nocturne no. 20 in c-sharp minor

Most days feel like I'm just trying to get through.  Forget trying to make a success out of things.  My apartment generally reflects my state of mind--that is to say, clothes are strewn about the room, the counter collects more and more random pieces of junk, and the mirror becomes more be-speckled with each passing day.  Forget attempting to write beautifully, one must attempt to merely write.

The words tumble out in a jumbled, ugly heap.  I don't usually know what I'm feeling, and if I feel anything at all, what I feel in one moment might change the next.  I cry on the A train home from work more times than I'd like.  Sometimes the initiation of tears comes as I exit the adult emergency room and cross Broadway, heading for 168th station.  Sometimes it's as I'm hitting the stairs down to the pits of subway hell, and sometimes it's merely waiting for the A to collect me and take me to Brooklyn.  Sometimes I cry only as my key hits the lock as I am about to enter the apartment, and sometimes it starts when the last stranger exits and it's only me waiting to get to the 20th floor.  It's always the same.  Always quiet.  Always an entirely wet face and swollen eyelids and the red nose.  When I'm in the apartment and see Sammie, I greet him and pet him.  And then sometimes it's no longer quiet.  

How one human can tell another every thought, talk and text and call, and then one day cease all communication will forever perplex me.  I just cannot fathom doing that to someone else.  I feel like there's a part of me missing, some kind of phantom limb projection of the soul. 

I know I've officially lost it, between the incessant texts and calls and emails.  All unanswered of course.  Perhaps unopened.  Why I do it to myself, I don't know.  Maybe to punish myself?  There were earlier points in the relationship where I wanted to end things.  Where I thought his affection was too much and it frightened me.  And for other reasons.  That he had a depth of emotion, mainly sadness (depression) and rage that were very real and palpable but utterly soulless.  As in, there was little intellectual depth to them, there was no artistic core.  There was only sheer rage.  Utter depression.  It perplexed me.  How does one not fuel said depression without literature, poetry and film and music?  How is it only that unto itself? Does that make sense?  I questioned to friends if the gap in our intellect was a problem.  No, they said, he's crazy about you.  He's the one, they said.  

And then he packed up his shit and stopped talking to me.

I'm listening to classical as I write; I don't know how a person can listen to music with words because I get so completely distracted.  But I jest as I know we are all different and I'm sure many cannot listen to classical.  My ex Chris couldn't listen to anything during sex because he insisted it distracted him too much which was a definite downer for me but entirely true for him as a sound engineer/mixer/whatever.  It's the Swan Lake Suite and quite pretty and makes me think of Tchaikovsky ballets.

Anyway, I've been letting pieces of me die every day.  I look at myself in the mirror and I feel like I look back sadly.  I feel like my eyes are very expressive and my eyes are sad, does this make sense?  So as much as I'm very upset and hurt by Dan's actions, he didn't let my apartment go to shit or my health go to hell or have me not sleep or what have you.  That's on me.  And I need to choose better.  So today will be the first day of no contact and I will start making a list of why this is good, and it is going to sound petty and immature but I need it to stick to this for now.

I had zero contact with him for a week and a half and then I texted hi and he started sexting me and I sheepishly rolled with it.  This was on December 1.  And then he was a dick and didn't say hi at work and I texted as much and he stopped talking to me again.  So I need to really stick to it this time because he is the type of immature asshole to keep taking advantage and fuck with me again.  

(1) Even if I don't believe it, most people who found out came to me and said they were sorry but also secretly glad and that I could do better.  This obviously says something about my character.  Need to work on things...
(2) Intellectual disparity. Enough said. 
(3) Kind of belongs in 2 but legit worst speller of life.  Even in social media postings.  Which was embarrassing.
(4) Deer hunter. Yes, it needs to be done. But not by my boyfriend.
(5) Frequently used girl emojis in texting. And entirely way too many in general. Gross.
(6) Cried a lot more than I did.  Struggled so much with a distant (I'm not an uncaring fuck, here, okay) friend's death and grew so depressed that I was extremely concerned and wondered what would become of him in the event of a parent's passing.
(7) Had serious explosions of rage. Threw things during these times. Hard. Usually while drinking. Still so not okay. Which brings us to numero
(8) Drank wayyyyy too much. Always encouraging me to drink more. I came to you and told you I'm coming out of a divorce and did not ever drink for a number of years you fucking asshole. I don't need to drink more. You have a fucking problem.
(9) Had a crazy sleep cycle. As in slept not at all for days, or only a few hours, and then would crash and sleep sixteen hours at a time.  Super fun hanging with a sloth on off days.
(10) Got more out of shape as relationship progressed.  Just sayin'. And you said it, but yeah, your dick is rather unimpressive.
(11) Hair is going super grey. Super. 
(12) Lives with parents. For two years. Cries about it. Brings us back to six. This one deserves higher place on list.
(13) Not the world's best respiratory therapist. Very questionable judgment sometimes, though usually because lacking sleep. And working two extra jobs. But that is seriously stupid dude. I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you. You deal with peoples' lives, and you need to take it seriously.
(14) Talks about being as hard of a worker as me. At this point, I wouldn't be surprised if I stroke out by 45. I work harder than legit anyone I know. For you to say this to me as you walked around 9C the other day eating food (yeah, my coworkers tell me everything) is a joke. You take breaks, you are constantly flirting with other girls at work, cry me a damn river.
(15) You said you value how I wasn't the jealous type or nosy blah blah. Well, that's because you later owned you cheated on your former longterm girlfriend even though "it was only emotional cheating". Dan Sain, you're disgusting. Once a cheater, always a cheater. 
(16) You are way too emotional during sex. And crying during it sometimes is also weird.
(17) I met your family. On more than one occasion. And you couldn't be bothered to meet my mother. Fuck you. Instead you went to Mexico and prolly had sex with a dude.
(18) When you aren't living with your parents, you're living with a seriously mean gay dude (yeah, met once and he was so mean to me and MY gay friend seconded this--and that you said your friend said I was a dick and took his side, that should have been clue one)...who when he worked with you as a tech in the ED was rumored to be fucking you. Too bad I found out about that AFTER we broke up. No wonder you are so insistent on anal.

You are a big stupid oaf from a backwood town in PA. You will drink too much beer and be in debt with a beer belly and single without kids perhaps still living with his parents at 55.  You will look back on your relationship with me and say, she was the one who got away. 

Fuck you, Daniel Sain. I hate you for breaking my heart.  I don't believe any of what I've written.  But if it takes writing it and reading it every day to keep from contacting you and letting you break my heart again I will.  Because you will break my heart again and I cannot go through this shit again.  I won't make it through alive.  I'd rather take one of your deer-killing guns and blow my brains out.  And leave the rest for organ donation, of course.

I still love you.  I hear love as Chopin's Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor plays. I will never understand why you chose to leave Sammie and me and not look back.  I will keep going, I will be strong.  I will choose life.  Even if it is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. 

It gets harder to put yourself back together every time. After each move. Each different state. After you learned your father wasn't who you thought he was, after the divorce and disintegration of family. After the cheating and your own divorce. After all of the deaths in life and the traumas at work. I finally thought I had found my happiness.  You get a little more bitter, a little more cynical. A little less certain that you'll ever have the things you want. So you just start pretending you don't want them. A house? Kids? A family of one's own? I thought you were it, you know. You said you wanted all of those things before I said anything. You cried saying you fell in love with people who wouldn't move to PA, when I would be there in a heartbeat. That's fucking sick. Why you did this to me I'll never know, but I can't kid myself anymore. You're not coming back through that door, are you? I dreamt it for so long, but it's a sick joke.