guylet bobbin'

the adventures of emily and william: single motherhood, student life, and southwest virginia. sometimes i write about politics, poetry, literature and love. occasional feminism.

Evening swims ✌️

The most lovely thing about writing, especially on a grey morning like this, is the control. Maybe a defining point of my life is my lack of control; it’s something I don’t even notice anymore. My orchid found a way to grow again. William snapped the stem of the first bloom, and I spent all spring and early summer nursing them back to health. I saw the petals, and eventually each individual orchid, wither and fall of one by one. On day though, a stem grew just below the wound, and right now it is in full bloom. I am still taking care of the other stem. I would love it if next year the bloomed at the same time. See, there I am again. Control. 

I can’t control what you said to me. I can’t control those last words. C-U-N-T. Part of me keeps thinking that if one of dies tomorrow, I couldn’t bear it if that was the way you forced me to remember you. I might change it though. That’s the best part of writing. 

I find myself no longer angry about the cheating, the lying and just being treated like shit in general. We still had good times and happy memories and…real love. But I do get so angry about how you seem hell bent on making me hate you, on making me regret every single moment we spent together. I don’t regret loving you, and I Just have to remind myself of that every day. You make it hard. It isn’t fair. Stop fucking with my memory. I deserve to remember the good times. I deserve to look back on these past years with some fondness in my heart. I always felt that if I couldn’t make the bad times erase themselves, then the least I could do was give the great times their true value. My goal in moving on (genuinely) was to never let the bad times take away from the good times; they exist together. Nothing is erased. It happened. Everything happened. We can’t take it back. 

The biggest step I ever made in getting over you with that I stopped allowing my thoughts and my heart to linger on everything you did wrong. I realized you did a lot of things right. This equality that I began to allow to exist in my memories of us was leading to acceptance.

C-U-N-T

Your biggest mistake was forcing me to run around to proving to people that you loved me. I was the only person who knew you loved me. And now even I am unsure…

I was running around looking for proof that not only you loved me (like you said you did), but also that I wasn’t crazy. Faith is believing something without proof. I lost faith in us a long time ago. I begged for something tangible. Evidence. A gesture—I wanted something to believe in. 

And in every story, every poem, every sermon, we are punished for idolizing earthly love. It’s fleeting, untrustworthy and inconsistent. There are bad times and bad endings. 

C-U-N-T

Breathe. Think back to falling in love. Think back to those times when no one could convince you that he was capable of hurting me. Early on in the relationship, out of the blew, some girl messaged me telling me all these terrible things about you. I was so angry. At her. The loyalty I had for you and the trust I had in you and in your intentions was so great that she sounded like something toxic and vengeful (maybe she was). I deleted the message and blocked her right away, and never told anyone about the message. I forgot about it in no time. Everything she said was so utterly contrary to the way you acted and the love you showed me. 

I only ever thought about it again until everything she said to me became apparent, month by month, and then all at once, almost a year ago. The heartbreak will never come from anything you call me, or what you think of me, or from you obvious misogynist perspectives on women. My heart broke when I found out you weren’t who I thought you were. My heart didn’t even break when you said you didn’t want anything to do with William. I understood that part, as painful as it was. My heart broke when you weren’t there for me, when you betrayed me, when you humiliated me despite all of my good intentions. I look back in disbelief in how honest and genuine I was when I went to work on our relationship. I almost lost everything. I was so stupid. I was so so stupid.

Heartbreak is sometimes a quick stab to the heart. Sometimes it slowly just falls to pieces over the course of a year or more. Before you even realize it’s broken, it had begun to put itself back together. You chipped away at me. Every time, you took something away from my la vie en rose, my optimism in human capacity to change, my faith in inherent kindness, my idealist hopes for true love. 

Those are gone. That is okay though. Honestly, it is. It is amazing that my divorce didn’t shatter all of that (it would have had it not been for you saving me). 

And so, it turns out, that despite everything you broke inside me, that that brokenness was inevitable. The la vie en rose that is now gone should have been gone years ago, when my dreams of marriage and family abruptly came to an end. If anything, you gave me the gift of believing for just a little while longer, in love stories. Despite everything in my life, I got to be a girl again. I got to feel the butterflies and the excitement and the joy of falling in love. Who cares if the love was wrong? Who cares if it ended. All things end. That is what being human is about. 

While there is sadness, and at times regret, there is also satisfaction. There is a contentment I find when I look back on how I courageously fell for you. You always look back before, when you could have stopped me from leaving and creating all of these complications. I always look back to that first week, when I ended things the moment I felt myself falling. I was terrified. I had never felt those feelings, and so fast. It was so unexpected and such bad timing. I ran out of your house and told you it was over and to stop contacting me. I cowardly made the decision to stop falling in love with you. Ten days later you called. We fell. We loved. Then a bunch of other shit happened that sometimes makes me cry. I could look back and wish that I hadn’t picked up that phone call, and that I had stuck to my guns and stayed away from you. 

I don’t. 

The hills are aliiiiiive! Happy Sunday from somewhere in the Appalachians 🚙💨
Literally my Saturday night consists of five ingredients: spaghetti, cherry tomatoes, red onion, garlic, and singing to Shakira in the kitchen with Alice. We are beyond cool— and I’m happy to be back in my own kitchen.
☀️☕️🌿 Saturday Mornings.
We went to the Farmer’s Market, art fair, and walk around campus on this balmy morning, and picked up some fresh lavender. It smells oh so good and is oh so in season. I love Blacksburg summers.  🌳🌺😊 (at Blacksburg Farmers Market)
What should I make? Yogurt-pops? Any suggestions or recipes??? QUICK BEFORE WILLIAM EATS THEM.
When you are the only people in the bowling alley, you ask them to turn up the music, and you dance! Duh.  (at Squires Student Center At Virginia Tech)

“The happiness of life is made up of minute fractions — the little soon forgotten charities of a kiss or smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment, and the countless infinitesimals of pleasurable and genial feeling”

—   Samuel Taylor Coleridge
No filter needed for this one. It is so nice to be back in Blacksburg with William ☀️🌳🌺 (at Duck Pond)

(Source: Spotify)

Photos of my Great Aunt in Siberia, where she was imprisoned for ten years for being the wife of a Latvian partisan and refusing to snitch on her neighbors.
I look back a lot. I am always shocked by what comes to mind when I think of all my happy memories. They go back so far. Skipping a Friday night football game and rolling down the hill at Nottingham Elementary and looking up the sky, and feeling you kiss me. Having my crush (I was a freshman, and he was a senior), pull my chair closer to him in math class. Why were you in my math class? You were so tall and strong looking and you grabbed the shelf beneath my chair and pulled it closer to you effortlessly. I was so impressed and my face flushed and butterflies were bursting to get out of my stomach. Then once we were sitting on the rocks by Georgian Bay and talking about being fourteen, and going camping at Whispering Pines and taking a very innocent nap in the tent trailer, and having it collapse in front of your entire family. I saw you every summer in Owen Sound. Getting into your pickup truck in North Bay and covering my eyes as you did donuts on the packed down snow of the residential street. Learning how to ice skate at the Outdoor Rink down the street, watching your hockey games, fighting over the clicker all the way into the neighbors lawn until we had grass stains covering us. You won. Falling in love for the first time, having a broken heart for the first time. Watching your OHL games hours away. The one time we drove to four mile lake with your canoe in the middle of the night, and the August moon was making our eyes twinkle as we drank cold beer. It was such a Northern Ontario night. In Toronto we were making eye contact with you as you poured drinks behind the bar for my tables, and I was barely able to suppress a smile. It was almost love at first sight. Then there was kissing beneath the Spanish Moss on the historic cobblestone in Savannah, Georgia. We were melting in the summer heat. All of you, from boyfriends, to crushes, to husbands, get an earnest and fond nostalgia from me. Oh, there were tough times. There was disappointment. My heart was broken, my dreams shattered, mistakes made. Sometimes I was a fool, sometimes I was too honest. Sometimes I was too hard on you, and too hard on myself. I think about you all with best feelings. 
You will take a place among everyone else. Worthy of admiration and even a loving look back. Songs will remind me of you—of us. Hell, they already do. The disappointment will fade, I will accept that we failed, and be happy we gave it a shot (in hell). 
I have already written extensively on how sometimes, love is war. We dodge bullets. We dodged a bullet. Now we can both stand here and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s miraculous we made it out alive. Once we stop being so stunned, we will laugh. 
We aren’t strangers though. One day, perhaps we will be. I know you have a lot of changing to do. I’m sure I do too. But today, I don’t know anyone better than I know you. I can see your fate and your life and your character more clearly than even you see it. Everything you tell me about myself I either already know, or it’s a lie. Every single thing. I know things about you only philosophers, poets, and authors understand. I see the pain and the discomfort. I hear the hatred in your voice when you tell me you don’t care. I see the burdens you are trying to release from your shoulders onto mine when you blast me with cruelty before decent hours in the morning. I cry and I hurt and I look back and I am sometimes a loose canon, a bomb ticking and waiting to go off. But I am honest. The feelings I have are real, and I don’t hide from them. When I miss you I miss you, when I don’t I don’t. Some days I hate you and other days, my memory is flooded with the good times. I am not going to deny the existence of anyone or anything in my past. They made me who I am today, piece by piece. My ability to listen to others and understand them, to love my son without abandon, and to put my heart and soul into papers no one but a professor will ever read has saved me. I cry over poetry, and I play songs that I love on repeat, roll down my windows and sing at the top of my lungs. Despite everything that ties me to this earth—all of the bills and responsibilities and the pressure to succeed, I give my self quiet moments every day to release all of that pain. I have found ways to release the pain of hating you and I have found ways to stop being angry about all the terrible things you have done to me. My heart started to sow itself back together. I thought that would mean that I would never think about you, and never become emotional about losing my best friend. I look at how I feel now, I feel the distance between us, but it doesn’t feel like I never knew you. It feels like I closed a book. Sometimes I flip through the pages, and I am sure I will pull your book off the shelf less and less as time goes on. Sometimes I read the funny stories, sometimes the passionate ones. Sometimes I read the sad ones and sometimes I read the stories that make me hurt. I read the story of a girl just like a character in a book; I feel her pain. I cry for her and what she went through. I understand her. Then, after touching those wounds, I usually close the book, and I put it back, and then I go fix a snack for William. Sometimes, even though its horrifying, I call you hoping you will go back to that story or chapter with me. You always used to. If you don’t want to anymore, that is okay too. Not everyone likes to go back, because it hurts. In fact, the quote that I started with ends like this: 
"So she was turned to a pillar of salt. So it goes. People aren’t supposed to look back. I’m certainly not going to do it anymore."
Forever and for always, remaining in this little book that we wrote,
a little bug.

I look back a lot. I am always shocked by what comes to mind when I think of all my happy memories. They go back so far. Skipping a Friday night football game and rolling down the hill at Nottingham Elementary and looking up the sky, and feeling you kiss me. Having my crush (I was a freshman, and he was a senior), pull my chair closer to him in math class. Why were you in my math class? You were so tall and strong looking and you grabbed the shelf beneath my chair and pulled it closer to you effortlessly. I was so impressed and my face flushed and butterflies were bursting to get out of my stomach. Then once we were sitting on the rocks by Georgian Bay and talking about being fourteen, and going camping at Whispering Pines and taking a very innocent nap in the tent trailer, and having it collapse in front of your entire family. I saw you every summer in Owen Sound. Getting into your pickup truck in North Bay and covering my eyes as you did donuts on the packed down snow of the residential street. Learning how to ice skate at the Outdoor Rink down the street, watching your hockey games, fighting over the clicker all the way into the neighbors lawn until we had grass stains covering us. You won. Falling in love for the first time, having a broken heart for the first time. Watching your OHL games hours away. The one time we drove to four mile lake with your canoe in the middle of the night, and the August moon was making our eyes twinkle as we drank cold beer. It was such a Northern Ontario night. In Toronto we were making eye contact with you as you poured drinks behind the bar for my tables, and I was barely able to suppress a smile. It was almost love at first sight. Then there was kissing beneath the Spanish Moss on the historic cobblestone in Savannah, Georgia. We were melting in the summer heat. All of you, from boyfriends, to crushes, to husbands, get an earnest and fond nostalgia from me. Oh, there were tough times. There was disappointment. My heart was broken, my dreams shattered, mistakes made. Sometimes I was a fool, sometimes I was too honest. Sometimes I was too hard on you, and too hard on myself. I think about you all with best feelings. 

You will take a place among everyone else. Worthy of admiration and even a loving look back. Songs will remind me of you—of us. Hell, they already do. The disappointment will fade, I will accept that we failed, and be happy we gave it a shot (in hell). 

I have already written extensively on how sometimes, love is war. We dodge bullets. We dodged a bullet. Now we can both stand here and breathe a sigh of relief. It’s miraculous we made it out alive. Once we stop being so stunned, we will laugh. 

We aren’t strangers though. One day, perhaps we will be. I know you have a lot of changing to do. I’m sure I do too. But today, I don’t know anyone better than I know you. I can see your fate and your life and your character more clearly than even you see it. Everything you tell me about myself I either already know, or it’s a lie. Every single thing. I know things about you only philosophers, poets, and authors understand. I see the pain and the discomfort. I hear the hatred in your voice when you tell me you don’t care. I see the burdens you are trying to release from your shoulders onto mine when you blast me with cruelty before decent hours in the morning. I cry and I hurt and I look back and I am sometimes a loose canon, a bomb ticking and waiting to go off. But I am honest. The feelings I have are real, and I don’t hide from them. When I miss you I miss you, when I don’t I don’t. Some days I hate you and other days, my memory is flooded with the good times. I am not going to deny the existence of anyone or anything in my past. They made me who I am today, piece by piece. My ability to listen to others and understand them, to love my son without abandon, and to put my heart and soul into papers no one but a professor will ever read has saved me. I cry over poetry, and I play songs that I love on repeat, roll down my windows and sing at the top of my lungs. Despite everything that ties me to this earth—all of the bills and responsibilities and the pressure to succeed, I give my self quiet moments every day to release all of that pain. I have found ways to release the pain of hating you and I have found ways to stop being angry about all the terrible things you have done to me. My heart started to sow itself back together. I thought that would mean that I would never think about you, and never become emotional about losing my best friend. I look at how I feel now, I feel the distance between us, but it doesn’t feel like I never knew you. It feels like I closed a book. Sometimes I flip through the pages, and I am sure I will pull your book off the shelf less and less as time goes on. Sometimes I read the funny stories, sometimes the passionate ones. Sometimes I read the sad ones and sometimes I read the stories that make me hurt. I read the story of a girl just like a character in a book; I feel her pain. I cry for her and what she went through. I understand her. Then, after touching those wounds, I usually close the book, and I put it back, and then I go fix a snack for William. Sometimes, even though its horrifying, I call you hoping you will go back to that story or chapter with me. You always used to. If you don’t want to anymore, that is okay too. Not everyone likes to go back, because it hurts. In fact, the quote that I started with ends like this: 

"So she was turned to a pillar of salt. So it goes. People aren’t supposed to look back. I’m certainly not going to do it anymore."

Forever and for always, remaining in this little book that we wrote,

a little bug.

Lunch date with wil.i.am. at The Italian Store 🍅 (at The Italian Store)