once I moved to Seattle, and when I heard of his death I was hit with deep regret for not reaching out earlier. Attending his funeral in Bellingham left me in a haze of confusion, I hadn’t dealt with death before and it took me a long time to feel okay about it, grief is an ongoing process. Even now, there are days where I get especially sad or regretful thinking about him. Suicide leaves a family broken and a community blindsided with loss.

Although before this loss I never thought suicide jokes were tasteful, afterward I became incredibly sensitive and aware to just how frequently I hear people make side comments and jokes about suicide. Suicide jokes are insensitive, but they’re also outdated. I find there are much more creative ways to explain your momentary discomfort.

Painting by Tracey Emin

Cya, Thongs

My first thong was cream silk with black scalloped lace on the edges. It had a tiny bejeweled bow and I treasured it. I hid it underneath my regular bikini style underwear and washed it by hand.

My friends believed that they were the number one piece of equipment when it came to battling panty lines and seeming more mature to boys. My mom didn’t wear thongs, which meant that I never really got the full rundown when it came to where to get them, what worked and what didn’t, how to buy one and where. I deduced that they were sexy and I was expected to wear them. I was interested in having a sexual experience and cared what my friends thought of me. I wasn’t about to be the only one still wearing striped underwear that my mom had bought me. I wasn’t going to be left behind, a child among teenagers. All of a sudden, everyone seemed to have gotten the memo but me; my friends were naturally progressing into smaller underwear and I was eager to keep up. I was fourteen and faced with a twenty foot high Victoria’s Secret angel. The word sexy was spelled out over rows of tiny g strings. There was really no way to escape, and I didn’t.

I was never a master thong wearer, but I was a dedicated one. I did what my friends did, and they did as their older sisters and young celebrities did. I learned how to put on my jeans without bunching them up on the sides, about which ones were cool and which ones were not, about the way that they leave your body entirely bare and full of goosebumps. I didn’t like looking at myself in the mirror because somehow they just didn’t look right on my body. There was always a gap between where the fabric ended and my lower back began, and they were always too low or too high. Was I supposed to be wearing them above my hip bones, below my hip bones, at my waist? I had no idea, so I guessed a little bit differently each time. They made me feel wobbly and vulnerable. They made wearing underwear seem like being naked; it made taking off my pants seem like I was doing so much more. They were low rise, and I would soon find out that I was a high rise girl.

I wore them until I went to college, without question. Bikini underwear, or briefs, were for children, thongs were for grown ups. I was sure that my high school boyfriend would think that it was gross to come across a high waisted boy short under my dress, or a full fledged bikini under my jeans. I was far more concerned with other people’s thoughts on my undergarments than what felt comfortable for me.

Two years out of college, I bought a pair of high waisted cotton briefs, the underwear my mom wears or even my grandmother. They were white and stretchy. I felt like my body was being cradled and protected. I was suddenly wearing more fabric down there than I had in a long time, but was free to run around my apartment with no pants on, to wear short skirts without fear of extreme wind, to sunbathe in the park without the fear of flashing someone unintentionally. I had adopted an affinity for a looser jean, and all of a sudden underwear lines weren’t as much of a problem. My body seemed to settle into the style, the high waist flattering my body in a way the dip of a thong never did. I began to feel strong and powerful in this decision, in choosing something actively different than what I had been taught was the hot option. Why, I would raise my eyebrows when people asked, should I wear something that’s sexy for you but kind of hurts if it goes on the wrong way and doesn’t really fit my vagina? I thrived in the full coverage of the high rise cotton bikini. Everything felt safe and warm. Everything felt sturdy and the underwear felt more like loungewear, something to celebrate instead of hide, a piece of clothing made more for comfort and functionality than someone else’s idea of what’s attractive. Briefs are cozy. They’re simple. They feel like a natural extension of my body, existing to flatter and emphasize my own shape instead of promote the idea that wearing as little as possible is what’s important, that a persons bottom half has to always be sex ready.

Underwear is specific, and first and foremost a personal preference. Thongs are great, but thongs aren’t great for me. I like big underwear. I like knowing that they’re sexy not because they’ll make me more like a billboard, but because I feel sexy in them. This is underwear designed for me, not for a man; the thought process was about a woman’s body first, not what might visually appeal to someone else. Whenever I put on a thong I would think to myself, what would a partner think of this? Whenever I put on a pair of briefs, I think to myself, wow, I feel great. There’s no sign flashing in front of my eyes saying this is sexy, these are sexy, wear them to be sexy. There’s no advertising campaign built into my head. They feel like me, and that’s just how I want to feel.

I threw every single one out, including the white one with the lace trim and the sparkly bow.

I Will Never Get Over This

“I will never get over this.”

When people were ripped from my life, when my heart was broken, when my dream job slipped through my fingers – I sat before my mother, my brother, my friends, and with tear-filled eyes exclaimed:

“I will never get over this!”

Deep pain is void of foresight; the only tense it knows is the present. We, its victims, forget past times when we persevered through struggle and are blind to the possibility of a happier future. The pain overwhelms the body, flooding our eyes and wrenching our guts. It isolates us–no one can understand our pain because no one who has felt this way could have survived it.

The first time I experienced my emotional mortality was when my grandmother passed away. She was more than the woman who gave me cookies and spoiled me when my mother wasn’t around, she was someone I saw almost every day for most of my childhood. She was a second mother to me, which was reflected in the name I called her, “nënë,” which means “mother” in Albanian.

Up until her final second on earth I believed she wouldn’t leave me. Even as the machines surrounding her hospital bedside cried out with grief and the faces of my family members grew hollow, I remained in a comforting sense of denial. It wasn’t until my cousin squeezed my hand, confirming my inevitable heartache, that I even allowed myself to cry. As the tears fell, I felt a pang in my chest and an etching scrape across my heart which read:

“I will never get over this.”

These words ached in me for a long time, weighing on me heavily in the sort of way that slows breathing – that slows living. However, as time went on, the pain began to dull in a way I could not have predicted. It changed not because I missed my grandmother any less, or because she was any less important to me, but because time gave me perspective. As the pages of the calendar turned, I was able to think of my grandmother outside of my grief at her loss. My beautiful memories of moments we shared came forward. My bitterness dissipated and was replaced by gratitude for the long love-filled life she lived, and for how many people I love are alive and well.

When my heart was broken for the first time, it felt like I stepped into emotional quicksand. I didn’t know how to pull myself out of my hurt because I didn’t think it was possible. I found myself sinking deeper and deeper into helplessness. I slept to avoid thoughts and feelings but they were always there in the morning to greet me with the sunrise. I was desperate for the pain to dissolve, and begged those around me to share stories of their first heartbreaks: How did you cope? Did it get better? How long did it take?

I sought an expiration date for my pain, but nobody could provide one because everyone is different and all of our pains are unique. Not that it would have mattered anyway – I ignored everything that anyone said to me about how my life would go on. When people pulled out the time heals all wounds card, I rolled my eyes and buried the cliché under piles of sand. They were prescribing a placebo, an empty sugar pill to trick me into feeling better. Maybe that worked for some people, but I was immune to time…

Or so I thought.

I woke up one day to find optimism greeting me with the sunrise. I discovered that my heartbreak had expired, and it was time to throw it out and make room for the happiness I was now able to feel.

Pain doesn’t last forever.

Read that again.

Pain does not last forever.

Thoughts that once had me bedridden, no longer make me even bat an eye. Things once too painful to speak of, are now stories that I openly share. I found healing catharsis in opening up about my pain. The support of family and friends, setting new goals to work towards, and shifting focus from the sadness of the past to the good in the present can all help to speed up the healing power of time.

And for the pain that can’t ever be fully erased – for the pain that once stabbed me so brutally that the scar can never fully heal – maybe the mark will always remain, but the skin underneath the scar is thicker. Pain helped me grow stronger. It forced me to confront new obstacles and over time, pushed me to overcome them.

Time helps us discover new ways of thinking and feeling, and allows for new opportunities at happiness.

I have learned that pain is not quicksand, it is the sand in the hourglass. It needs time to run out, but when it does, happiness will inevitably be found again.

Living Breathing Nightmares

* Names have been changed

I never imagined in my wildest dreams that I would reencounter my rapist. Only in my nightmares. But sometimes dreams that you have come true, whether they are good ones or not.

Perhaps I should explain why I never thought I’d run into *Ernest again. Let me begin:

He was in the train station, emerging from the public restroom and it was as if time stood still. His black curly tendrils still in all the same places, his eyes wide like a doll–suspended in time. He was wearing the same ironically pretentious literary joke shirt that he was when he abandoned me in a Gregory’s in midtown two years prior. Over a deflated Americano he told me that he was leaving for Ireland to take some time to himself because “our relationship had deteriorated his motivations to write, see his family, and do the things he wanted to do”. I remember thinking, ‘funny how the tables have turned—he told me in the beginning I was encouraging him to write again, see his family, and do things he wanted to do.’ Throughout the conversation, he invented reasons for why he could not apologize and accept the effects of his actions, building a pile of excuses for why he couldn’t “work through” my claim that he had taken advantage of me.

So seeing him on American soil was jarring to say the least. I said hello, compelled when he tried to escape after our eyes met. I wouldn’t let him get away without acknowledging me again. He told me he was sick with Lyme disease and some chronic digestive issue where he couldn’t eat, and his trip to Ireland “didn’t turn out as well as he had hoped.” After all the trouble of trying to escape his life, he was reapplying to school and returning to the scene of the crime: his queens apartment and his former barista job.

When we met, the whole situation was charming. It was like two lights on separate ends of the earth had turned on in perfect synchronization. From behind the marble counter he asked if I had a boyfriend and I smiled knowing I had just left a difficult one behind. Ernest was a childhood alcoholic who had beaten the odds and was now trying to become a writer. I read his work and thought it was brilliant. He used the bathroom about seven times on our first date, which I thought was peculiar until I read about a character in his short story who used restrooms as a confessional where he faced his reflection. He was a gregarious vegetarian and would take me out to show me off to his friends. He spoke sweet words to me in his native Czech tongue before I felt I deserved them.

We had been dating for a few months and I really liked him. I had already met his family and we were exclusive. On this particular day I was feeling unwell, and he was feeling warmed up. The afternoon passed with the haze of a fever dream. We had gone to see his alma mater’s campus and afterward I had wanted to go home so I could eat dinner with my family; E and I had been spending so much time together I hadn’t seen my parents in what felt like a lifetime. When we returned to his apartment, I reclined supine on his mattress resting on his oak floor. I was only interested in keeping my sickness at bay when he started to put a belt around my neck. I laid there, in my fugue of sickness, not realizing until he was almost an inch from constricting me. I objected: “what the hell are you doing?” He answered something like, ‘just screwing around I wouldn’t have tightened it.’

That was the first strange thing.

Then he began to remove my pants.

Please not right now, I begged, I really don’t feel well. He said something like, come on, and the pants came off. ‘I just want you to be comfortable’.

Not wanting to start a fight or seem difficult, I conceded. As a woman with interesting and compelling things to say, I’ve been told again and again that it’s not nice to argue.

He got close to me, endeavoring to start a flame with soggy matches.

Lying beside me, he traced his hands down the shape of my back. They continued to slither until they found where they could remove my underwear. I said again, I had to go home…that I didn’t feel well. I pushed him gently aside. He proceeded to move his full shape over me, eclipse me until there were no words left to say. He had already overpowered me and I retreated into my dark dry place where no light or sound is transmitted. A place I knew too well. A place where no one should go twice let alone ever.

When it was over I asked if he was happy with himself. He didn’t understand how I could conceive of what had just happened as ‘rape’.

I left.

Days later, still disagreeing, we met to talk. He said he couldn’t take responsibility for doing something he wasn’t ‘capable of doing’. That he ‘couldn’t have done it’ because he ‘wouldn’t do something like that’. He told me I had made things up. I was the girl who cried rape.

The night before he left me—like the miraculous but false hope that a sick man will get better just before he dies—he wrote me a letter about how he wanted to support me. He said he wanted to help me escape the sea of glass I felt I was swimming in; an ocean composed of promises, broken into a million shards after the lesser men I’ve known grew fed up and violently discarded them.

He wanted it to work, he wrote. But then he left.

And now, two years later, he was still not willing to meet me in the deep dark place. He said, “take care of yourself” in the secret hope that we wouldn’t meet a third time. He was on his way.

No matter if he’s (or she’s) introduced you to his family, if he tells you he’s in love, if he buys you presents and makes you laugh—even if he listens to you cry and holds you in his arms—the words “NO” “PLEASE STOP” and “DON’T” may not reach him. And he may deny ever being a participant in a non-consensual act, because it can be easier to put oceans between you and another person than it is to atone for actions you are scared to admit are your own.

Not all villains wear masks. They don’t all cackle. Sometimes they are the people that are closest to you. If they do not find the ability to empathize and agree to meet you in their mess, they will compile evidence against you. And they will name these bits of evidence, one by one, bringing your world to a firm halt word-by-word, sip-by-sip from their paper cup in a noisy midtown coffee shop.

Be firm. Defend yourself. And despite the naysayers, whoever they think they are, I believe you. They may rest on their pedestals, but I will meet you in the mess. Your voice and your opinion matter, and you will find empathy in me.