but her emails!

welcome to my crazy

Hi! I’m doing incredible in the mental health department! No, really! I feel more grounded than ever, which tbh isn’t, like, that grounded. But still, progress! It feels like I have a ton of things holding me back, but I’m learning to accept things for what they are and not indulge when stupid people say truly stupid stuff. I have hope general hope and I’m attempting to live with integrity. Anyway, I’ve been pretty grief-free these days! High five!

And I’m telling you guys this up top because I am going to talk about my ex again. I wish there was another way to refer to him. “Ex” sounds so juvenile. Damn you, English language. Give me the nuance I crave. The truth is, I’ll probably write about him for the rest of my life. Like, honestly. That *whole thing* has brought upon so much introspection and I *pray* I never have to find a new source of pain to write from again. At least not that deep, at least not for a while.

There’s a lot to consume about our story (and honestly it’s not even half of what I could write), most of which makes him look bad. I mean, I also tried to communicate good things about why I loved him. Still, he looks bad because he did bad things and hasn’t tried to redeem himself. But, in the interest of fairness or personal integrity or whatever, this post is about my own crazy. 

He and I lived together, and when we broke up, he kept our big, beautiful dream apartment. If you know me, you know losing this apartment and moving back to my small studio lit me on fire with rage, then drowned me in a lake of sorrow. I took it to symbolize getting the short end of the stick while he kept the tree, when I was the one who planted the tree in the first place! I was a peasant and he was the king and it was all unfair, intolerable and unbelievable. At least that’s how it felt. I’m still working through this bullshit, but it’s heavy and deeply-rooted but honestly we can’t talk about all that right now.

So back to the big apartment. Money aside, I know it was the right decision to leave. I couldn’t live amongst those memories, that energy. I couldn’t build a future on the remains of my past. Still, leaving the first place that felt like home, along with the first person who felt like family, well, it was brutal. You knew that. And if you didn’t, you can reread the dozens of posts I have about this or buy a copy of my book. 

I left our Greenpoint apartment on March 5th. The only thing that made the departure bearable is that my ex stayed on the phone with me. The night before, the morning of, and all the next day. It’s sick, I know. Him coaching me through it all is sick as fuck. But we were sick, both of us. But I left and never went back. I spent a month in Rhode Island and then a month at writer’s retreat in PA.